by Adele Parks
He needed a drink. Water maybe? No, a beer. A beer would be best. Hair of the dog. Because yes, he realised now this was most likely a hangover. Off the scale, a different level, but a hangover all the same. His hands were freezing, his vision was blurred. Not a hangover then, he was still drunk. It would be best to keep on drinking.
As he opened the fridge, the light spilt out on to the kitchen and he nearly dropped the bottle in shock.
‘What the fuck are you doing, sitting in the dark?’ he yelled.
Daisy sighed. She’d been crying. He could tell. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face blotchy. Simon realised, with a slow sense of regret, that it had not just been a late night but an emotional one, too.
Here it was. Off they went.
‘I stayed up to check you didn’t choke on your own vomit,’ she said with another sigh. Like, how was it possible to have that much air and disappointment to expunge? It couldn’t be for real, could it. There had to be an element of theatre to it, a sense of drama. She had her hands wrapped around a mug, the very picture of wifely patience. It fucked him off. Her patience – or at least her show of it – her acceptance, her constant understanding, it all fucked him off. Because it wasn’t real. It wasn’t her. He didn’t believe it. Not anymore. It would be more real if she showed she was angry. He wanted her to be angry. Like him.
He was swaying, ever so slightly. He needed to sit down. Just as he was about to do so, his body collapsed below him. He sent a wooden kitchen chair toppling, his head thumped against the corner of a unit. The pain was blunted by his state, but in the morning there would be a bump. His body relaxed into the pain, working through it. He’d learnt this technique now. Sometimes when he was drinking he hurt himself by accident. One evening, he fell down some steps in town, another time he walked into the closed patio doors thinking they were open. It was best to roll with the pain. Not to fight it.
‘Oh Simon.’ He could hear pity and despair in Daisy’s voice.
He felt warm and then cold, his thighs. He could smell something beneath the puke and sweat. It was a dark and acidic smell. It was piss. He’d pissed himself.
* * *
He woke up, he was in bed. He was relieved. Sometimes, he didn’t get to bed. He fell to sleep on a chair in the sitting room, on a bench in the street, or on the train home. That was the worst. He’d be carried to the last stop on the route and then woken up by a ticket inspector. He couldn’t always get an Uber. Occasionally he’d slept on stations, caught the first train home in the morning. Waking up in his own bed was a bonus. He put his fingers to the back of his head where it ached, not just the usual hangover ache, something more specific; there was a lump, but he couldn’t feel any stickiness, no blood. There weren’t any bottles next to his bed. He was naked but smelt clean. It didn’t add up.
Daisy was not in bed. As he sat up he noticed she was dozing on the chair in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was normally covered in discarded clothes. She heard him stir and her eyes sprung open. Always a light sleeper. Instantly, her face was awash with anxiety, resentment, disappointment.
‘Morning,’ Simon said brightly. Best to style this out. Clearly there had been something but as yet he couldn’t recall exactly what that something was, so he wasn’t worried. He was in his own bed, there wasn’t a bucket or any bottles by his side. He was good. ‘What time is it? I need to get to work.’ As he asked this, he swung his legs out of bed. The movement was too sudden, too energetic. He felt like crap. His body ached and shook but he was good at ignoring that, good at hiding how awful he felt, how awful he was.
Daisy checked her watch. ‘It’s noon, just after,’ she muttered tonelessly.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I took a personal day.’
Simon snorted. ‘Is that a thing now?’
She ignored his sarcasm. It was unusual for Daisy to take time off work, unprecedented actually. Simon was not sure he wanted to know why she’d done so. He asked the more pressing question instead, ‘Did you call my boss too?’ Simon calling in sick was not unprecedented and although Daisy didn’t like doing it for him – made a big fuss about how she hated lying – she had done so in the past. The truth was, she was a better liar than she made out.
‘You really can’t remember, can you?’ she asked.
‘Remember what?’
Another sigh, more of a puff. She really was honestly a tornado of regret and dissatisfaction. ‘You don’t have a job. You were fired yesterday.’
