All the Single Ladies (34 page)

There are dozens of occasions – that have become worse and worse – when I could and should have realized. Such as when she broke her arm on holiday in Turkey . . . or the time she
plummeted into the gutter outside a pub at New Year . . . or when she violently threw up after a quiet Sunday afternoon pint became a major session . . . and the slurring in her words when
I’ve phoned at four thirty on a Monday afternoon.

Individually, they’d be no big deal. Together, they represent a bulky and growing scrapbook of incidents that paint a picture of someone who’s lost control.

‘Go straight in. She’ll be out of the shower soon,’ Alistair adds, standing aside for me.

The house is silent when I shut the door, and after the crunch of gravel as Alistair drives away.

‘Hi, Ellie!’ There’s no answer.

I creep upstairs, passing dozens of family portraits on the wall, in which Ellie looks every inch the devoted mother she undoubtedly is. There’s a photo of her and Sophie aged only weeks
old; another of her leading her daughter along on a pony at Center Parcs.

‘Ellie?’ I knock when I reach her bedroom door. As I prise it open and enter, the sheets are a crumpled mass and there’s no sign of her. Then an ugly sound from the en-suite
bathroom breaks the silence.

Retching.

I creep to the door and find Ellie in her dressing gown, fresh from the shower. Although ‘fresh’ isn’t the word. She’s kneeling on the floor, holding back her hair and
throwing up her guts into the toilet.

‘Ellie,’ I whisper as an acidic smell fills the air.

She turns and looks at me, her eyes bloodshot and lifeless. It’s a sight with which I’ve been confronted so many times. Suddenly, it’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever
seen.

As Ellie stands up her legs almost give way, but she reaches out and steadies herself against the sink.

‘Shit,’ she croaks with dead eyes. ‘You bad too, this morning?’

‘Er . . . yes.’ Though nothing like as bad as she is.

‘Put the kettle on, would you? I’ll brush my teeth and be down in a sec.’

I turn to go downstairs when her voice stops me. ‘Sam?’

‘Yes, Ellie?’

‘You won’t mention to Alistair that I . . . you know, puked, will you?’ she smiles languidly. ‘He can be a bit of an old woman about this sort of stuff.’

I gaze at her, unsure of how to answer. Does this mean Alistair’s noticed too? When I think back, I’ve detected unease from him about Ellie’s drinking – but nothing more.
Which means he’s probably taken the same approach as me and pretended it wasn’t happening. ‘Shall I make you some toast?’

‘Oh yeah. Lots of butter, please.’

She joins me in the kitchen a few minutes later, looking cleaner – though it wouldn’t take much – and dressed in slouchy jeans and a sweatshirt.

‘Phew . . .’ she wheezes, sounding as if there’s an elastic band around her tonsils. She starts massaging her temples. ‘Great night, from what I remember.’ She
pauses when a wave of nausea hits her, her face turning the colour of a dirty puddle. ‘Eugh . . . I don’t mean to be rude –’ she can barely get her words out –
‘but I might have to go back to bed.’

I put the toast in front of her and sit as she picks it up with shaking hands and takes a bite.

She instantly looks as though she’s about to throw up again. ‘Oh . . . God,’ she groans, then glances up at me. ‘What’s up?’

I swallow, wondering how I’m going to tackle this.

‘Ellie, listen. I’m worried about you.’

She knows I’m serious the second I say it and puts down her apparently inedible toast. ‘Me?’ she says huskily.

I nod. ‘Look, I’m only saying this because you’re my best friend and I love you and I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

She appears bewildered. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

‘Ellie . . .’ I reach over and clasp her hand. It’s clammy and cold. ‘I’m worried about your drinking.’

She hesitates, taking in my expression. Then she explodes in a throaty laugh, coughing uncontrollably as she lets go of my hand. ‘Bloody hell, you had me going for a second. Hilarious.
Right – I’m going to see if some jam will make this toast go down any easier.’ She stands up.

I touch her arm and she freezes, swaying slightly. She sits down slowly, holding my gaze as her expression darkens with a prickly awareness.

‘You’re not serious?’

‘I am, Ellie.’ My heart is hammering.

She laughs coldly. ‘Sam . . . really? Oh my God, I don’t believe this. I go on a night out and get a bit drunk and suddenly I’m an alcoholic? You’re mad!’

