One Step Closer to You

by Alice Peterson

  ‘I don’t remember using it,’ I say blurry-eyed.

  ‘You never remember anything. You and Matt were unbelievably rude last night.’

  Were we? It’s one giant blank.

  ‘This has got to stop, Polly.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, hearing the frustration in Hugo’s voice. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Saying sorry isn’t enough! You can be unbelievably selfish—’

  ‘Look,’ I cut him off, ‘I hadn’t eaten anything all day yesterday and I’ve been on these antibiotic things—’

  ‘What antibiotics?’

  ‘I picked something up from one of the children at school.’

  He doesn’t say a word, but his silence speaks volumes.

  ‘I didn’t drink that much last night,’ I continue. ‘It’s just that wine goes to my head if I haven’t had any food.’

  ‘Well, eat! And why are you drinking at all if you’re on antibiotics?’

  ‘Hugo, stop!’ My head is pounding. ‘It’s like living with the cops. Why don’t you tell me what the real problem is?’

  ‘You can date who you like, Polly, but if you want my opinion he’s a nasty piece of work and you should walk away.’

  *

  Over the next month I’m back at school after the Easter holidays and Matthew has identified a new project, a house in Wandsworth that is going to sealed bids. He’s confident he’ll come out on top, telling me the market is great and the banks are falling over themselves to lend him cash. He’s borrowed a scary amount of money. ‘It’s well over six figures,’ Matt had said, before cupping my face in his hands, ‘but nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.’

  To earn more money, I have signed up with a catering company to do some waitressing in the evenings, after school. Mounting bills and rent, plus partying with Matt, have burned a hole in my pocket. All I have to do is stick on a black miniskirt and white top and serve drinks at parties and dances. It’s easy money plus I get to take home the leftover bottles at the end of the evening.

  Hugo barely sleeps in the flat. He stays over with Rosie, who is now his girlfriend. Part of me is relieved. Matt and I can walk around the flat naked if we want to. We can get up at noon at the weekends, stay in bed all day. Matt jokes saying that I’m free to scream when I have an orgasm now. No longer do I have to field questions from Hugo about Matt, like, if he’s such a hotshot property man why doesn’t he own his own place by now? Hugo doesn’t get how it works. Of course Matt doesn’t want to tie up capital buying his own place. No, it’s a relief Hugo’s not around. ‘We don’t need him, Polly. It’s just you and me,’ Matt says. The other half of me, however, is anxious that we’re drifting apart. Hugo has been my anchor for many years; without him I feel adrift.

  *

  One Sunday morning I wake to find Matthew’s side of the bed empty. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, kicking over the bottle of vodka I’d bought late last night from the twenty-four-hour shop. I walk unsteadily into the kitchen and find him with Hugo. I’m surprised. I didn’t even hear him come home last night. I glance at the clock. It’s close to eleven.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, sensing the frosty atmosphere.

  ‘Why don’t you tell her what you’ve just accused me of, Hugo?’ suggests Matt, crossing his arms.

  Hugo pushes his plate to one side. ‘I’m sorry if I made a mistake, Matthew. I’ve lost my appetite.’ As he walks out of the room Matt pushes out a chair, causing Hugo to trip and lose his footing. I rush to Hugo’s side.

  ‘I’m OK, Polly,’ Hugo says without flinching, placing the chair back under the table and leaving the room.

  I stare at Matt, demanding an explanation. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ is all he can say.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask Hugo, as he’s about to leave.

  ‘I had a couple of twenty-pound notes in my coat pocket.’

  ‘You think Matt took them?’ I place a hand over my mouth, feeling a wave of sickness overwhelm me.

  ‘Who else? What do we really know about him?’ he whispers.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s so vague about his life. He swans around doing God knows what. He doesn’t seem to have any roots.’

  ‘He hasn’t bought his own place yet because he’s putting everything into this new project.’

  ‘He makes me feel uncomfortable in my own home.’

  ‘I know.’ I reach out to touch Hugo’s arm. ‘That’s my fault as well, but that doesn’t make him a thief.’

