Ice and a Slice

by Della Galton

  There was a small silence which, to SJ’s over-sensitive ears, sounded accusing, and she felt the need to fill it with an explanation.

  “It’s work, not pleasure. I’m teaching so I can’t drink too much. I mean, the pint’s practically metaphorical. Honestly, Tanya, I’m not that irresponsible. I mean, I’m glad I went yesterday – obviously – but I don’t think I need any more sessions. It’s not as though I’ve got a serious problem. Thanks for the offer anyway,” she added, pleased with herself for being so open and honest.

  “What did Tom say?”

  “Not much. He’s just been promoted.”

  They talked about Tom’s promotion for a while and then SJ managed to change the subject before she gave herself away and let it slip that she hadn’t yet said anything to Tom.

  “Anyway, enough of me. We sorted all my problems out yesterday. Haven’t you got any?”

  She wasn’t expecting Tanya to say yes, but her friend gave the slightest of hesitations and suddenly her instincts told her she was right on target.

  “It’s something to do with all those texts, isn’t it? Oh, Tanya, I’ve been really selfish. What’s wrong? Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?”

  “Because we had other things to discuss,” Tanya said. “And my problems are minor compared to yours.”

  “Mine are minor, too,” SJ said, torn between guilt that she’d been so selfish and relief that she wasn’t the only one with a problem. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

  “I can’t on the phone.”

  “What if I come round? I don’t have to go out until later.”

  “No, don’t worry. It’s nothing urgent. Besides, I’m working. We can talk about it next time I see you. There’s no rush. It’s not the sort of thing that’s going to disappear overnight.”

  Intrigued, SJ agreed that next time they met they’d devote the entire time to Tanya’s problems and her friend laughed nervously.

  “We probably won’t need to, but thanks, you’re a good friend.”

  SJ hung up, feeling uneasy. It wasn’t like her beautiful, self-assured friend to have serious problems. Not ones that involved text messages from someone who SJ was suddenly sure wasn’t Michael. Briefly, she considered the possibility that Tanya was having an affair. But that was ludicrous. Tanya would never have an affair. She adored her husband.

  She was still thinking about Tanya as she gathered her stuff together for her Poetry and a Pint class. The Red Lion was within walking distance at a stretch, but she usually caught the bus because she had too much to carry – she had a cupboard at the pub, but it wasn’t very big and SJ had a fear of being under prepared. As the bus trundled through the housing estates she wondered if it was Michael who was having an affair. But that didn’t explain Tanya’s texts. Unless she was speaking to his mistress. No – unlikely. She’d seemed embarrassed by the texts, guilty almost, but not upset or annoyed. Still deep in thought, SJ crossed the pub car park, called out a greeting to Jim, who was polishing glasses and didn’t answer, and headed up the uncarpeted back stairs to her room.

  Poetry and a Pint was a delightful antidote to English Literature. There were no exams, no stress and she didn’t even have a fixed syllabus – she tended to flow with the group. Her seven students were united by their love of poetry and they were a diverse bunch. At the moment she had two performance poets, Matt and Steve, whose work was quite edgy; Matt wrote rap and Steve wrote controversial free verse. An older married couple, Bruce and Sybil, published anthologies of Christian verse, but had an excellent sense of humour and luckily were not easily offended. The rest of the class were women who just liked poetry and wanted something to do on a Wednesday night. One of them, Dorothy, who was always beautifully dressed and made-up – she reminded SJ of the women who worked on the posh make up section of a department store – wrote erotic novels as her day job.

  Fascinated when she’d discovered this, SJ had volunteered herself as a proof reader if ever Dorothy wanted one.

  At first she’d laughingly refused. “It might change the way you see me. And besides, you’re busy enough with your teaching, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not too busy to help you – it’s always a pleasure to look at your work. And besides, it’s my job.”

  “We both know that’s not true. This is a poetry class, after all. Reading chapters of my bonk-busters does not constitute teaching me poetry.”

  “I don’t mind helping. You know I don’t. So how’s the latest one going?”

  “Slowly. My editor’s told me I need more sex in it – a wee bit more spice – you know.”