I bite my lip, dreading her response to what I’m about to say. ‘It’s not been suddenly, though, has it?’ I say softly. ‘Ellie, I’m saying this because I love
you. But you drink too much. Way too much. When’s the last time you went a day without a drink?’

‘Oh come off it,’ she splutters, her neck flushing. ‘Everyone has a couple of glasses of wine to wind down at night.’

‘Yeah, but it’s not just a glass or two any more. I mean . . . is it?’

Fury bubbles up inside her, right in front of me. ‘What I drink, Sam, is perfectly average. I drink alcohol because I enjoy it and not because I’m addicted to it. Just because I get
tipsy every so often does not mean I’ve got a problem.’

‘Ellie, the last thing I want is to upset you. But I think you need to slow down . . . try to cut back . . . and possibly –’ my eyes flash up at her – ‘possibly get
some help.’

She slams down her tea, blinking back tears. ‘You are joking, Sam! Aren’t you?’

‘I’m not, Ellie. I’m not,’ I plead, reaching out for her hand. She pulls it away, her face etched with anger.

‘You know what, Sam? You and I have been mates for ever. But I’m finding it very hard not to be insulted here. This is laughable. Just because you, Ms Goody Two Shoes, don’t
happen to have a couple of glasses every night like I do, doesn’t mean it isn’t normal. I’ve got a stressful job. I’ve got a baby who’s beautiful but hard work. A
little something to help me relax at the end of the day is no big deal. End of story.’

‘But Ellie, it’s more than that, isn’t it?’ I say, desperately trying to find the balance between sympathy and strength. If Ellie can’t even face up to the fact
that she has a problem, we’re never going to get anywhere.

‘What it is, Sam, is none of your sodding business.’

‘But I—’

‘And I’d like you to leave,’ she says flatly, refusing to meet my gaze.

‘Oh Ellie, come on . . .’

‘Get out, Sam,’ she snaps. ‘I’m serious. Get out of here right now. I don’t even want to look at you.’

The next five days probably count as the worst in my life. I don’t think I’d appreciated at the time how catastrophic my blunder on the sofa was . . . but
it’s been nothing less. Jamie has stopped sulking. To his credit, I can see he’s trying to forget the issue. He buys me flowers again on Tuesday and even has another whirl with Chicken
Tonight – though it tastes even worse with squid than it did with mince.

Not that I can blame the hideous food. The fact is that, no matter how hard we try to get things back on track, something’s not quite right. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but
it’s there.

It doesn’t help that we haven’t had sex since the incident.

You might not think this is a big deal; long-term couples often go through stretches of abstinence. But I’m scared that it’s representative of something bigger. So much so that I
made an attempt to get it on with him the other night – in the Figleaves undies, no less – but his lack of enthusiasm was beyond dispiriting.

Then there’s Ben, who I mustn’t think about. Except I am thinking about him. I find myself peeping at his Facebook page way too often, to check for further evidence of activity with
attractive females. And, while there isn’t any, he’s still entering my thoughts more than he should.

While all this is going on, I’ve also got Ellie to worry about. Ellie, who refuses to speak to me.

I’ve phoned, texted and tried turning up on the doorstep twice. And although I think she was genuinely out once, I’m certain I could hear movement inside the second time.

It is not an exaggeration to say that it feels like a bereavement. Ellie is more than a friend to me: she’s been my rock; she got me through the hard times with Jamie and countless others
before. We share a history together and I love every bit of her. So it’s killing me to think that she feels so strongly about what I said that she doesn’t even want to see me, let alone
talk about it.

Which brings me to the subject itself. I’ve started to question whether I was right. I sometimes think that maybe what she said was true. Maybe her drinking is average –
there’s no doubt people consume more alcohol than they used to – so it could be that it’s not that big a deal after all.

As soon as that thought infiltrates my head, however, I get a flashback of Ellie collapsed on the toilet of her en-suite bathroom, with zombie eyes and sick on her chin. And the scores of other
times I’ve seen her like that or worse.

In the light of this, not saying something wasn’t an option. Not saying something would’ve made me an even worse friend than she clearly thinks I am. Yet, what good has it done? Not
only am I not helping Ellie, it’s also looking increasingly likely that our friendship is over.

The only person I feel I can confide in about this is Jen – but she’s away on a conference. Discussing it with Luke when I meet him for coffee on Tuesday lunchtime is out of the
question – not least because there’s only one topic of conversation he wants to talk about. His love life.

