‘I’m very proud of you, Rom. You’re doing great.’ Holly was sincere.
Romilly smiled at her. Physically, she felt a lot better. Her skin had a healthy glow, her hair was glossy and she had put on a little weight in all the right places. She decided not to confess that today, two weeks in, it was just as hard as it had been on day one and that if she had the chance, she’d be off to stick her hand in that wellington boot quicker than you could say ‘Mine’s a pint’.
Not an hour went by without her thinking about having a drink, picturing herself holding a large glass, imagining the tang of a cold, earthy white against her lips. She even dreamt about the stuff. It was enough to send her nuts. To quash the cravings, she took long baths, snacked, cleaned the house, watched television, tried to master the art of painting her beloved mayfly (with varying success), chatted to Holly, walked around the garden or shopped; anything rather than submit to the longing for the taste of booze.
She didn’t even have work to take her mind off things. Some time after her first official warning from Dr Gregson, she’d been caught downing a half-bottle of wine in the Ladies at the lab. Instead of having another go at her, Dr Gregson had phoned David. She’d heard them both offering earnest sentiments, swapping theories and ideas about what might be best for her, as though she were a child or a thing. It was enough to turn anyone to drink. And the upshot was, she was on indefinite leave, ‘for health reasons’.
‘Thanks, Holly. I don’t know if I would have managed without you here.’
Holly ignored the compliment. ‘I was talking to Carrie about it.’ Romilly smirked at her sister’s endearing lack of guile. ‘We’re worried about you, Roms. I mean, we both said that it’s strange how we drink a lot, and I mean a lot – we arrive somewhere with a party-head on, we get pissed, we dance, we laugh, we make fools of ourselves – but then that’s it. We don’t think about doing it again until a week or two later, or we might go for months without going on a bender. But with you it’s always seemed a bit different.’
‘In what way?’ Romilly was giving Holly her full attention now.
‘You’re so quiet and sensible normally, and it’s like you can’t get your party-head on until you’re pissed. Then when you do… whoa! You go way crazier than we ever would, like you don’t have the same limits.’
Romilly grimaced. ‘That’s probably true.’
‘Oh God, do you remember that barbecue at Mum and Dad’s? The one with that prick, Russian Viktor?’ Holly rolled her eyes.
Romilly nodded and gave a tight-lipped smile as her cheeks flamed.
‘I wonder why that is?’ her sister mused.
‘I don’t know.’ But I wish I did.
‘Are you scared, Rom?’ Holly whispered.
‘I am a bit, Holl. Yes.’
‘That’s understandable. But don’t be. It’s all going to be fine.’
‘What do Mum and Dad think about it all?’ She knew her sister would have discussed it with them.
‘As you’d expect, Mum thinks it’s a lot of fuss over nothing and that you should just pull yourself together. After all, you’ve got this posh house and a lovely husband, what have you got to drink about?’
Romilly smiled, knowing this was exactly how their mum functioned.
‘Dad left the table as soon as we started discussing it and went to the shed or the greenhouse to check on his tommyatoes or build some piece of crap that Mum can bin when he’s not looking. The usual.’
‘As a family, we’re not very good at talking about stuff, are we? Unless it’s good stuff. I mean, we can talk about good stuff till the cows come home, but anything that might make us uncomfortable, we just all stay zipped!’
Holly laughed. ‘It’s true! The guy I work for in Ibiza tells me about the family discussions they have around the table. They talk about everything – you know, money worries, the kids – it’s so healthy. They have this open, supportive little network, which means there’s always someone to pick them up if they fall, someone watching out for them, because everyone knows everything.’
‘You really love it out there, don’t you?’ Romilly smiled. ‘You get this happy glow when you talk about it.’
‘I do love it. I mean, I miss everyone, particularly Carrie—’
‘None taken!’ Romilly interrupted.
‘But it’s quite nice when people want to know me for me and not because I come as part of a pair.’
‘I can understand that. God, Holly, I feel a bit edgy.’
Holly jumped up off the loo seat and held her sister tightly. ‘It’ll all be okay, you know. David and you can do anything, we’ve always said that. With your brains and all that love, you can do anything you set your mind to.’