  ‘Come on, Polly. Money doesn’t just disappear. I had forty quid in my coat pocket. I remember where I put things …’

  ‘Hugo, stop …’

  ‘You know how careful I have to be. I’m sure I saw him in the sitting room earlier this morning and now the money’s gone.’ Hugo can see outlines of people and he has an innate sense of someone being close to him or in a room. He knows me by the sound of my footsteps and by my scent.

  ‘But …’

  ‘There’s something about him,’ Hugo continues, ‘something I don’t trust.’

  ‘He didn’t take your money,’ I say.

  ‘Polly?’ For a moment I’m relieved he can’t see the guilt written all across my face, but he can sense it, of course he can.

  I clear my throat. There’s a long pause.

  ‘It was me, Hugo. I took your money. I’m so sorry.’

  He doesn’t shout, or scream. All he says is, ‘I want my sister back.’ Quietly he leaves, taking his disappointment with him. That makes me feel even worse, if that were possible.

  I head to the kitchen and find Matthew drinking a black coffee as if nothing is going on. ‘It’s over,’ I say, a tremble in my voice. ‘You and me, we’re done.’

  He looks up from his mug, smiles. ‘Oh come on, Polly. You know as well as I do that we’re far from finished.’

  17

  2013

  It’s Friday and I’m at AA, sitting in between Harry and Aunt Viv. Aunt Viv normally goes to a Wednesday session; we decided not to go to meetings together, that we needed to be independent, but occasionally she joins my group. Denise is at the end of the row, knitting a multicoloured stripy blanket. Neve is sitting next to her.

  ‘I started drinking when I was eight,’ Ryan says, dressed in scruffy jeans and a cap. Part of me wonders if he’s sharing today because there’s a stunning new woman here, all legs and long blonde hair. She makes me feel fat.

  ‘People often want to know why. I mean, eight! I was a child! I was bullied at school for being stupid. I’m dyslexic, still write my words backwards.’ He smiles. ‘Anyway, I figured if I can’t be the brainiest kid on the block let’s be the funniest. When I had my first drink, I stole some brandy from the kitchen. It made me feel like a rock star. Freddie Mercury, eat your heart out. As the years rolled on no one realised I had a problem. I formed a band at school, played the guitar, became the cool kid. I loved an audience and thrived off the attention because I didn’t get any at home.’ He pauses. ‘It’s funny. When I was in rehab I snuck my guitar into the treatment room but I couldn’t play a note, and the reason I couldn’t play was ’cos I’d never gone on stage without having a drink first. The shame of playing sober, making a mistake, it kind of paralysed me. It’s better to opt out than make a mistake, better not to enter the race. Then you can’t lose, right? But I’ve got my act together, been clean now for four years and I work in the music industry, have a top dog called Kip and I’m happy. Just need to meet a nice girl now,’ he says, grinning at the blonde woman. ‘So, thanks guys, just wanted to share that.’

  Harry nods vigorously as he offers me a toffee humbug before sticking his hand up in the air. The chair nods. ‘Hi, I’m Harold and I’m an alcoholic.’

  ‘Hi, Harold.’

  ‘I was really moved by what you said, Ryan. I got my act together too, in the nick of time. I’m ashamed of my past. I lied practically my whole married life. What a weasel.’ He slaps his
thigh. ‘Betsy wouldn’t allow me to drink in the house, so I’d pretend I had meetings to go to, places to be, when all I was doing was heading off to the Dog and Parrot. Hah! The only reason I got clean was the doc said I had six months to live and Betsy threatened to leave me if I didn’t do as he said. I go to the Heath now, find a quiet spot on Parliament Hill to think about my life and everything I have. I thank the Lord Betsy stuck by me. Sometimes I get down on my knees and pray to the angels for courage. Often I can’t get up again. My knees aren’t quite what they used to be.’

  We all laugh affectionately. ‘I might be over eighty, but my life is full of adventure now. I know my grandchildren. I’m dipping into my pension pot and taking Betsy on a cruise this summer. We’re doing a Mediterranean Medley.’

