Ice and a Slice (21 page)

Fully awake now, she sat up. It was only five a.m. But there would be no getting back to sleep. She dressed quietly and went downstairs, feeling wearier than when she’d gone to bed. In the kitchen she lit a cigarette, breathed in the blissful smoke of it, let Ash into the garden and followed him out into the new day.

The dog stretched his long grey body, blinked and sniffed the air. A couple of sparrows were chirping away in the maple tree beside the summer house and the early morning light lit up the paving slabs outside.

SJ yawned and hoped the dreams had been sparked off by worry about seeing Alison again – and weren’t some kind of premonition.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The day both dragged and raced. While Tom was doing paperwork upstairs, SJ cleaned the house in a rare spurt of domesticity. She didn’t much feel like cleaning, but someone had to do it, and she was too restless to do nothing.

In between cleaning she smoked far too many fags, and shovelled painkillers down her throat. She might not have a hangover, but the headache she’d woken with was real enough. She knew she should probably have something to eat, but she didn’t feel like eating. Still, at least she should look even thinner in her dress. That was a result.

Just after lunchtime, Dorothy phoned. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” SJ confessed.

“Well, don’t forget what I said. Make sure you have plenty to eat – before you go, I mean. Not when you’re there and someone’s trying to shove a glass of wine in your hand.”

“Okay.”

“Did you have a good night’s sleep?” Dorothy persisted.

“No, not really. I had nightmares.”

“Take your mobile to the party and if you get the slightest urge for a drink, you phone me. Okay?”

“Sure,” SJ murmured, wondering how she was going to manage that in a houseful of people.

Hi, Dorothy, I’m gasping for a stiff drink. Can you talk me out of it, please?

A couple of people at meetings had advised her not to go to the party. They said it would be too difficult with barely six weeks of sobriety behind her, and SJ would have dearly liked to take their advice. But Dorothy had said that if the party was important, she should go just for a short time, but she should make sure she didn’t feel hungry or lonely or tired. Well, she didn’t feel hungry, but she felt very tired and very alone.

Tom had been more distant than ever lately. He hadn’t even questioned the number of texts she’d been getting, most of them from Dorothy to see if she was okay. She could be having an affair for all he knew. SJ wished it was that simple. An affair would have been a logical reason for her lack of interest in the bedroom, but she had the uneasy feeling that she hadn’t lost interest. The longer she went without alcohol, the clearer her head became. She’d never been that interested in sex with Tom. She had thought, at first, that they just needed practice; she’d been wrong, and she had never had the courage to tell him.

Tanya phoned too. “How are you doing? You all set for tonight? You will phone me if you have a problem, won’t you?”

At this rate, she’d be spending more time on her mobile than talking to party guests.

“Who are you talking to?” Tom appeared in the kitchen doorway and SJ jumped.

“Only Tanya. Bye, Tanya, I’ve got to go.”

She hung up as Tom yawned and stretched his hands above his head. His face was crinkled with tiredness and he blinked a couple of times. “I suppose we ought to think about getting ready. It’s quite an early start, isn’t it? Do you want first go in the bathroom?”

“No, you carry on. I’ll be ages, and I’ve got to do my nails first.”

It took three goes to get her nail varnish on. Her hands were shaking too much. And why was it that whenever you’d just painted your nails you got an urgent itch right inside your ear that couldn’t wait the required time for them to dry – which was always much longer than it promised on the bottle.

When she heard Tom come out of the bathroom, she went up and had her own shower and got changed. She could hear Tom whistling in the bedroom – one of them was obviously looking forward to it then. She put on the dress, sorted out the straps, pinned up her hair and studied her reflection.

Tom wolf-whistled as she came out of the bathroom.

“Blimey, I’ll be the envy of every man there. You look amazing. You should wear dresses more often. You’ve got gorgeous legs.”

“No, I haven’t. They’re too fat. And I’m getting cellulite at the tops.”

“What rubbish. You’re beautiful.” His eyes narrowed in appreciation and SJ shivered. He hadn’t looked at her like that for a very long time.

She put her hands out in front of her – ostensibly to check out the colour of her varnish: hot pink chocolate, whatever that was supposed to be; they were more peach than anything else – but really to see if they were still shaking.

They were.

“Tom, I don’t think I can go through with this,” she said, glancing up at him. “I can’t face Alison, I really can’t.”

“SJ, darling…” He must be intent on going; he never called her darling. “We don’t have to stay long – but we DO have to go. Your mum and dad will be really upset if we don’t.”

“They probably won’t notice,” SJ said in desperation. “They’ll be surrounded by people.”

“We can’t let them down. We’re taking the wine.”

She wished he hadn’t reminded her about that. “That’s another thing I’m worried about. I’m going to be surrounded by all these people drinking. I don’t think I can cope.”

“Why not? I mean, it’s just will power, isn’t it?”

