Stars

Dot had caught the flu. She couldn’t sleep at all the first night she was staying as she started to cough. She slept for three hours on and off between Tom and myself. She stayed in bed all day Tuesday and worked on a colouring book that she’d gotten the day before, occasionally asking Tom to play snap with her. I was emailing and phoning multiple people about the upcoming performances in London and New York, trying to get more information on my accommodation and modes of transport.

They gave me barely anything, so I practically forced Dot out of bed and onto the sofa, bringing the duvet, pillows, tissues and her plush rabbit and setting up a nest for her to sit in. We watched re-runs of the Simpsons until Dot fell asleep at seven thirty. Tom put her in her bed and left me under the duvet to put on Apocalypse Now and order the Chinese food. He came back and threw himself onto the sofa, putting his head in the V between my knees and chest. “Do you feel good? I don’t.” He said, looking up at the ceiling.

“Not really.” I replied, tilting my head and smiling pathetically at him. “Why are children so contagious? If I lose my voice, it’ll be the worst news in the world.” I straightened my legs out and Tom rolled over to face the television.

“She must have given us this yesterday afternoon. She’d been coughing, but I thought it was just one of those things.” He said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s really hot.”

I sighed and put my hands on his forehead, frowning and pushing back the stray curls. “I’m fucking freezing.” He lifted his leg up and started to take off his socks, “I got a headache. One similar to that time I got drunk on cherry chocolate liqueurs; first hangover.”

He snorted, pulling off his t-shirt and curling up. “What age?” I held up seven fingers and he smirked, “I did that too. Some stupid aunt sent me a whole box of them when I was in school, around the time my parents divorced. I didn’t know they were alcoholic until I’d eaten the whole box and felt mildly optimistic during the most pessimistic three years of my life.”

“We should buy a box.”

“We should.” He climbed under the duvet cover and put his head back in my lap. We fell asleep within the first half hour of the film – didn’t even make it to the smell of napalm in the morning.

-

Dot woke up the next morning with bright eyes and seemingly limitless amounts of energy, despite her running nose and hacking cough. It was seven thirty and of the two of us, I could (barely) get myself out of bed to make her cereal and watch the Tweenies with her. I stayed up until ten, briefly leaving the house in an ancient Libertines shirt and black leggings that I swore were see through, but wore because honestly, I couldn’t have given less of a shit that day, and took Dot to the theatre for her day activity thing.

I returned to the flat and went back to bed immediately, waking at two, feeling worse than I did before, with a cup of tea beside me and Tom insisting on brushing my, in my opinion, too-long hair, that reached the base of my spine. He kissed my cheek, and with a stuffed nose and hoarse voice, revealed that we had a half hour to pick up my niece. I swore and downed my cup of tea, touching up my makeup and putting on my boots.

We ended up in a pharmacy for a good ten minutes, deciding which products to buy and settling on ones of the Lemsip variety, with multiple packets of throat sweets and a bottle of Calpol for Dot. Tom bought a tub of Vicks to take home with him and then reminded me that he had a taxi booked for nine, but if he (and I) were still feeling terrible two days later, that Dot and myself should go to his house in London to recover. I said I’d do it regardless as being in Stratford held no purpose other than tremendous inspiration to perform, which was not needed when caring for a four year old with flu.

We picked up Dot and found out that the theme for the day was Kings, Queens, Princesses and Princes. Dot had her face painted as Titania (again) and was running around with a boy who had his face painted as a skull. Tom inquired as to what play that represented and the woman replied with, “Oh, I guess it must be Hamlet, but he was insistent on being a pirate, although that wasn’t an option. The other boys just had facial hair and cuts painted on them, but he had to be different.”

“What about Oberon?” I piped up, clearing my throat after realising how manly I sounded.

The woman looked up at me and rolled her eyes, “No boys find being the King of the Fairies appealing. It’s a shame really. I mean, we’ve got three Richard IIs, two Richard IIIs, four Henry Vs and surprisingly, only one Hamlet, who has a skull for a face.” I laughed and then launched into a coughing fit, only stopped when Tom hit me three times on the back. He picked Dot up and we left promptly.

She vomited almost as soon as we returned.

I groaned loudly in reaction to it and shared a look of dread with Tom.