Romilly hugged her sister close. It was just what she needed to hear. ‘Thanks, darling. I’m so lucky to have you and Carrie. Very lucky.’ And she meant it.
*
‘Granny’s here!’ Celeste shouted excitedly from the hallway.
‘Yay!’ Holly gave Romilly a loud kiss on the cheek, then grabbed an imaginary kipper in her hands and made out to swipe her sister about the head. As the two made their way downstairs to greet Sylvia, Romilly shot Holly a hard stare as a reminder to be nice. They did their best to control their giggles.
‘Well, you didn’t tell me my granddaughter had turned into a supermodel!’ Sylvia yelled at them as they hovered on the stairs.
Celeste smiled at her mum over her shoulder, showing her two large front teeth that didn’t quite fit her six-year-old mouth yet; they sat at an unusual angle, making her less supermodel, more scrum half. Romilly and David had quietly commented on her goofy gorgeousness, loving this stage in her development.
‘Look what I found, Granny!’ Celeste opened her palm to reveal three fat woodlice curled into her hand.
‘Oh my!’ Sylvia jumped back.
‘Don’t be scared, they’re dead,’ Celeste said matter-of-factly. ‘They look like tiny little armadillos! They’re so cute!’
‘Remind you of anyone?’ Holly whispered in her sister’s ear.
‘Cuter when they were alive, I’m sure!’ Sylvia said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
‘Kettle’s on!’ Romilly smiled as she kissed her mother-in-law and made her way into the kitchen. ‘How was your trip?’
‘Fine, but I was very glad to see David at Temple Meads. The train was jam packed; thank God I’d booked a seat. I was in the quiet carriage, but still people were chatting and talking loudly into their phones.’ She tutted. ‘I had to stand up twice and point to the sticker on the window, in case they hadn’t realised. I even had to tell the ticket guy to keep it down, he was talking very loudly to a man about connection times at Didcot Parkway!’ She sighed as she took a seat at the kitchen table.
Romilly caught Holly’s eye; they were both imagining the relief those poor passengers must have felt when Sylvia disembarked. They probably had a little natter or a group singsong in celebration.
‘And what about you, Holly? Are you still working in that bar or have you found a career?’
Holly ignored the scorch of her sister’s warning stare. ‘Oh, I left the bar a while ago. Yes, I’ve found a career and I’m really good at it!’
‘Well, good for you! I told Pat she wasn’t to worry, that you’d find your feet eventually.’
Holly gave a sideways smile, unwilling to divulge that she now ran a chain of three high-end cocktail bars and lived in a beautiful apartment in Santa Eulalia, overlooking the sea.
‘What is it you are doing now?’
‘I’m a stripper!’ Holly announced with her arms held high over her head and her left knee raised.
Romilly gasped and Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up.
David came into the kitchen with a large holdall. ‘I’ll pop this straight upstairs for you, Mum.’
She nodded at him.
‘All okay?’ He looked from face to face, trying to interpret the awkward atmosphere.
‘Yep!’ Celeste beamed. ‘A
unty Holly is a stripper,’ she announced.
‘Well…’ David struggled for words. ‘There we go. I’m sure she’s a very good stripper. Like I’ve always said, Celeste, whatever you do, give it a hundred per cent and err… you’ll be really good at it.’
Romilly sprayed her laughter over the work surface, Holly giggled loudly and even Sylvia couldn’t help but see the funny side. ‘David, really!’ She shook her head, laughing.
*
Their evening was fun. Romilly watched, delighted, as Sylvia and Holly found common ground. The foundation for their exchanges was a seam of sarcasm, as each tried to outdo the other. Celeste had been allowed to stay up late and was thoroughly enjoying the grown up banger. Romilly refused Sylvia’s offer of a beer with their Indian takeaway, noting David’s sideways glance as she opted for water instead. Celeste read from her reading book and later proudly recited her three lines for the end-of-term play. The four adults applauded enthusiastically, all agreeing that she was going to be the best Peasant Number 8 that had ever graced the set of Robin Hood and his Merry Band of Thieves.