SJ blinked. Was that really what he thought? That she didn’t have any willpower and that’s why she frequently drank herself into oblivion, no matter how much she hurt herself and anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity? It was obvious from his expression that he did.

“Are you saying I haven’t got any will power?”

“I don’t think you’ve got any when it comes to alcohol – no. You can’t have – or you wouldn’t get so drunk.”

“It’s not about willpower, Tom. It’s an illness. It’s recognised as an illness – alcoholism – ring any bells? You must have heard of it.”

He was smiling. He was actually SMILING. As if this was just some simple little matter that they’d sorted out and resolved, just by her going to a few AA meetings.

“Well, you’re certainly ill when you drink too much. I agree with you there.” Gently, he took her hands in his. “You’ll be fine. I know you will. In a couple of hours’ time you’ll be wondering what you were worried about.”

SJ doubted that very much, but she knew when she was defeated. Short of faking an urgent illness on the way over, she couldn’t see a way out. She supposed she could pray the car broke down en route, or that a gang would rob the off licence just as they were picking up the wine and hold the two of them hostage at gunpoint. That would be good as long as they didn’t actually shoot them – she could probably sell a story like that to the Nationals and make some money.

Not that God usually answered her prayers – the miserable old bugger.

Aware that Tom was still holding her hands and seemed to be waiting for her to say something, she made an effort to pull herself together.

“You look great, too,” she said, and he did. He was wearing black trousers – how come men could get away with it? And the jacket he’d worn at their wedding. It still fitted him perfectly. None of the clothes she’d had when they got married fitted her now.

“So are you ready then? I said we’d pick the wine up just after five.”

Why did he have to keep mentioning wine?

Feeling a surge of irritation, she grabbed her bag and followed him to the front door.

As they stepped outside she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a butterfly – a red admiral – was caught in a cobweb strung between the window and the front wall of the house. Its wings fluttered frantically as it tried to escape but only succeeded in entangling itself further in its prison.

In the corner of the web a large striped spider appeared, attracted by the movement. SJ shuddered. She hated spiders. Torn between wanting to rescue the butterfly and not wanting to go within touching distance of the spider, she paused.

Catching her look, Tom stepped forward, carefully freed the butterfly and set it on the grass. They watched as it shook out its wings, as if not quite believing it was free, before fluttering away like a piece of bright satin.

How odd that Tom understood some of her fears so well, yet he was oblivious to how afraid she was now.

“What?” he asked, pausing and raising his eyebrows.

“I was just thinking what a sweetie you are. I bet that butterfly thought its number was well and truly up.”

“Well, I could hardly watch it struggle.” He smiled at her and she looked at him, standing there in his dark suit, his eyes suddenly vulnerable.

Yet you can stand there and watch me struggle with the hardest battle of my life.
She ached with loss.
Oh, Tom, where did we go wrong? How come we look so normal on the outside when we’re in bits below the surface? When we don’t communicate any more – when you haven’t a clue how I feel? Do you know how much I want to fly off somewhere? Escape to some peaceful land where there is no wine and no temptation? Do you know how scared I am, Tom?

“What?” he asked again, and this time he tilted his head slightly so a triangle of sunlight slanted across his face and highlighted the grey glints in his hair. SJ could smell roses and hear the muted coos of a pigeon somewhere close by.

“I was just wondering what you were thinking,” she said huskily. And she knew that their disintegrating marriage was her fault. How could he be expected to read her mind?

“I was thinking that if we don’t get a move on, we’re going to be late,” he replied, putting an arm around her shoulders and propelling her firmly in the direction of his car.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rather to SJ’s dismay, but not to her surprise, her prayers about the car breaking down went unanswered. With hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have called God a miserable old bugger. Neither was there a hold-up at the off licence. A spotty-faced youth who didn’t look old enough to be selling alcohol offered to help Tom carry the cases out. SJ shrunk lower in the passenger seat as they loaded the wine and exchanged jokes about drinking it.

Oblivious to her tension, Tom drove on towards Romford, with the wine bottles clinking tantalisingly in the back. How was she going to get through the next few hours? Perhaps she should have asked Kit if she could be let off not drinking just for this one night. She could start the sobriety again first thing in the morning. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? She shouldn’t be expected to face Alison without a drink in her hand. Especially as everyone would be trying to press drinks on her – even Tom probably, seeing as he obviously still hadn’t got the message.

She’d contemplated telling her mother she’d given up drinking, but she knew that such a confession would lead straight to an inquisition and she didn’t feel ready to tell her parents she had a full blown drink problem. She knew alcoholism was an illness – she was living it – but deep down, even she occasionally wondered if she was just pathetically weak-willed. How were her straightforward, totally traditional parents ever going to be able to understand?

As Tom pulled into a space directly outside her parents’ house, she touched his arm.

“I don’t feel well,” she said, which was true. She felt sick with nerves.