  Everyone claps and cheers. Harry winks at me. ‘I’m a lucky chap. I’ve got my fellowship, people who know me and still love me, warts and all.’

  Knitting needles stop clicking. ‘Hi, I’m Denise and I’m an alcoholic.’

  ‘Hi, Denise.’

  They start again. ‘I had a run-in with some biscuits.’

  Over the years Denise has attended Overeaters Anonymous (OA) as well as AA.

  ‘Millionaire’s shortbread,’ she continues in her deep husky voice. ‘They were a present from my grandchildren. “Freshly baked, Granny,” they said! Ate the whole lot in front of Corrie, about twelve of them there were. Felt sick as a parrot afterwards, cross with myself, you know. Why can’t I be normal, have one or two after my main meal and then put them back in the biscuit tin.’

  It makes me think of David, Mr Two Cubes.

  ‘That’s the thing about addiction. It’s like having five boiling saucepans but only four lids. When we slam down one lid another pot boils over, doesn’t it? When I stopped drinking I took up coffee, drank so much I developed a frozen shoulder and had to see the doc. Poor old doc, he must have been sick of the sight of me. Either that or he thought I had the hots for him.’

  Many of us smile and laugh.

  Denise chuckles. ‘I weighed myself this morning. Never mind, they were bloody good biscuits.’

  We all laugh again.

  I raise my hand.

  ‘I’m Polly, I’m an alcoholic.’

  ‘Hi, Polly.’

  ‘I’ve had a bad day today. I was furious with Louis for making us late for school. I hate being told off by the headmistress.’

  A few laughs.

  ‘I didn’t sleep well last night. He’s been asking a lot of questions about his dad, and it makes me feel guilty. I know I dwell too much on the past, but I can’t help it sometimes. I hurt many people,’ I clutch my mug of tea, ‘especially the ones closest to me. I lied all the time.’ Harry, sitting next to me, nods knowingly. ‘It starts off with white lies, but they become bigger and bigger, to the point where you can’t work out what is true or false anymore. Sometimes I look back and I don’t recognise the old me, this selfish, spoilt brat.’ I reach across and take one of Harry’s handkerchiefs from him and wipe my eyes. ‘I realise now addiction is all about instant gratification. It’s a disease of the emotions. I’d felt wrong since I was a child, really since my brother went to boarding school. I missed him. I couldn’t deal with my feelings of emptiness, of nothingness, so I numbed my feelings with drink. I was dishonest with myself too, fooling myself for years. What’s even worse is I stole people’s peace of mind. I once nicked forty quid off my brother, Hugo, so I could buy a couple of bottles of vodka and some fags. I’ve been clean for over four years now and never been closer to Hugo, but I want to be a better person, make up for all those years of selfishness.’ I think about Ben, how close we have become. I want to support him and Emily. I think about Matthew and how naïve I was. I look at Aunt Viv, knowing she will relate to this. ‘I am so grateful to have a second chance.’

  At the end of the session we hold hands to say the serenity prayer. Harry’s hand is small and frail in mine.

  ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.’

  *

  Neve and I catch up after the meeting. ‘It was good you talked today,’ she says. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the past a lot recently.’

  ‘Because of Louis?’

  ‘He won’t let it go. That’s why I lost it this morning. On and on, like some broken record. “Where does my dad live? Why can’t I see him?”’ I think about the Valentine’s card and the few calls I’ve received on my mobile, where the person at the other end hangs up. ‘Neve, I’ve been having these nightmares.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I keep dreaming he’s going to knock on my front door. It’s daft, right? He’ll never come back … will he?’

  18

  2007

  It’s early June. I ended it with Matt, only to crawl back to him a week later, saying I’d made a mistake. ‘I can’t live without him,’ I said to Hugo, trying to make him understand. ‘I love him.’

  Matthew has won the sealed bids for the house in Wandsworth and is consumed by architectural plans for extensions in every direction, up, down and sideways. ‘It’ll be double the size by the time I’m finished,’ he claims. Most of the planning goes over my head. All I know is that he’s borrowed a seriously scary amount of money, well into six figures, but he’s convinced this project is going to be his biggest yet. ‘It’s all about leverage, Polly. No point me tying up my own capital.’ In the meantime nothing much has changed in my life … except I’ve skipped two periods.