The laughter was slowing, yawns were interspersing the conversation, and thoughts were turning to the plump pillows and clean white sheets upstairs, when the front doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go.’ David jumped up.
It was unusual to have visitors at this late hour. Romilly stood and, aided by her sister, gathered up the silver-lined white paper bag, in which sat a thick crust of naan bread, and started to stack the empty foil containers that were sticky with thick sloshes of spicy red sauce. Everyone heard the wail that came from the hallway. Romilly abandoned her task and rushed from the room, to find Sara leaning against the wall, tears streaking her face as she struggled to find her breath. David looked on helplessly.
‘I’m sorry, Rom, I didn’t know who else to go to. I just need someone to talk to!’ she sobbed. Her voice carried the recognisable slur of a drunk.
‘It’s okay, nothing’s that bad,’ Romilly cooed as she put her arm around her friend.
‘What’s the problem here?’ Sylvia, with typical candour, asked from the doorway.
‘She’s pregnant!’ Sara screeched, beating her fists against her thighs. ‘All I ever wanted was a baby, that was all I have ever wanted, and he wouldn’t let me, and he’s been with this tart for no time at all and she’s fucking pregnant!’ She bent forward, hanging onto Romilly’s arm.
‘Come on, Sara, let’s get you home,’ Romilly said quietly, keen to shield Celeste from further upset.
‘I don’t… I don’t want to be on my own. I’m so lonely!’ She looked up imploringly.
‘It’s okay. I’ll take you home and I’ll sit with you for a bit. Is that all right, love?’ Romilly turned to her husband.
David nodded, unsure how else to respond. An awkward silence descended on the hallway. Romilly could just imagine the whispered conversation that would ensue once she’d left the house.
The two women made their way along the pavement to the house at the top of the cul-de-sac, where Sara had left the front door wide open. Romilly eased her over the step and kicked the door shut before guiding Sara into the sitting room, where she slumped down on the sofa and cried loudly.
Romilly let her eyes linger on the beautiful hand-embroidered cushions, designer rug and vast pieces of modern art that turned the rather bland, rectangular sitting room into a fashionable pad. The two pale lilac chandeliers that hung at either end of the room were dimmed, casting diamond-like shards of light into the room. There was a half-eaten pizza in a box on the floor, which gave off a strong smell of onions, and an empty tumbler lay on its side next to it.
‘Don’t cry, Sara. He’s just not worth it,’ Romilly offered, hoping that might help.
Sara lifted her head and pulled herself into a sitting position. She looked ugly. Her eyes were swollen and her lashes were glued shut with the goo of old make-up; her nose ran and her mouth drooped.
‘But he is worth it!’ She cried fresh tears. ‘He is worth it and I fucked it up! I fucked it up, Rom! I loved him and he left me and it was all my fault. I had a fling, a stupid, bloody, pointless fling, and he left me and she was ready to jump into my shoes. I always knew what she was about. He told me I was being stupid and there was nothing in it, but I knew. I could tell by the way she looked at him and looked at me and I didn’t like it. She was biding her time.’
Romilly was a little shocked by the revelation. It threw a very different complexion on her original understanding that Sara had been wronged by a man with too much money who had simply had a change of heart.
‘And now she’s pregnant! She’s having his baby…’ Sara bent forward as though felled. ‘It was the one thing I wanted, Rom. The one thing I wanted was a baby, his baby!’
‘I don’t know what to say to make it better, Sara, but I know it will all look a lot different in the morning.’ She looked around and realised that, despite the glitzy decor, the house felt cold; it had a distinct lack of heart, with nothing that spoke of happy memories, family or shared laughter. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea or something?’ she whispered, using the voice that calmed Celeste when she’d had a bad dream or was in a tizz over something.
Sara nodded, but her eyes were half closed. She listed sideways onto a pile of cushions. It looked as if she might have fallen asleep.