  Dorothy winked, but SJ fancied she saw a trace of wistfulness behind the humour. “I must say I do find it hard going since I lost my Alfie. We used to have such fun trying out all these new positions.” She shot SJ a wicked smile, and added, “I’ve only my memories to rely on now, hen, although I’m not complaining. I’ve plenty of those.”

  SJ giggled. She’d seen Dorothy in a whole different light since she’d read her novels. Romantic they might be; Barbara Cartland they were certainly not.

  People were endlessly fascinating, SJ decided, as she set up the tables and chairs in her room and liberated the white board from its dusty cupboard. The faces they wore for the world weren’t always a true reflection of what was going on underneath. All authors could be glimpsed through their writing, but poetry tended to unveil people completely.

  She’d once had a student, a teenager, who had read out a poem about having a miscarriage. Towards the end of it her voice had begun to shake and by the time she’d stopped reading the entire class had been in tears.

  SJ had abandoned her desk and given her a hug. There had really been nothing else to do, and the class had talked about heartbreak and life for the rest of the session.

  Afterwards, Dorothy had stayed behind.

  “Well done,” she’d said, her soft Scottish accent colouring her words. “You were very good with that wee girl.”

  “I think she just needed to get it out of her system,” SJ said.

  “Yes, love, I think you’re right.”

  SJ was glad that it didn’t happen too often, but she was well aware of the cathartic effects of poetry – she’d written a whole heap of angry poetry when she’d been a teenager, and some more equally self-indulgent poems when she’d split up with Derek. Not that she was ever planning on showing them to anyone. They were for her eyes only, but they had helped her deal with her pain.

  Her students began to arrive. She heard voices and the clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairs as they collected their pints from the bar en route to class, as was the tradition.

  SJ got herself a pint of Diet Coke, despite having to put up with a flurry of teasing comments ranging from, “Are you ill, Teach?” from Matt to “Blimey, the girl’s on Coke – what is the world coming to? I thought this was poetry and a pint!” from one of the women.

  She ignored their good-natured jibes and was pleased to reach the end of the session stone cold sober. This was easy – she’d certainly achieve her target tonight. By the time she’d got in and they’d eaten and cleared up, it would be time for bed. And as they’d made love last night, Tom wouldn’t be expecting to do it again. So they could have an early night and she’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow. Alcoholic – pah! She was beginning to feel something bordering on smugness as she said her goodbyes and headed for home.

  The table was already laid when she got in. Tom had recently invested in a pasta maker, declaring that nothing beat fresh pasta – a sentiment SJ wholeheartedly agreed with. She hoped they were having pasta tonight. An open bottle of Merlot stood warming on the back of the oven. She glanced at it, suppressed the urge to pour herself a large glass and fetched a Diet Coke from the fridge instead.

  While she was sipping it SJ caught herself wondering if Kit was sitting in some pub somewhere, knocking back pints. Bound to be, whispered a little voice in her head – all that stuff about her giving up when he pro
bably drank bucket-loads. He had that kind of face, weary-worn and crinkled around the edges. He obviously hadn’t spent his youth drinking orange juice.

  Tanya had mentioned yesterday that Kit might be a recovering alcoholic, as people who worked in addiction places often were. SJ wasn’t so sure. Surely if you were one you’d want to get as far away as possible from your past, not hang around to see what the next generation was like. You’d probably turn into a born-again Christian or something. Not that she had anything against born-again Christians – they had as much right to their opinion as anyone else. But she was a born-again heathen and it was the mention of God that had put her off the AA meeting she’d once attended.

  She hadn’t told Kit or Tanya about that. It hadn’t seemed relevant, but she’d gone to a meeting a couple of years ago. That had been after another particularly heavy session when she’d been paranoid about her drinking. She’d looked up AA on the internet and had rung the helpline. A pleasant, very sober sounding woman had asked her if she’d had a drink today, and she’d said no she certainly hadn’t, it was only four thirty in the afternoon – what did they take her for? - before lapsing into an awkward silence. It was obvious what they’d taken her for.