  One Friday afternoon, back at the flat after school, I take a pregnancy test kit out of the bag. For weeks I’ve been telling myself I can’t be pregnant, but the truth is I can’t keep on blaming my morning sickness on drink, since I don’t drink every night. I flop onto the sofa and turn the television on. Matt’s not coming home tonight. He’s catching up with Graham, his old flatmate.

  Ninety-nine per cent accurate, I read on the back of the box, and not only that but this test will tell me how many weeks pregnant I am. I inhale deeply. Am I ready for a baby? It was earlier than I’d imagined but then again, I’ve always wanted children. I know I’d love him or her more than I can imagine. Perhaps it would force me to change? Stop living the way I do. But it makes me nervous too. I try to anticipate Matt’s reaction if it’s positive. He’s not exactly the most paternal of people but it’s different when it’s your own, right?

  I discard the box, heading into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine to relax. The second glass is for courage. The rest of the bottle is because … well, do I always need a reason?

  *

  ‘Polly, wake up. Wake up.’

  Slowly I open my eyes and see a blurred face in front of me that eventually I recognise as Hugo. The Sopranos is playing in the background. I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. It’s 8.15. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ I stretch out my arms, pretending to Hugo that I’ve had a really hectic day at school. ‘What are you doing here, stranger?’ I try to sound normal, but since the money incident, and my getting back with Matt despite Hugo’s warnings, our friendship has been strained.

  Hugo tells me Rosie is away this weekend. ‘Besides, I hoped you’d be here. I brought round some pork chops and frozen chips.’

  Pork chops and oven chips are Hugo’s speciality. ‘Sounds perfect.’ I follow him into the kitchen.

  *

  ‘You’re what?’ he says so quietly I can barely hear him.

  ‘Pregnant.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, when two people have sex …’

  ‘Stop it. I mean, when did you find out?’ He pushes his plate aside.

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘And it’s his?’

  ‘Of course it’s Matt’s!’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Hugo unbuttons his shirt, as if trying to breathe.

  ‘Keep it.’

  ‘Right.’

  I wait for him to say somethin
g positive, though I know full well what the problem is, or who the problem is. ‘Hugo, please be happy. You’re going to be an uncle.’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘You’re not happy because of Matt.’

  ‘Polly, I can’t pretend.’

  ‘But if you could get to know him like I do – he comes across all macho, but deep down he’s not like that, not really. He’s never had proper parents or the things we’ve had and there is another side to him …’

  ‘I’m pleased for you, I am …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’m worried.’ Hugo bites his lip. ‘You’re in denial, you have been for years.’

  ‘Denial about what?’

  ‘Drinking.’

  ‘Hugo, I haven’t had a drink for three days,’ I say, which is true, up until this evening. ‘I had one tonight,’ I go on to lie, ‘before you arrived, and one over supper. Lots of women drink while pregnant, it’s …’

  ‘I used to find empty bottles under your bed and in your wardrobe.’

  ‘So you’re monitoring me now?’

  He steadies me by the shoulders. ‘I’m worried. I’m really worried about you.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m happy! I’m having a baby,’ I say as I head to the sink. I need to lie down. ‘I can’t believe you want me to kill my baby.’

  ‘I don’t! That’s not what I’m saying at all! I love you and would never make you do that!’

  When I turn back to him I almost burst into tears. Gentle, kind Hugo. Part of me wants to hug him. I see us as children in our bright-yellow lifejackets, out on the lake, heading towards the sunken boat. I see his face when we dropped him off at school, a vulnerable boy clinging onto Fido, his toy dog. We were inseparable. We’d share a bedroom, hold hands when watching Jaws on television. I hate us arguing, but …

  ‘Please be happy for me. I need you, Hugo …’

  ‘Listen to me! I’m here for you. All I’m saying is if you’re going to be a mum, you need help. You’re a mess, Polly.’