Helen sees what I’m looking at. Her whole body stiffens. ‘It’s
not what you think,’ she says. ‘I had a friend round earlier.’
‘Oh, Helen, surely you don’t expect me to believe that.’
For a second I think she’s going to continue with the pre-
tence, but then she hangs her head and sighs.
‘Okay, okay. I was going to tell you,’ she says, her voice sud-
denly low. ‘You’re right, I have been drinking again.’ She stares at the floor.
‘I know, I saw you in M&S the other day.’
Her head jerks up. ‘I’ve just been having one glass, every now
and again.’
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‘Stop it, Helen. You’re deluding yourself. You know you are.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m not. I’m honestly not. I haven’t
wanted any more than that, I promise. I know what they say
in AA, that it’s impossible for people like us to just have one.
But it is possible . After everything I’ve been through and all the soul- searching since, I’ve found a new resolve. And it’s
working, Astrid. It really is. It’s called moderation manage-
ment.’
I can’t believe she’s saying this. I can’t listen to it any more. I
can’t. It’s the same old rubbish I used to say to myself. The end-
less rules I kept setting – no more than two glasses a night, no
drinking before 9 p.m. – they were all just excuses not to stop
for good. Because the prospect of never having another drink was unthinkable. Still is.
‘So why did you buy so many bottles? You must have put at
least four in your basket.’
She won’t meet my eye. ‘They were on special offer.’ She gets
up and goes over to it. ‘I have one small glass every day, and
that’s it. I can do it now. I can manage my drinking.’ She looks
down. ‘Apart from that one little slip before.’
I have to stop her doing this. I need her sober. Tonight more
than ever. I shake my head in despair.
‘Soon it’ll be two glasses, then three, then the whole bottle.
You know it will. You can’t do this, Helen. Please, listen to me.
You’re trying to normalize your drinking, but nothing about
people like us is normal.’
Her hand is on the neck of the bottle, her fingers almost
caressing it. Suddenly, she twists off the screw cap and pours
the wine into the glass. My stomach flips at the familiar glug-
ging noise. A dangerous, glorious sound.
‘Please, Helen. Don’t do this. Not now. I need your help. I
need you sober.’
But it’s too late. The glass is already at her lips.
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44
I watch the sinews in her neck contract as she swallows. Some-
thing inside me stretches taut, then sags. Josh doesn’t want me
any more. What he said about needing time to process things –
it was just a polite way of telling me to get lost. He hates me.
And even if he does agree to see me again, Rosie and her twisted
vendetta will put paid to any future we might have together.
She’s not going to sit back while I start again with somebody
else. As far as she’s concerned, I’m responsible for her son’s
death.
Helen licks her lips and places the glass on the counter.
‘Don’t be taken in by the cult of AA, Astrid,’ she says, her
voice soft and low. ‘You are not powerless over alcohol. You never were. You just lost your way for a bit. You’re a different
person now. Just like me.’
She picks the glass up again and holds it in front of her face.
I see the light reflected in the ruby- coloured liquid, imagine the rich, grapey smell of it in my nostrils. The way it will taste on
my tongue. The smooth, velvety feel of it sliding down my
throat.
‘If Josh really loved you, he wouldn’t be putting you through
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this,’ she says, and takes another measured sip. There’s nothing
wild or reckless about her. Nothing remotely alcoholic. Quite
the opposite, in fact. She looks more in control than I’ve ever
weeks now, isn’t it?’
I dip my head. Helen’s right. Josh doesn’t love me. She’s right
about AA too. It is a cult. If alcoholism is what they say it is, if it’s a medical condition, a disease, then why the hell is God the only cure? And how can I trust in it when the person so keen
on peddling its diktats at every meeting was lying to me all
along?
I raise my eyes. Helen’s still there in front of me, poised and
reasonable, the wine in her glass barely touched.
The last piece of my resolve finally snaps. If she can do it
without falling apart, why can’t I?
‘So,’ I say, my mouth watering in anticipation. ‘Are you going
to pour me a glass or not?’
The wine blazes a path from my mouth to my gut. The sensa-
tion is so familiar. So right. Like coming in from the cold into
a room filled with warmth and long- forgotten comfort. Before
I know what I’m doing, I’ve downed several mouthfuls, one
after the other. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. What the
hell’s wrong with me? This is madness. I’ve got to stop before I
drink the lot.