  Anyway, the upshot was that she’d gone along to a meeting. She’d established very quickly that she was in the wrong place. The whole lot of them might be sober now, but they’d obviously been raging drunks once. Not that this had put her off particularly – drunks were quite interesting. No, the main thing had been when she found out the cliché was true. You were expected to say, “My name’s SJ and I’m an alcoholic,” before you could so much as ask where the loo was.

  Telling all and sundry you were an alcoholic surely couldn’t be a positive move. It would have been the equivalent of standing up in the slimming club and saying, “Hi, my name’s SJ and I’m a big fatty.” It simply wasn’t the right approach. It was buying into negativity. Everyone knew that if you wanted to be something other than what you were, you simply had to repeat it. I’m thin, or I’m rich, or I’m a teetotaller. It was basic psychology. If you went around telling everyone you were a big fatty, or an alcoholic, or a pauper, then it would very quickly become true. And then where would you be?

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  SJ jumped as Tom appeared behind her. He’d just had a shave and smelt of Paco Rabanne. Maybe he did want to make love again. The promotion must have gone to his head. Feeling guilty for such disloyal thoughts, she smiled at him.

  “You’ve obviously been busy. What’s on the menu?”

  “Spag bol. I haven’t been in long. Thought I’d better put in a bit of overtime to show willing, you know. How was Poetry and a Pint?”

  “It was great – we did Walter de la Mare.” She smiled. “On a Coke.”

  “Uh huh. Is he one of the druggie ones?”

  “What? Oh – no, I meant me. I had a Coke instead of a pint.”

  “I’d better pour you a nice glass of wine then. You must be gasping!”

  Now he came to mention it… Not that she was buying into that, though, obviously. If she’d been gasping, she definitely had a problem.

  “Just a small one, then.”

  She waited until they’d finished their first course before she told him about going to S.A.A.D.

  “Oh? What did they say?” He’d been about to refill her glass. That was bad timing – she should have waited another four seconds in case he took it upon himself to help her in her quest.

  “Not much. Just that I ought to cut down.”

  He relaxed and carried on pouring, much to her relief.

  SJ emptied half her glass and then, concerned he hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation, she added firmly, and rather ironically, “I think they’re probably right – but it’s quite difficult to cut down when you usually drink a certain amount.”

  “Are you saying you’ve got a drink problem, sweetie?” Tom stared at her, dark eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” She laughed brightly. “I don’t think I drink any more than anyone else we know, do I?”

  “No – I don’t think you do,” Tom said, reaching for another slice of garlic bread.

  SJ frowned – so that had been a damp squib then. She’d just told her husband she might be an alcoholic and he’d blithely ignored her. Everyone knew that real alcoholics lost their jobs, alienated their families, and became a useless waste of space to society. Whereas she, obviously, was far from that – even her husband hadn’t noticed anything amiss. She gulped back her wine – red, as Tom hadn’t got any white out tonight - refilled her glass, and settled back in her chair to enjoy it.

  “You – an alcoholic? That’s ridiculous,” Tom muttered, reaching for the bottle and looking slightly surprised to find there was none left.

  SJ smiled sagely. She knew exactly what she would say to Tanya next time they spoke.

  “If you’re an alcoholic, you’re supposed to be in denial, aren’t you? But I’m not. I confessed all to Tom and he thinks I’m fine – so if anyone is in denial, it’s him. Not me.”

  Chapter Eight

  The following Tuesday morning, SJ was looking at her Things to Do pad and trying to decide which was the most urgent: her lesson plan for Poetry and a Pint or giving some serious thought to her ‘Reasons Not To Go To My Parents’ Party’ list, when the doorbell rang. Irritated, she glanced at the clock. Only eleven fifteen, so too early for the post, which never came before lunchtime. She got up wearily and went to answer it. Hopefully it wasn’t anyone important as she hadn’t got round to a shower yet and was wearing old, but very comfy grey leggings and a baggy T-shirt Tom had bought her, emblazoned with the slogan, Is there any wine in the fridge or do I have to pretend to be happy?

