Ice and a Slice

by Della Galton

  He was hoodless now, and minus both fag and pint of lager. SJ focused on him with difficulty and tried to pick up the thread of conversation. They’d obviously all been talking about something, but she had no idea what. She felt disorientated – as if she’d just woken up, but she couldn’t have just woken. She was standing up. It was very disconcerting.

  Kevin looked like he was drinking orange juice. Probably a cover; you could hide all sorts in orange juice. SJ gave him a wobbly smile and decided to err on the side of humour. “I bet there’s gin in that orange, isn’t there, love?”

  Kevin, who had the same blue eyes as his mother and sister, didn’t smile back. No one was smiling. They were all looking at her with quiet sorrow in their eyes. Or was it sympathy? SJ began to feel uncomfortable. What was going on? She’d obviously missed something.

  Tom, who was closer than anyone else, ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

  “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do with her. I just don’t know what to do about all this.”

  “Don’t you worry yourself about it now, Tom. It’ll all seem brighter in the morning. You can sort it out properly then – work things out between you. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” That was her mother, and it took SJ a few seconds to realise they must be talking about her. She glanced at Tom in puzzlement. All she’d done was ask Kevin if he had gin in his orange – it was hardly the crime of the century.

  She opened her mouth to say something else and then, to her dismay, the cupboard she was leaning against moved sideways violently and she found herself on the kitchen floor with her head wedged against the fridge. A magnet of Blackpool Tower lay alongside her nose and she was aware of her mother’s voice.

  “Oh dear, oh dear. You could stay, Tom, if it’s easier. I don’t want her to be sick in your nice car.”

  Charming. She didn’t even feel sick. “I’m not drunk…” she began, as the words ebbed and flowed somewhere above her. “I haven’t touched a drop for three hours.”

  Or at least that’s what she wanted to say. She wasn’t sure she’d managed to get the words out. Her head was pressed against something hard. Frowning, she concentrated on focusing her eyes once more. Success. She could see a collection of fluff in between the fridge and the sink unit, and what looked like a pea that must have rolled under there.

  An escapee pea. There was a pun there somewhere. An ESCAPEA, no less. SJ giggled at her own wit, and entertained herself with visions of it hopping off her father’s plate, just before it was about to meet its maker and rolling under the fridge to hide. And now the poor little pea was all alone – all alone with the dust and the fluff on the kitchen floor.

  A refugee pea. No, a refupea – no, that didn’t have the same ring to it. Suddenly the pea’s fate struck SJ as terribly, terribly sad. No doubt it had thought it was off to a new and better life, but had ended up in the darkness all alone.

  Chapter Thirty

  SJ came slowly into wakefulness and wished she hadn’t. She felt like death – in fact death would have been preferable. Her whole body hurt. Her stomach felt like an empty churning cement mixer. It rumbled and gurgled and there was a very unpleasant stink in the room.

  She was lying on the sofa in their lounge. There was a red plastic bucket by her side – that was the source of the stink. Ash was curled up on the rug by the fireplace. And Tom was sitting in an armchair watching her. Not speaking, not moving, just looking at her with an expression she’d never before seen on his face. Disgust.

  She smiled uncertainly. He didn’t smile back. He just carried on looking at her. SJ began to feel unnerved.

  “What?” she said at last, moving her head a fraction and wishing she hadn’t because several demons with pickaxes were hammering away inside her skull.

  “I could ask you the same question.” Tom spoke in a flat grey monotone. “What? Yeah, what, SJ? What the fuck did you think you were doing? Have you any idea of the hurt you’ve caused?”

  SJ hadn’t, but the fact he’d said ‘fuck’ – which he never said – in the same flat grey voice he’d used to say ‘what?’ gave her a pretty good clue she’d upset him.

  “What did I do?” She spoke very quietly and slowly to cause the least possible movement.

  “Do you really not remember?”

  “No,” she whispered, wanting very much to cry. She must have done something really bad for him to be looking at her – speaking to her – like that.