I lean towards the table and put my glass down next to Hel-
en’s. It feels wrong at first, like lighting a cigarette and letting it burn out in an ashtray. What’s the good of wine if it’s all the
way over there on the table and not right here in my hand,
where I can swig from it whenever I please? But it’s different
now. It’s not going to be like before. I’m going to moderate
myself. I’m just going to have one glass. That’s all. If Helen can
do it, so can I.
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‘What are we going to do about Rosie?’ she says.
I’m so grateful for that. The way she says, ‘What are we going to do?’ It makes the whole thing seem manageable, somehow.
Less scary.
‘I don’t know.’
I lean forward to reach for my glass, then change my mind at
the last moment. It’s too soon. I’ve only just put it down. I’ve
got to get used to this new way of drinking. I’ve got to get used
to being normal.
‘What I can’t understand is how she found me here. Simon
couldn’t have told her where my mum lived – he didn’t talk to
her any more. He hated her. And anyway, I didn’t move in with Mum till after he’d died and I’d come out of rehab.’
I reach for my glass, resisting the temptation to slug it right
back. I’ve got to be sensible about this and savour each and
every sip.
‘He didn’t talk about her very often. From the little he did tell me, it sounds like she used him to fulfil her own emotional
needs after his father died.’
Helen
nods. ‘I read an article about that once. I think it’s
quite common. They end up treating their own child like a sur-
rogate spouse.’
‘But why didn’t he tell me she was an alcoholic?’
Helen has suddenly gone very still.
‘What? Helen, what’s the matter? What are you thinking?’
She picks up her glass and takes a sip. ‘Maybe she isn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe she’s just pretending.’
‘What, pretending to be an alcoholic just so she could attach
herself to me at meetings? Bloody hell, Helen. That’s really
creepy. Mind you, it explains why she was so keen to work with
me on my recovery.’
Recovery. My recovery. The words reverberate in my head. I
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stare at the wine in my hand and the glass starts to shake. Oh
no, what have I done?
It’s not too late, Astrid. It’s not too late. You can stop right now.
But my mind is already starting to become fuggy and there’s
a funny, bitter taste in my mouth.
Helen eyes me over the rim of her glass. Her face looks all
blurry. ‘Did he tell you that?’ she says.
‘Tell me what?’
‘That he hated her?’
Helen stretches her legs out and rests her bare feet on the coffee
table. She has the biggest feet I’ve ever seen on a woman. They’re
veiny, like her hands, and there’s a disproportionately wide gap
between the big and second toes. Simon had that too, but
somehow it didn’t look so bad on him.
I start to giggle.
‘What’s so funny?’ she says.
‘Your feet.’
‘They’re not funny, they’ re—’
‘Tragic,’ I say. ‘Your feet are tragic.’
She lifts each foot in turn and circles her ankles. ‘So you
don’t think I could make a living as a foot model, then?’
Now we’re both laughing hysterically.
‘I’m so glad I met you,’ I say, when our laughter has subsided
into long sighs and occasional snorts.
Helen hands me my glass of wine and I take another mouth-
ful. Maybe it’s because I haven’t drunk anything for ages, but it’s
gone to my head already. I’m starting to relax at last, the sinking
dread of the last couple of hours now fuzzy and weightless. Still
there, somewhere, but too far away to matter. This is what I’ve
missed. The sweetness of not caring.
‘I never realized a glass of wine could last so long.’ I chink
my glass against hers. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’
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‘No indeed,’ she says, giving me a strange little smile. ‘But
what are we going to do about Rosie?’
Rosie. Fuck! How could I have forgotten about Rosie? I rub
my eyes. It’s hard to make sense of it all. I can’t get my head
round the facts. What they mean. My brain feels like cotton
wool. Something scary happened earlier, but I can’t quite
remember the sequence of events.
‘Fuck Rosie and fuck Josh!’ I shout. ‘Fuck both of them!’
Helen clinks her glass against mine. ‘Foul- mouthed little
slut,’ she says.
I laugh. She’s good at the old banter is Helen. Except her voice
sounds different. There’s a tone to it I haven’t heard before.
Something snags at the very edge of my conscious mind. Why is
she looking at me like that?
My head slumps to my chest and suddenly I’m awake. I must
have dozed off. Shit, I’ve got the spins. I rest my head on Helen’s
shoulder and close my eyes, but that only makes things worse.
‘Need to puke.’ My voice sounds all weird and disembodied.
Helen plonks the wastepaper bin on my lap and I wrap my
arms round it. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Something
isn’t right. It’s all spiralling out of control. I’m ill. I need to get to the loo.
I try to stand up but lose my balance and fall down again.