Romilly made her way into the kitchen, filled the kettle and set it to boil. It was strange being in a house that had the identical layout to hers but was entirely different. Opening the cupboard where in her own kitchen she kept her mugs and cups, she was faced with cereal boxes, a tin of crackers and a packet of pasta; it made her feel uncomfortable and like she was snooping. Eventually she located the cups and placed one on the side, with a tea bag resting in the bottom.
She scanned the fridge in search of milk. Her eyes roamed the shelves, which were sparsely stocked, bar the odd piece of Clingfilm-wrapped veg and an old pot of greying coleslaw. She stopped searching when her gaze fell upon a bottle of Prosecco, slick with beads of condensation and standing proudly in the door. The sight of it caused a strange reaction that was partly physical, as if she wasn’t in control but on autopilot. Her mind screamed instructions at her. Don’t touch it, Romilly! You’ve done so well, two whole weeks! Don’t do it! Don’t!
Instinct told her to act quickly, before she had a chance to listen to any counter-arguments. If she didn’t seize the moment, she could quite possibly talk herself out of what she was about to do. Gripping the bottle, she quickly pulled it from the tray, listening to the delightful clink as its weighty base touched against a jar of pickle. Yanking, she peeled the foil and twisted the wire cage that housed the cork, working quickly before turning the cork inside her palm and easing it free with her finger and thumb. Her heart raced and she breathed deeply in eager anticipation. The excitement made her smile and her pupils dilate, just the prospect, the thought of knowing she was going to be able to have a drink, filled her with a heady combination of relief and joy.
Maybe I could just have one little taste… She liked the shape of the lie in her thoughts; it eased her guilt as she brought the cold green glass to her soft lower lip. Slowly, she tipped the bottle, letting the cool fizz froth over her tongue.
It was instant. As she took the first slug, a whoop of euphoria travelled from her mouth to her brain and exploded like fireworks inside her head and in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and continued to glug from the bottle, pausing only to catch her breath when the bubbles clogged her nose and throat and forced her to slow, to take a second before continuing, as quickly as she was able.
It tasted fantastic! Better than she had remembered. It was heaven, and the calm that spread through her left her in a state of near ecstasy. With every gulp, thoughts of her family slipped from her mind. The promises she’d made to David and Holly were quickly erased.
As usual, before she’d emptied the Prosecco, her thoughts were already turning to what she might be able to drink next. Sh
e finished the bottle and belched twice, even enjoying the sour tang of the regurgitated bubbles that travelled up her throat and hit the back of her tongue. She reopened the fridge and scanned harder this time, but she couldn’t see any more bottles or cans, nothing of interest. She looked under the sink and was about to wake Sara and ask her what else she had, when she turned to the bookshelves at the back of the kitchen and struck gold! The bottom two shelves were lined with a shining cornucopia of bottles in an array of shapes and sizes. The labels alone were enough to send a shiver through her: Bacardi, Bombay Sapphire, Courvoisier, Smirnoff. She chose the Courvoisier simply on the basis that she didn’t mind it neat and rather liked the short, fat bottle with the long slender neck.
Not wanting to disturb Sara from her slumber, Romilly sat at the breakfast bar and listened to the sound of the tight, stubby cork easing from the top. Inhaling the pungent fumes, she sipped gingerly at first, until she found her flow. Then she began pouring the golden brandy into her mouth, letting it slip down her throat.
An hour passed. Things had started to get a little hazy and Romilly had removed her glasses and had her hand over her eyes. There was a knock at the front door and she heard an indiscriminate burble coming from the sitting room in response.
‘It’s okay, Sara. Stay where you are, honey. I’ll get it.’ Romilly took a deep breath and opened the door wide, a smile fixed on her face. It was Holly.
‘How’s she doing?’ Holly peered over her sister’s shoulder.
‘She’s sleeping a bit. Best thing,’ Romilly said quietly.
Holly stood up straight and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Have you been drinking?’ Her tone was accusatory and reminded Romilly of their mum.
‘No!’ she replied, rather more loudly than she’d intended.
‘Romilly, I can smell it on you and you look—’
‘I look what?’ She held the doorframe for support.
‘You look a bit sozzled.’
Another Love Page 10