‘I feel like she won’t commit,’ he tells me earnestly. I can barely believe the irony. Casanova has turned into Bridget Jones. ‘She’s holding back, no matter how
close I try to get. God, she’s wonderful, Sam. Funny, intelligent, gorgeous . . . but totally convinced that, when I say I love her, she’s just another notch on my bedpost.’

‘Wow.’

‘Every moment I spend with her is pure magic,’ he continues. ‘It doesn’t matter whether we’re out at dinner or sitting at home in front of a film . . . though I
must admit that’s becoming a ball ache.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve watched
An Officer and a Gentleman
seven times; it’s her favourite film. I see Richard Gere more often than my own brother these days.’

I shake my head and, as we head out of the coffee shop, I feel a sudden urge to give Luke a hug. He squeezes me into his chest, then laughs, pulls back and kisses me on the head. ‘What was
that for?’

‘I just never thought I’d see the day when you – of all people – felt like this about someone.’

‘Well . . . don’t get too carried away. It might all end in tears.’

‘I hope not,’ I reply.

‘Me too. And I’m so glad you and Jamie have made it up again, you know.’ I force a smile. ‘Because if he hadn’t moved out, I’d have kicked him out. The state
that man leaves a tea towel . . .’

Jen returns home on Thursday, and I call at her flat after work.

‘What happened?’ she asks, flicking on her Alessi kettle in the open-plan kitchen.

Jen’s apartment is magazine-shoot stylish, with a white sofa that’s remained so pristine you’d think it had never been touched by human hand (though there was an incident with
Sophie and a jam tart that Jen was surprisingly cool about, given she’s been forced to strategically position her cushions since then).

After I’ve filled her in – on my conversation with Ellie, on why I felt I needed to have it, on the issue that’s been staring us all in the face for so long – she pauses,
her expression one of shock. Sort of.

‘Ellie’s an alcoholic,’ she says numbly. It’s not a question, but a statement of fact. She recognized the problem instantly.

‘I think she is,’ I reply quietly.

Jen shakes her head, struggling for words.

‘You know,’ she sighs, ‘I’ve seen Ellie falling over, throwing up, doing the sort of stuff she does, for years and years. And . . . it’s become so commonplace, I
never even questioned it.’ She walks to the living area and sits opposite me on an armchair. ‘You know . . . I once caught her drinking when I went round there at eleven in the morning.
God, I feel awful. I’ve pretended it wasn’t happening.’

‘You’re not the only one, Jen. I thought of Ellie as one of life’s party animals, someone whose love for a glass of wine – or ten – was just part of her. But I
looked at her the other night and thought: I’m sorry, this isn’t right. This isn’t normal.’

Jen looks down at her tea. ‘You were incredibly brave to broach the subject head-on.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Urh! I haven’t done anything except upset her. And make her hate me.’

‘Don’t be silly. She loves you.’

‘Not at the moment. She doesn’t want to speak to me.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘So what do we do?’

‘If you go round there and tell her we’ve had this conversation and that you agree with me, she’ll think it’s a conspiracy. Which is exactly why I haven’t told
Alistair about this; she’d consider it a betrayal.’

‘So how about I don’t mention the booze, pretend I don’t know what the cause of your row is, but try to get her to talk to you again?’

I shrug. ‘I guess that’s the first step. Though, judging by her reaction, I don’t fancy your chances.’

Twenty minutes later, Jen’s in the car on the way to Ellie’s house . . . and I am a fireball of nerves. I don’t hear from her for hours, except for a text,
clearly sent surreptitiously, saying she’d arrived but couldn’t talk to Ellie until Alistair had gone out and Sophie was in bed. I can neither eat nor relax and my state of agitation
isn’t helped by Jamie randomly failing to return from work and refusing to answer his phone.

I run a bath to try to take my mind off things. But as I sink into it, it’s at least two degrees too cold for comfort, then when I turn on the hot tap, with a carefully mastered technique
using only two toes, the water’s so hot it almost strips off my nail polish.

Afterwards, I head downstairs and flick on the television, checking my phone every ten seconds as I fire up my laptop. The magnetic qualities of Facebook draw me to my profile page, though
I’m determined to stay away from Ben’s. I succeed too, despite extreme temptation, particularly when the only distraction Lisa’s update offers is to tell the world that she has
just spread Philadelphia on Elvis’s toast. How she can manage to plumb such depths of tedium and still get twelve ‘likes’ I have no idea.