How the hell did I get so pissed on half a glass of wine? I
stopped, didn’t I? But wait, there are three empty bottles on the coffee table. What the fuck? Where the hell did they come
from? This wasn’t meant to happen. I wasn’t going to drink any
more. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. And yet, the evidence
is here. My spinning head. The empty bottles.
I slump over my knees and retch in disgust. I’ve lost control.
After all those months of staying sober, I’ve ruined everything.
*
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I’m curled up in an uncomfortable position, and I’m cold. So
cold. The room is pitch black and my head is throbbing with
pain. Feels like there’s a creature trying to punch its way out of
my forehead. I struggle to sit up, but a wave of nausea forces me
back down.
I don’t know where I am. Oh yes, I’m on Helen’s sofa. But
where are my clothes? Oh, no. I haven’t, have I? I have. I’ve
been sick. I can smell it.
‘Just look at the state of you.’
The voice startles me. It’s coming from the other side of the
room.
‘Helen? Is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?’ Her voice is
unusually bitter, her face cold, immobile. She switches the main
light on, blinding me with its harsh glare. ‘You just couldn’t stop
yourself, could you?’
It’s several minutes before I can keep my eyes open long
enough to see anything. When I do, I wish I couldn’t. I’m lying
here in my underwear, my vomit- covered clothes in a heap on
the floor next to me. Four empty bottles of red wine on the cof-
fee table and . . . a pair of Helen’s brown tights, discarded on
top of them, hanging limply down like the shed skin of a snake.
What the hell is happening here?
I roll off the sofa on to the floor, shaking and sweating. Then
everything goes black.
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45
When I come round the tights are gone but the bottles are still
there. There’s only one glass, though. Daylight streams in
through the large window. How could I have let this happen?
After all the promises I’ve made. How many times do I have to
make the same mistake before I learn?
I rack my brain to work out what day it is. It must be Saturday
morning already. But then I hear church bells. Sunday. How
can it be Sunday? I take a long deep breath to steady my nerves.
If I can just get myself home in one piece, I have the rest of the
day to sober up before Mum comes home.
Oh God. Mum. She won’t forgive me. Not this time.
I heave myself into a sitting position. A mouthful of bile
shoots into my mouth and I shiver uncontrollably. I’m in seri-
ous trouble here. I reach for my sodden T- shirt, still lying on
&n
bsp; the floor with my jeans. And that’s when I realize I’m not alone.
Helen is sitting in the armchair by the window, watching
me. She’s fully dressed and she looks so different. Smarter,
more fashionable, her hair unusually sleek, as if she’s just styled
it with straighteners. She’s holding something on her lap, some-
thing soft, caressing it with her fingers.
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‘I . . . I don’t understand.’ My voice is so hoarse I barely rec-
ognize it. It hurts to speak. My neck feels tender, bruised. ‘Why
aren’t you . . . why aren’t you as hungover as I am?’
Helen laughs through her nose. A mean, dismissive exhala-
tion. ‘Because I have something called self- control. Because I’m
not a pathetic excuse for a human being like you.’
‘Helen, you’re frightening me. What happened last night?
Why did you let me drink so much?’
‘I didn’t have much choice,’ she says. ‘You’re quite something
when you’re pissed, do you know that?’ She unfolds herself out
of her chair. ‘That wine would have lasted me weeks if you
hadn’t turned up and bullied me into opening it all.’ She laughs
then. A horrible, sarcastic laugh. ‘I don’t think moderation
management’s quite your thing, is it, Astrid?’
She walks towards the bureau and takes hold of a framed
photograph sitting on the top. I’ve never seen it there before.
Now she’s thrusting it in front of my face and I see that it’s a
gap- toothed child, grinning from ear to ear. A little boy. But
before I have a chance to ask her who it is she whips it away and
returns to her chair. She holds the photo in her lap and gazes
down at it, stroking the glass in the frame.
‘My darling boy,’ she says, her voice suddenly so low I have
to strain my ears to hear it.
Then I see what it was she was holding just now and my gut
heaves. It’s a woollen trapper hat draped over the arm of her
chair. It looks exactly like the one Simon used to wear. Fear
twists and coils in the pit of my stomach as the terrible truth
dawns. The child in the photo is Simon. Oh God, I’ve been a
fool.
Helen looks up slowly, her face a mask of hatred. ‘He came
back to me. Did you know that? He was getting better. Until he
met you again.’ She spits the words out. She’s done it on purpose. Helen made me start drinking. She saw how low I was,