Her other new friend was Sam, a lady from the Home Counties who she estimated to be in her fifties and who was on her sixth stint in rehab. During one group session, as they all sat on the floor in a circle, Sam openly confessed that she had drunk away her house, her looks, her job and her self-respect, gaining quite a reputation in her home town in the process. Most devastatingly, she’d also lost contact with her only son. It wasn’t until she came up for air, eight years later, that she properly realised the true state of her life and by then it was too late. As she herself put it, ‘Life had moved on; everyone, everything had changed, apart from me. And now what does my future look like? I can’t see one a lot of the time. I mean, I’ve missed his birthdays, his eighteenth, his exams. Maybe he’s driving? Maybe I’m a gran?’ She gave a small laugh to hide her anguish. ‘I’m forty-two and I feel finished.’
Romilly stared at her with her mouth open, shocked to discover her real age. She thought Sam’s words were the saddest she had ever heard and was thankful that she wasn’t like that.
Dr Nagel seemed to be watching her more than the garrulous Sam and when the session drew to a close, he beckoned her over. Taking up the chair next to him, she sat politely, a little uneasy at having been singled out.
‘How are you doing, Romilly?’ His smile was fleeting.
‘I’m doing okay. Looking forward to getting home eventually, obviously. I miss my daughter very much, but I think it’s beautiful here and… I like the walks around the lake.’ Nerves were making her babble.
Dr Nagel tapped his fountain pen on the hard-backed A4 book that sat on his legs. He stared at her, his expression questioning. ‘This is your second time in therapy?’
She nodded.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ He crossed his legs, as if settling in for a chat.
‘Of course.’ She gave a tentative smile but received none in return.
‘How did you find it today? What do you think of the people you have seen here in the group session?’ He folded his arms, with one hand coming to rest on his chin. With his arms and legs twisted together, he looked like a little human puzzle, which was ironic, she thought, as it was his job to try and figure everyone out, crack the code.
She looked at the window and recalled a few of the faces. ‘They all seem very nice,’ she said evasively.
‘Yes, they are. Do you think you are like them? Or rather, do you think that they are like you?’
Almost instantly she shook her head. ‘No, not really,’ she whispered conspiratorially.
‘You don’t see anything in common with them?’ He leant forward.
She hesitated, trying to think what it was he wanted to hear.
He didn’t wait for her response. ‘Let’s phrase it a different way. Why are you not like these people? What makes them different to you?’
She decided to come clean, having the distinct feeling that he would keep her there until she told him the truth. ‘I don’t think I am like these people, no.’ She shook her head. There, she’d said it. ‘They are addicts, alcoholics, and it’s very sad, obviously. I can’t stand listening to stories like Sam’s or the man who spoke—’
‘Wilhelm,’ he prompted.
‘Yes, Wilhelm. It’s horrible to see them distressed and to see them struggle like that, but I’m not like them. I’m not. I’m a scientist; I know how the brain and the body work and I’ve just hit a bump in the road. I’m grateful to be here, but I’m confident that I’ll be back on track soon.’ She adjusted her glasses and returned his stare, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.
Dr Nagel uncrossed his arms. It was a second or two before he spoke. ‘Wilhelm is a leading academic surgeon in Stuttgart. Do you think he understands the brain and the body? Or what about Markus? He was a test pilot – intelligent and with super-fast reactions. Sam was an interior designer. Lotte, a concert pianist. I could go on. The point I’m making is no one is immune from this disease. Alcoholism. That’s what these people are: alcoholics. It’s a disease and in my opinion one you are also suffering from.’
Whether consciously or not, she shook her head slightly. ‘I’m not that bad,’ she whispered.
Dr Nagel stiffened. ‘Do you ever feel guilty about your drinking?’
There was a slight pause, not long enough for her to form a response, but long enough for a devastating image of David to appear, hurling their china on to the kitchen floor.