  “Did it involve taking off my clothes?”

  He shook his head, and SJ felt about under the duvet and discovered she still had them on. Well, that was something. She’d have hated to hear she’d performed a striptease for her parents and their guests.

  Her mind flicked back over the previous evening: the bench with Alison; the marquee with the darts players; the bedroom with Sophie – that had been quite bad, but surely not unforgivable; the conversation with Aunt Edie; the kitchen at the end. The scenes rolled over in her mind, but there was nothing that struck her as being particularly awful. Not awful enough to make Tom look at her like this. Hang on a minute – hadn’t she knocked over a dresser in the bedroom? That had caused one hell of a disturbance.

  “I know I had too much to drink. I’m sorry. But it was a party – you’re supposed to have too much to drink at parties. You said so yourself.”

  “There’s a difference between having one too many and drinking the whole place dry.” There was contempt in his voice. SJ flinched.

  “I’ll give Mum a ring and apologise later. Don’t worry. She’ll understand.”

  “She already understands. You told her you were an alcoholic, SJ. You told a whole roomful of people – including most of the darts club – you were an alcoholic.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘Oh’.” Tom’s voice still hadn’t risen from flat grey. It was disconcerting and she was beginning to feel sick again. The proximity of the bucket wasn’t helping.

  “You also told them WHY you were an alcoholic.”

  Unease rose alongside the sickness. “What do you mean? What did I say, exactly?”

  “You said it was my fault you’d started drinking. You said you’d never loved me. That you’d only married me because you didn’t want to get hurt again. You said the love of your life had been Derek, but after what Alison did, you’d realised you couldn’t carry on being married to him, so you settled for me. You said you had to drink to blot out the pain of settling for second best.”

  SJ didn’t say anything. Now she understood why he was speaking in grey. If he let any emotion into his voice he would break. She could see the deep raw pain in his face. His arms rested along the arms of the chair, his hands apparently relaxed, but his fingers were trembling.

  SJ had never seen Tom in such pain before. She had never seen anyone in such pain. And it was down to her. It was all down to her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, knowing it wasn’t enough. Nothing she could say would ever be enough.

  By the fireplace, Ash had put one paw over his nose. It was a position he often lay in, like a bird with its head tucked under its wing, but at this moment it seemed to SJ as though he was trying to blot out the sounds of their voices. Blot out the pain that was filling the room like a great black shroud. A shroud gently placed by unseen hands over the death of their marriage.

  “It’s not true,” she said, hating herself for it, but wanting to say something – anything – to take away the pain she’d caused.

  “Isn’t it? I’m not so sure, SJ. You haven’t wanted me much lately, have you? Physically, I mean. I may be naïve, but I’m not completely stupid.”

  There was no denying this. SJ groaned. She was going to be sick. Stumbling to her feet, she just made it to the bucket and, heedless now of her husband’s presence, she emptied a little more of the poison from her body. Retching into the bucket, heaping more foulness over what it already contained. When, gasping and beaten, and still with the taste of bi
le in her nostrils and throat, she’d finally finished, she rose weakly and, without looking at Tom, carried the bucket through to the toilet where she disposed of the contents and bleached it. Oh, that she could bleach out her body and mouth in the same way.

  Feeling marginally better, SJ gulped down a handful of Nurofen, found a re-hydration sachet she kept for hangover emergencies in the cupboard and forced herself to drink a pint of water. The effort of so much activity drained her and she went slowly back into the lounge.

  Tom was sitting where she’d left him. Wary of approaching him because she knew he would shrug her away – and she wouldn’t have blamed him – she sat on the settee again, tucking her knees beneath her like a child.

  “I’m really sorry, Tom. I was way out of order. I always talk rubbish when I’m drunk. I know some people tell the truth when they’re drunk, but I don’t, I never have.”

  “So none of what you said last night was true? It was all drivel, was it? Just because you’d poured half a brewery down your neck?”