‘What the fu— What are you talking about? Fired? No.’
‘You turned up late and drunk, again. But this time you were aggressive with the client and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Your boss has been looking for an excuse for a while. You know he has.’
She was wrong. She was being a bitch. Dramatic. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.
‘You didn’t tell me. Luke did.’
‘Oh, Saint Luke,’ Simon snapped, snidely.
‘I don’t know why you are being like that. He’s your best friend. I called him last night when you came home legless and making no sense. He filled me in on the details.’
Simon dropped his head into his hands and tried, really fucking hard, to remember what she was going on about. But he couldn’t. Nothing. Yesterday was nothing. The last thing he remembered was leaving home, catching the tube into Covent Garden. But he did that most days, he wasn’t sure if that was a specific memory or just something that he knew happened.
Daisy looked disbelieving. She thought his memory – or lack of it – was convenient, that he blanked out what he wanted. Right now, Simon thought the blackout was inconvenient. He wanted to know how and why he’d lost his job. Or at least, he probably wanted to know.
So, she told him. Her version, or Luke’s version, some bloody version but he couldn’t imagine it was the truth. He wasn’t drunk when he turned up at the office. Maybe, they could smell alcohol on his breath. Occasionally, he had a nip from his flask as he walked to the station. It was no big deal. Not drunk. And a nip in his coffee, too. Sometimes. Some people like maple syrup in their coffee, he liked whisky. It didn’t mean anything. It certainly wasn’t a dependency. What the hell? No. He was a creative, an interior designer, no one could expect him to work to a rigid schedule, he needed space. He needed freedom. Who puts a meeting in a diary at 10 a.m. anyway? It was uncivilised. And the client was a dick. OK, Simon could see that it wasn’t perhaps his wisest move, calling him the c-word for suggesting mushroom for the colour palette. Maybe that was hard to come back from. Simon didn’t really know why he had been so against mushroom, except he’d been thinking something brave, something bold. That’s what they pay him for, right? His ideas. Why wouldn’t they listen to him? He did not believe that he wasn’t able to stand up properly. They felt threatened. By him? That was just bullshit.
She made a big thing about saying she couldn’t account for his afternoon. Apparently, he stormed out of the agency or maybe security threw him out; she wasn’t totally clear on this point. Someone who knew that they were mates had called Luke, who had spent his afternoon looking for Simon. And that made him some sort of god in Daisy’s eyes. She kept going on about how good it was of him, how inconvenient. ‘He has a job of his own, you know, besides being your babysitter,’ she snapped bitterly. ‘Can you imagine how embarrassing it was for him? Since he’s the one that introduced the client to your firm in the first place. He is always putting work your way. If you ask me it’s the main reason the agency have kept you on as long as they have.’
‘That’s just bullshit. I’m good at what I do and they know it.’ Simon was sitting naked on the edge of the bed. His penis flaccid, his head is in his hands. What did this woman want from him? She was stripping away his manhood with her tongue. If what she was saying was true, he’d just lost his fucking job, how about some support please? Some sympathy. She told him that he came home at midnight, that he was ‘awkward’. He fell over in the kitchen and woul
dn’t come to bed. He couldn’t remember any of this, but he believed her on that last point. He didn’t want to go to bed with Daisy. The thought was a hideous one. After what Martell had told him. Besides, sex is nothing compared to booze. Sex was messy and demanding, it came with secrets, never-articulated caveats and demands. It lied. Booze was pure. Generous. Easy.
‘You threw up on yourself. I stayed up all night, checking on you every thirty minutes to see you hadn’t choked,’ added Daisy. Simon tutted. Her martyrdom was boring. What did she want? A medal? ‘You peed yourself,’ she added, exasperated.
‘Then how come I’m clean now?’ Simon challenged. He couldn’t believe Daisy had dragged him upstairs if he was in the state she said he was.
‘I called Luke. He came around at four in the morning. He helped me get you upstairs and into the shower. We hosed you down.’
She was a lying bitch. He knew she was.