‘Are you ever dishonest about how much you drink? Does your drinking cause others to be concerned? Have you ever drunk yourself into oblivion and had no memory of the episode? Can you take a sip, put the lid back on and leave the bottle?’
She stared at him, her muscles tense, her top lip dotted with sweat.
‘How bad do you think it has to be, Romilly, before you qualify?’
She shrugged, feeling like a child that had been caught out, disliking the man and his manner.
‘I see people like you all the time and the difference between those that get better and those who just go through the motions is the extent to which those individuals are willing to own their problem, see that they need help and accept the help they’re given.’
I know I need help. I’ve hit some lows, but I can do this! I’m strong and I have a hell of a lot to get stronger for. This is just a bump in the road.
*
The Romilly that returned from Austria was determined. She had stood in front of the mirror at the clinic with fists clenched, jaw set and a steely look of determination in her eyes. She would not drink alcohol. She would not. It got her into all sorts of trouble and she knew that their lives would be better if she didn’t go near it. She made promises. She promised to make it up to David. Her drunken infidelity, the details of which he had teased out of her, sat in her throat like a bitter lump, as if visible to all and tainting everything she tasted. She hated, truly detested what had happened and wished that she could rewind that night, politely decline Sara’s invitation and stay at home with her family. Her whole body shuddered if she let herself remember waking on that morning… How different things were going to be from now on. Even the idea of this new beginning sent a leap of happiness around her stomach. She couldn’t wait to get home and start afresh. With distance, she could see that Sara was not the kind of friend she should spend time with or have around her daughter. She would be polite if they did bump into each other, but otherwise she’d keep contact to a minimum.
Romilly was as good as her word, arriving home with a clear head and a fiercely determined attitude. It was like shaking off a foggy veil and it felt great! She watched the taxi trundle away down the cul-de-sac, then she turned to the front door. David opened it before she had a chance to knock and his face broke into a wide smile, as if for a second he had forgotten and was as delighted as ever to see his Bug Girl. As quickly as he had smiled, his expression changed, became stony. Reality had flooded in. ‘Come in.’ He stood back, as if inviting in an unwelcome guest, and that was exactly how she felt.
The best way she could describe relations with David was that they were thawing. She didn’t blame him; she often wondered what it would feel like if it had been her having breakfast that morning when the key finally found the lock and their whole world was thrown upside down. He had started to look her in the eye and now ate his meals with her and Celeste at the kitchen table, not hidden away in his study any more. She knew he was trying hard for the sake of his family to rid his mind of the memory of her bitten neck, her unkempt hair and that distinctive smell. She’d caught him once or twice, staring out of the kitchen window, mid task – the tap might be running to rinse a cup, or the dishwasher hanging open awaiting powder, but he was distracted, quietly gazing out into the garden in deep thought. About what she could only guess, but judging from the slope of his shoulders, the look on his face and his air of sadness, it was something that filled him with regret.
What she didn’t know was how far back that regret extended. To a time before that terrible morning, certainly. But was h
e also wishing away their early married life, the times he’d laughed off her antics with their friends? Did he even regret dropping to his knee on the suspension bridge, heedless of the tourists trying to squeeze past them on the narrow path? Even the possibility of this sent her into a spiral of self-doubt and anxiety and it took every ounce of her strength not to jump in the car or run four doors up in search of her medicine.
The mums at the school gate seemed pleased to see her back on the school run, no doubt fully briefed on events by Amelia’s mum. Frankly, what the parents at Merrydown Middle School thought of her was the least of her worries, and anyway, those in glass houses should never throw stones. Romilly was sure there had to be other mothers out there who came close to losing it after their nightly bottle of Chardonnay in front of the telly.
Celeste no longer gave her so many wide-eyed stares and for this Romilly was grateful, confident that she had very little inkling about the state of affairs. Her daughter was too preoccupied with playing games under her bed or giggling with her friends to fully understand, but that said, there was a certain distance between them now. Romilly tried hard to come across as responsible and reassuring, but she knew she’d let Celeste down and it was inevitable that her daughter would be a bit wary of her.