  She nodded vehemently. She had no memory of saying the things Tom had just told her, which terrified her. How could she have caused such devastation without even knowing she had done it? The only saving grace was that she doubted her drunken ramblings could be proved one way or another. All that mattered now was to take the pain off his face. She would spend the rest of her life making up for his pain. She would have to.

  ‘What? Even though you know in your heart of hearts that what you said is true?’ whispered a voice in her mind. Not Alco this time – he’d been conspicuous by his absence during yesterday’s spree – but the voice of her conscience. The voice of her conscience continued relentlessly.

  ‘Even though you know you DID marry him because you didn’t want to be hurt again? Do you really think it’s better to continue with this lie than tell him the truth?’

  SJ became aware Tom was speaking again. “So it’s not true about our friend, Michael, being a cross-dresser either, then? That he likes to dress up as a woman and have people call him Lizzie?”

  SJ stared at him in horror.

  Before she could deny it, Tom went on softly, “Where did that come from, SJ? Is it some warped little fantasy you’ve got? Perhaps, deep down, it turns you on thinking of men dressing up in women’s clothes. Does it make us more vulnerable or something? More easy to manipulate, maybe?”

  SJ closed her eyes, knowing she had to stop him. Stop this before it got any further. She had to convince Tom he was right – that her ramblings about Lizzie were the product of an unbalanced mind. Even if he thought he’d married some kind of pervert. That was preferable – anything was preferable to him knowing it was true.

  “Of course it’s not true about Michael. That’s ridiculous. My God, I really was drunk, wasn’t I…?” She tried a casual little giggle, which came out as a sob.

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what to believe any more. But I am going to find out.” He glanced at his watch and stood up, a slight frown on his face.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m playing squash with Michael at eleven thirty. Had you forgotten? I’m not surprised. You never did think of anyone but yourself.”

  “Please don’t say anything, Tom. He’ll be embarrassed – it’s such a mad idea. Please just forget I ever mentioned it.” She was gabbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  Tom jangled his car keys thoughtfully. “Michael won’t be embarrassed. I know him better than that. It’ll probably give him a good laugh.” He paused in the doorway. “Unless, of course, it’s true! In which case I’ll assume the same of the rest. I’ll assume that far from spouting rubbish when you’re drunk, you actually tell the truth.”

  SJ caught up with him at the front door, her head spinning with sickness and shame. “Please, Tom, don’t say anything to Michael. It’s stupid, you know it is.”

  She held onto his arm, partly to stop herself falling and partly to stop him from going. But he brushed away her hand, his eyes cold.

  “Yeah – it sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But me thinks the lady doth protest too much. See you later, SJ. Your head should have cleared a bit by then and we can have a proper chat.”

  He unlatched the front door and she made another grab for his arm. “Tom, please? Wait. I just need you to listen to me for a minute. Please?”

  Barely glancing at her, he shook her off, more forcibly this time. “I’ve had enough of listening to you. I thought I’d made that clear.” The front door slammed in her face.

  Shocked, she fumbled to get it open again. Her fingers weren’t working properly. Neither were her legs. It was like being in one of those dreams where she was trying to run from the baddies and her feet were stuck in mud. By the time she got the door open Tom was already in his car, the engine running. She tripped down the last step, only partially regaining her balance and almost falling, putting out her hands to save herself. “Fuck it.”

  Tom gave her a look of such disdain that, even from behind glass, it froze her into stillness.

  “Wait,” she shouted, straightening up, brushing gravel from her hands, but he was already reversing out onto the road and driving away.

  She ran back inside, adrenaline sharpening her movements. Where was her phone? She had to phone Tanya. She had to warn her that Tom was coming to see Michael.

  She finally found her phone in the bottom of her bag. There were three missed calls from Dorothy. Shit. She wasn’t looking forward to talking to Dorothy. With sweating fingers she pressed Tanya’s number.