13
Chapter 13, Daisy
Saturday, 23rd July 2016
I have never been so desperate to get to the end of a term. It breaks my heart to close the door behind me every morning, knowing Simon is most likely going to spend the day in bed drinking, or slouched in front of the TV drinking. Without the pretence that he’s going into work, I fear the ‘functioning’ part of the label ‘functioning alcoholic’ is null and void. It’s desperate. He isn’t shaving, or even showering. He’s barely speaking. Still, I’ve kept it together. I have responsibilities. Millie, Elsie and my job. I’ve told Millie that Daddy is a bit poorly which is why he isn’t going to work.
‘Has he got a poorly head again or is his tummy upset?’ she asks innocently. ‘Poor Daddy. He’s often ill. He needs to see a doctor.’ Out of the mouths of babes. I don’t want to leave him alone more than I have to, but I honour my commitment to visit Elsie. Despite what Simon says, I think Elsie does enjoy our visits; maybe she can’t anticipate them or even remember them but when she’s in the moment, they seem to bring her some ease. Usually. Unfortunately, this week, she’s picked up a urinary tract infection which is common in dementia sufferers, and she’s had bouts of terrible hallucinations and intense paranoia. She threw things at me when I went into her room, she thought I was an undertaker and had come to measure her up. I’ve tried to concentrate on my class, who are all excitedly looking forward to their summer holidays and to the idea of going to big school after that. I busy myself writing reports and rehearsing for the end of year assembly. I manage to warmly thank my students and their parents for their thank you gifts of chocolate and cava but all the time I’m at school, my mind and heart are with Simon.
What are we going to do? My first thought is his health but I’m also concerned about money. How will we pay the mortgage with only my salary? Who will give him a job now? No one in their right mind.
Thank goodness it’s the holidays and I can have some breathing space. I’m only just holding on and I know I need to do more than that. I need to hold us together.
The last thing I want to do is go to Connie and Luke’s anniversary party. I had not expected Simon to so much as remember it, let alone want to attend. I thought shame would keep him away. I can barely stand the idea of facing Luke, but Simon doesn’t have the same sensitivities. He wakes up on Saturday morning and is buoyant about the idea of going.
‘We’re going, Daisy. We promised Connie and Luke,’ he says. As though he’s a regular guy and keeping his word is important to him. The fact is, parties mean alcohol. Lots of free-flowing alcohol. They also mean dancing, catching up with old friends and eating gorgeous nibbles, but none of that is important to Simon. For him a party only means alcohol. Lots of people will be drinking to get drunk. He’ll fit right in.
I haven’t seen my friends since Simon was sacked. I’m avoiding them. My sister Rose called as soon as she heard but I fobbed her off. ‘Connie has exaggerated things wildly,’ I told her. ‘You know how she is.’ In fact, the account of Simon’s dismissal that Rose relayed to me, gifted to her from Connie, was less sensational than what really occurred. I guess Luke did us a favour of playing down how dreadful the whole episode was. ‘The truth is Simon and his boss came to a mutually agreeable decision to part ways. Simon is looking for new creative challenges,’ I insisted.
‘Really, Daisy?’ my sister asked, concern oozing from her voice.
‘Rose, I’d tell you if there was anything seriously wrong.’
‘Would you?’
I’d want to. That’s almost the same thing. My sister and I used to confide everything in each other. Then that stopped being possible. I no longer believe a problem shared is a problem halved. I know it for what it is, double the trouble. Some secrets must stay just that. I don’t want to go to this party. The thought leaves me feeling panicky and breathless. Even before Simon’s humiliating dismissal, I’d had no intention of going. Throughout the day I try to persuade Simon that we shouldn’t bother.
‘Let’s just stay in, have a quiet night,’ I suggest.
‘What’s the matter, Daisy? Are you afraid everyone will be gossiping about us?’
‘I just don’t like parties. You know I don’t.’