One morning, a few months after her return from Austria, Romilly was making her second cup of tea of the day when the phone in the kitchen rang. She wondered if it might be Mike Gregson. She was looking forward to his call. They had spoken a couple of days earlier and he’d said they would catch up soon. She knew he had done all he could to smooth things over with the powers that be, but she also knew that, like a leaky dam, there was only so much he could do to hold things off and time was against her. The bosses weren’t overly happy about her long periods of unplanned absence. Mike had hinted that they had a replacement lined up and were simply toeing the legal line to make sure they handled her case properly, wary of any repercussions should she feel she had been improperly ousted. Even though she wasn’t on full pay, it was more about them being a pair of hands short in the lab than anything else. She decided she would tell Mike she’d come back to work after the weekend. She knew the routine would be good for her and it would send David the right message that things were slowly getting back to normal.
‘Romilly, it’s me.’
‘Hey, Mum.’ She tried to keep the sigh of irritation from her voice, not willing to be subtly dressed down by her mum’s hints and inferences again. The way she disguised her notes of caution, suggestions for recovery and handy parallels that demonstrated just how lucky she was left Romilly feeling quite depressed. Even her mum’s downbeat tone had the ability to filter the joy from an otherwise regular conversation.
‘I was thinking that lunch on Sunday would be nice. Shall we come to you, or is that a bit too much? Are you up to it? Would it be better if you came here? The girls thought it might be best, as long as you don’t drive, because that would worry your dad to death after everything…’
Romilly counted the seconds of silence, not sure whether her mum had finished wittering or whether there was more to come. She appeared to be done.
‘Can I let you know, Mum? Lunch would be lovely. I know Celeste would love to see you all, but I just want to check with David.’ I want to see if he can stand being in a car with me for that journey, if he can stand being with me for a whole afternoon without respite, trapped in your cosy house.
‘Ah, and we’d love to see her, the poor little thing…’
I get it, Mum, a poor little thing because she landed me as a mother and not Ponytail Mum. She swallowed her tears, feeling a rush of love for her little girl, counting the hours till it was time to collect her. She was keen to wrap her in a hug, as though the regular squeezing and streaming of words of affection could make up for the feeling in her gut that she had let Celeste down.
Pat was still talking. ‘And yes of course check with David, but tell him I’m making hotpot, you know he loves my hotpot, and if he’s good, bread-and-butter pudding for afters.’
‘I will.’ She nodded.
‘And how are you doing, miss? You sound a bit glum.’
I wasn’t until you rang. ‘No, not glum. I’m fine. You know…’
‘Yes, well…’ She paused.
Romilly could hear her considering what pearl of wisdom to let drop from her mouth.
‘Oh sorry, Mum, that’s the front door. I have to go. I’ll speak to you in a bit.’ And she hung up, just like that, not prepared to hear more of her mum’s words, not today.
Romilly fell onto the sofa and had a cry. Her mum was right, Celeste deserved better. She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the feeling of positivity that she’d felt when she’d looked in the mirror at the clinic; she remembered the breathing technique that seemed to slow everything down, including her cravings, and she recalled the way she’d walked tall around the lake, breathing evenly and picturing a healthy future when she was drink-free and happy.
The phone in the kitchen rang again. Romilly wiped her face and took a deep breath before she lifted the receiver, hoping it wasn’t her mum again and praying it was Mike. She needed to get out of this rut, she needed to pull herself together and get on with her life.
‘Hello?’ She kept her tone formal, businesslike.
‘Red! Hello, gorgeous. It’s Jasper and guess what? I’m outside your house!’ He laughed.
Celeste
One of the worst days was the day she didn’t collect me from school. I’d made a cake and it was a bit of a disaster – burnt on one side, collapsed on the other and with ugly blobs of caramel-coloured icing slapped on to cover the damage. But I thought Mum would like it anyway and I had it all ready to take home on a tray.