  “The mobile you have phoned is switched off.” Shit, shit, shit!

  They didn’t answer the landline very often but she tried it anyway, listening to it ring and ring, visualising Michael looking at Tanya. “Are you going to get that?” “No. Leave it. It’ll just be someone trying to sell us something.” And then she realised they wouldn’t be there anyway. Or at least Michael wouldn’t. He would meet Tom at the sports centre. Tanya often went with him for a swim.

  Maybe a text. No, she couldn’t possibly explain this in a text. She would have to drive over to the sports centre. She would be over the limit but hey, how much worse could it get? No one was likely to stop her. She could drive in a straight line. She hoped she could drive in a straight line.

  Her car keys weren’t on the hook. Where the hell were her car keys? She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d driven her car.

  They weren’t in her bag, or in the pockets of any coat she could remember wearing lately – and time was running out. Tom had been gone ten minutes. He would nearly be at the centre. He would stroll in and Michael would smile at him, all unsuspecting, blithely unaware that his most private and intimate secret was about to be chucked rudely in his face. Sweet gentle Michael. SJ couldn’t bear it. Breath catching in her throat, she began to sob.

  Blurting out the intimacies of her best friend’s marriage was unforgivable. Tanya had trusted her implicitly and she’d let her down. Not just let her down, she had betrayed her. The best friend she had ever had. She might just as well have stabbed her in the heart. In fact Tanya would probably have found that less painful.

  Still sobbing, she sank to her knees on the floor by the front door. She hadn’t thought she could feel any worse than when she’d opened her eyes an hour earlier, but she did. She felt worse than she’d ever felt in her life.

  She had let everyone down. She would never be able to make up for the hurt she’d caused. Tanya and Michael would never forgive her and she would never be able to forgive herself. The future yawned ahead of her like a massive, accusatory black hole and she knew she couldn’t face it.

  She couldn’t stand the pain. Not for another hour, not for another second. Getting unsteadily to her feet, she went across the hall and stood in the doorway of the lounge. Tom had put a new bottle of gin on the optic last week. She had no idea why – he didn’t even drink gin, and she’d given up. But she’d blown that one, hadn’t she? Just like she’d blown everything els
e in her life.

  Leaning forward, she unclipped the bottle from the optic and stood it upright on the bar. It was amazing how something that looked so much like water could be so lethal. There was enough here to knock her halfway to oblivion. She hesitated, feeling strangely detached. Oblivion suddenly seemed like a very good option. The only option. How many glasses would it take to get her to oblivion? On autopilot, her movements stiff and jerky like a puppet’s, she moved behind the bar and began to take out glasses from the shelf beneath and stand them on the bar.

  Four crystal tumblers, two pewter tankards, five little shot glasses Tom used for whiskey chasers if ever he was in the mood, and one commemorative glass with Sarah-Jane and Tom, married 2009, inscribed on the side.

  She lined them up carefully along the bar. She lined them up in order of size, smallest first. And then she began to fill them up with gin. It reminded her of the dolls’ tea parties she and Alison used to have as kids. They had a red plastic tea set back then and they’d used water, not tea, and they would argue over who got the biggest teacup. But gin was far better than either water or tea and, best of all, Alison wasn’t here to argue about who got what. Alison wasn’t going to get her hands on any of these glasses. They were all for her. All for SJ. Finally, she had found something that Alison couldn’t get her hands on.

  She smiled as she reached the end of the line. She had rather short-changed the last glass but she didn’t suppose that mattered. She also had a thumping headache – but that didn’t matter either. Gin was the oldest painkiller in the world. That was what they said, didn’t they?

  Oblivion – right then. With the same curious sense of detachment she picked up the first glass. It was one of the shot glasses. Its contents were gone in a heartbeat. SJ reached for the next glass. Gin wasn’t very nice neat. It was much better with tonic, but she didn’t think they had any. And after a while she couldn’t taste it anyway.

  Oblivion.