  Tanya was standing there, looking as though she was going to a photo shoot in a navy pinstriped suit, her perfect skin glowing with health, and her titian hair held up in butterfly clips.

  Painfully aware of the contrast between them, SJ forced a smile and said, “Hi, I didn’t know you were coming over. You should have phoned.”

  “I did. But your mobile’s switched off. And you haven’t answered my last three texts.”

  “Haven’t I? Sorry, I’ve been a bit busy.” SJ avoided Tanya’s eyes. She had been busy, but the truth was a little more petty – that wonderful feeling of solidarity she’d felt when she’d poured out her heart to Tanya had diminished somewhat when she’d realised Tanya had been in no hurry at all to confide in her.

  On the other hand, perhaps Tanya had just been plucking up the courage to come round. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of contact,” she murmured, touching Tanya’s arm. “Come in, I’ll put the kettle on. Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You said you had a problem you wanted to talk about.”

  Tanya gave an embarrassed laugh. “Look, I’m sorry; I probably shouldn’t have said anything. You must have caught me at a weak moment. I’m fine, really I am.”

  “I see,” SJ said, feeling hurt all over again.

  “Actually, I haven’t come round for a chat.” Tanya narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “I’ve come to give you a lift to your appointment. I thought you might need some moral support.”

  “I don’t need a lift. It’s in the middle of Soho – I can get the tube.”

  “I know you don’t need a lift,” Tanya said patiently. “But I thought you might like one. I’ve got to take the car in anyway. It’s no trouble.”

  “Well, it’s very sweet of you, but I’m not going today. I thought I told you. I don’t need to go to that place. It’s not just my opinion,” she qualified hastily, because Tanya looked as though she was going to argue. “Even Tom doesn’t think I need to go. He doesn’t think I drink too much.”

  “Have you cancelled your appointment?”

  “Er no, I meant to, but I haven’t got round to it. Like I said, I’ve been busy.”

  “Do you have t
o pay for these appointments?”

  SJ shook her head.

  “Then I think you should go, and at least tell them how you feel. They’ll be expecting you – and if you really don’t think you need their help, it’s only fair to let them know so they can book in some poor bugger who does. There might be a waiting list.”

  “I bet there isn’t,” SJ said, feeling uncomfortable, because Tanya was right, and she didn’t usually let people down. She’d managed to put her appointment at S.A.A.D in a box marked Think About Later, and she hadn’t thought about it at all.

  “I can’t go now, I’m not ready – look at me. Perhaps I’ll just give them a ring and say I’m ill.”

  “Well, I agree you should probably change that T-shirt,” Tanya said dryly, “but you’ve got time to do that. We’ll still make it. I can drop you outside the door.”

  Oh joy, that was all she needed. One beautifully-dressed woman dropping her scruffy, alky friend off at the drop in centre – okay, so the sign was discreet, but no doubt everyone in the world knew S.A.A.D stood for Soho Advice for Alcohol and Drugs.

  “I can’t, Tan, seriously I can’t. For a start I haven’t filled in my form and that’s what we’re supposed to be discussing...”

  “Are you scared to go back?” Tanya asked softly. “Is it like slimming, when you’ve put on weight instead of losing it and you know as soon as you get on the scales they’re going to suss you out?”

  SJ was about to make some quip about it not being anything like that – they didn’t have a handy little breathalyser on the door, not that it would have mattered if they had, because she hadn’t had a drink since last night anyway – when Tanya gently pushed her back inside.

  “Come on, we’re wasting time arguing. Go and get changed. I promise I’ll never nag you again if you just go today and tell them you’re okay and don’t need any more appointments.”

  “All right, all right.” SJ gave up because Tanya obviously wasn’t going to let this go and besides, she’d just had a brainwave. Tanya wouldn’t be able to park anywhere near the centre. Therefore she’d just get out of the car, give her a cheery wave, and as soon as she was out of sight, she could hop on the tube and go home. Okay, so it was a little convoluted and she’d still have to phone and tell them she’d planned on coming – of course she had – until she’d been unavoidably detained. But it was better than having Tanya loading all this guilt on her.