We had a system where parents and guardians had to come into the classroom at the end of the school day and sign you out. That day I waved off all my friends one by one until the classroom was empty except for my teacher, Miss Clements, and me. I wasn’t so worried about the fact that Mum was late, it was more the way Miss Clements kept sighing and looking at her watch and then her phone, as though she wanted to be somewhere else and I was annoying her. It made me feel awkward and embarrassed and it wasn’t like her. I saw another side to her that day and that made me feel worse, as though Miss Clements had lost some of her sparkle.
We waited about an hour and it felt like an eternity. She took me to the school office, which was both thrilling and petrifying; you usually only went there if you were dropping off the register or if someone was sick. I sat on a padded chair that swivelled round, while she tried calling the house and both of my parents’ mobiles. Eventually Miss Clements put me in her car and drove me home. I sat in the back seat with my enormous cake on my lap, wishing I could disappear so she wouldn’t keep tapping her thumb on the steering wheel and saying ‘Come on, come on…’ every time we stopped at a red light.
When we got to the end of our driveway she pulled a funny face and took a good long look at our big, comfortable house. She went ahead and rang the doorbell. A man I had never seen before answered it; he had blonde floppy hair and was quite young. He was smiling and grateful and apologetic all at once and I could tell Miss Clements was flattered by the exuberant thanks and the way the man crushed her to him in a hug. He was well dressed and well spoken and Miss Clements seemed to have got some of her sparkle back as she ushered me up the driveway with her hand on the narrow back of my little red cardigan. I carried my cake in my outstretched arms.
I walked past the man, who ruffled my hair, like he knew me. He stood and waved to Miss Clements.
‘Sless… Sless…’ That’s what I heard coming from the sofa in the TV room. I walked in and Mum was lying on the cushions in her pyjamas. She couldn’t say my name properly and her eyes were closed and her head kept tipping backwards until she would jolt forwards as if trying to keep awake.
‘Kissittoyourmummynow…’ she slurred, puckering up as if she wanted a kiss.
I didn’t want to kiss he
r. She stank. It was a grown-up smell of booze and bad breath and sweat. I shook my head and stood on the spot staring at her.
‘Whathefucks wrongwithyou?’ She sat up, toppled from the sofa and crawled towards me on the floor, like she used to when we were playing horses. I could see down the front of her pyjama top and she wasn’t wearing a bra.
‘Youdontfuckinwantokissmehey?’ she slurred. Her eyebrows flew up as though she was trying to open her eyes, as though she was looking at me. I wondered if it was because she didn’t have her glasses on, maybe that was why she was struggling. I searched all over the floor, which was strewn with cushions and plates and cans, thinking that if I could find her glasses and help her put them on, then she’d be able to see me, but I couldn’t find them.
The man came in from the kitchen with an open bottle of wine. He swigged from the top and handed the bottle to Mum, who sat back on her haunches and did likewise. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed at my cake.
I held up the tray so they could both see it.
Mum opened one eye and let out a loud cackle. ‘What?’ she screeched. ‘Whatisit?’
The man sank down onto the sofa and he and Mum laughed and laughed. The two of them were bent double laughing at my cake, clutching at their stomachs and then pawing at each other for stability. I felt my cheeks go red and hot tears slid down my face. I wasn’t crying because of what they said about my baking, I already knew it was rubbish. I cried because I thought Mum would pretend it was great and tuck into it, but she didn’t. She was laughing at me. It was mean. I’ve never forgotten that.
‘Is it a shit?’ He laughed. ‘It is, isn’t it! It’s a big fat lump of shit! You have actually brought us some shit!’
This sent my mum into overdrive, laughing so hard she placed her fingers between her legs and screamed, ‘StopstopstopJasper! Ivewetmyself! Jasperivepissedmyself!’ She batted his arm as she roared. Sure enough, a dark, wet stain spread across her grey cotton pyjama bottoms and down her legs.
Another Love Page 19