‘The sooner you start to behave as though nothing is wrong, the sooner everyone else will believe that is the case,’ he replies smugly, unrepentant, as though it was me who soiled my clothes and had been hosed down by my best friend. I know what he says is true, but it smacks of wallpapering over the cracks, rather than fixing the problem. Something I can do and have done for a long time. I just don’t think I want to anymore. I get the feeling that if I carry on that way, the whole house might fall down around me.
‘My parents can’t babysit. They are going to a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. They already have tickets.’ I offer up this problem, but I didn’t expect it to matter to Simon.
‘Why haven’t you sorted out a sitter sooner?’ he asks crossly, then adds, ‘We can take her along.’
That’s not happening. No way. I nip over the road and arrange for Millie to sleep at her friend India’s. Millie and India are in the same class, that and the proximity of their homes means they’re best friends. The pair of them are always in and out of each other’s houses, having meals, watching TV, playing in the garden, but this will be their first official sleepover. Millie is deliriously excited.
Early afternoon, Millie and I nip out and buy popcorn because India tells me her mum has promised sparkly nail varnish and facemasks. I’m not sure that I approve of six-year-olds wearing nail varnish, and they definitely don’t need facemasks, but on the other hand, I once read a feminist book that argued grooming rituals are an important part of female bonding. I don’t want to pour cold water on the plan. What harm can a single at-home-spa-night do? Whenever I feel a tidal wave of fear or shame, and I consider backing out of the party, just staying at home and using looking after Millie as an excuse, I remind myself that Millie would be upset if her sleepover didn’t go ahead.
It’s been a hot, sticky day. The air is thick and heavy. I can almost taste it. It climbs down my throat. Choking me. I start to get dressed without any enthusiasm. I know Connie and Rose have both bought something new to wear tonight. If I judge from the excited frenzy of social media of my friends and acquaintances, it seems as though half of London has done so. Connie’s parties are something people get excited about. I’d rather be doing anything else.
I stand in front of my open wardrobe. I’m currently wearing black linen trousers and my beige seen-better-days bra. The trousers were once fashionable, they no longer are, and it’s always hard to look smart in linen. I half-heartedly flick through the tops that droop unimpressively on hangers, nothing looks especially ‘party’. It surprises me how many of my white T-shirts are stained yellow under the arms. Other tops are bobbled with wear or have faded. Mostly, these things are only fit for gardening or housework. The close, uncomfortable, evening means that although I’ve just showered my skin is already damp and clammy. Still, I’m definitely going to wear trousers. My l
egs look like they are wearing a mohair jumper. I’m never waxed and ready anymore. I’ve let myself go. The truth is, I couldn’t care less about what I wear tonight, I don’t want to stand out. I’d rather not draw attention, although I fear I will, or Simon will. However, I have my pride. If we must attend, then I need to put my best foot forward. No one can know how bad things are.
I dig out a blue, cotton top, it’s old but reliable. I blow-dry my hair even though my arms are heavy. Reluctantly I put on makeup. I don’t tackle eyeliner because my hands are shaking too much. I think I look OK. I pop across the road with Millie, to drop her off at India’s. The girls are giddy and talk excitedly about their impending manicures and ‘camping’ in India’s bedroom. I must admit, Simon has ignited something with his evening under the stars. It’s certainly a more wholesome activity than a spa night. As Simon isn’t working and we have weeks of holiday stretched out in front of us, I wonder whether there’s any chance that we could do a proper camping trip this summer. It’s not my natural comfort zone but maybe I should make the effort. Another effort. I know Simon has experience, maybe it would be good for him to be able to take charge of something; showcase his strengths. If the weather holds it might be fun. Importantly, if we’re camping, I could ensure there was no booze, or at least limit it. Would a break like that help clear Simon’s head?
I doubt it, but I simultaneously hope for it. Something has to change.
We can’t go on as we are.
I could ask Connie if we could borrow all her camping equipment again, so it wouldn’t have to cost much. A change in our routine might be just what we need. At least we’d find some time to talk. Because, the thing is, whilst I don’t want to talk to Rose or Connie about my troubled marriage, I find I do want to talk to Simon. You see, despite everything, I still love him.