“We’re here now.” Tom didn’t sound in the least bit sympathetic. “Come on, let’s take this in and let them know we’ve arrived. They’ll be wanting to get the drinks set out.” 

Feeling both trapped and depressed, SJ went ahead of him. Why was he so hell bent on meeting bloody Alison anyway? Did he really have no understanding of how she felt? No, come to think of it, he probably didn’t. She’d already established that he didn’t understand her at all.

SJ trembled as she stood on the doorstep with the gift-wrapped package for her parents. She and Tom hadn’t been able to think of a suitable joint present for a ruby wedding anniversary, so in the end they’d bought her mum a ruby necklace and her father a bottle of forty year old port and wrapped them in a box together. The port had been Tom’s idea – SJ wasn’t even sure her dad liked it, although Tom seemed to think he did. SJ didn’t like it much either, but she was so desperate for a drink now she’d have given it a try. Good job it was gift-wrapped and out of sight.

“Has no one answered the bell?” Tom asked her, as he placed the box of glasses on the path alongside the wine.

SJ shook her head, not wanting to admit she hadn’t rung it in case Alison let them in.

“Maybe they’re all out in the garden then. Perhaps we’d better give it another ring,” Tom suggested, and did just that.

After a four second delay, which felt like forever, SJ’s mother opened the door – to her intense relief.

“Hello, loves – oh, is that for us? Isn’t it beautifully wrapped? Did you do it yourself? Jim, come and give Tom a hand, will you, pet? Go through to the lounge, SJ, love, and tell me what you think of the decorating.”

Red balloons and red streamers clashed horribly with the terracotta walls and carpet. It was enough to make you feel sick, even if you didn’t already. SJ took several deep breaths, which made her feel dizzy, and laid the box on the floor beneath a table that heaved with plates of food.

Mum had really gone to town. There were pork pies, cut into quarters; cheese and pineapple on sticks; vol-au-vents with some unidentified grey filling; a leg of ham; a whole salmon; three bowls of salad – sensible salad, iceberg lettuce, tomato, cucumber and radish and none of what her mother referred to as fancy leaf rubbish. Several plates of sandwiches were still covered with cling film, and four plates of quiche with little placards announcing they were vegetarian. Her sister’s handiwork, SJ suspected; Alison had been a vegetarian since she was at school.

Dad had protested when Alison suggested they all try this new way of eating, but Mum had capitulated, as she always did to her younger daughter, her princess.

SJ glanced around the room, which led out on to a conservatory, which in turn led on to the huge back garden. Aunt Edie, Dad’s sister from Barnsley, and Uncle Simon were installed in cane chairs, already getting into the swing of things by the look of it. They both held giant glasses of red wine. Beyond them she could see more relatives and some of her father’s darts team, milling about admiring the geraniums. A red and white striped tent blocked out the light at the end of the garden. Dad was right; it was more like a marquee than a gazebo. She was never going to get through this without a drink.

Still, at least there was no sign of Alison – perhaps God had decided to answer her food-poisoning-her-sister prayers instead then. Good old God.

Catching her glance, Aunt Edie heaved her plump, flower-patterned body out of the chair and gave her a beaming smile. “Oh, look, there’s Sarah-Jane, love. Da-hling, come and give your Auntie Edie a hug. Don’t you look smashing? Doesn’t she look smashing, Simon?”

Please don’t say, “Hasn’t she grown?”

“Hasn’t she grown, Simon?”

At the same moment, her mother appeared in the lounge doorway and, sensing escape from one of Aunt Edie’s strongman hugs, SJ turned towards her.

“Isn’t Alison in here, pet? She popped out to get some tonic. We were worried about running out with you around. I hope she won’t be too much longer.”

With luck she’d be caught up in a multi-car pile up and be eternally detained. SJ was horrified at her thoughts. Surely she didn’t wish her sister dead? Just permanently absent would have done.

“Isn’t that dress a little short?” her mother added before withdrawing. SJ’s confidence dropped another notch. Oh, what she would have given for a nice large glass of Chardonnay. She had her mobile in her clutch bag. Perhaps she should call Dorothy now. No doubt she had a few more perfume stories tucked up her sleeve to warn SJ of the evils of drinking.

She contemplated dragging Tom out to the garden. They could hide in the marquee. Hey, perhaps it would be possible to hide from Alison for the entire evening – even if they were in the same place. That was an idea she hadn’t considered.

She hugged Aunt Edie dutifully, kissed Uncle Simon, and denied that she’d grown very much in the last ten years – except perhaps outwards.

“Nice dress,” Simon leered, his beaming red face so close she could smell the wine on his breath. She’d never noticed alcohol on anyone’s breath before. How odd.

Then, excusing herself on helping-her-mother grounds, SJ bounded into the kitchen, the suggestion of hiding on her lips, just in time to see her father popping a slice of lemon into a glass already brimming with sparkling liquid.

“There you go, love – a nice gin and tonic to start you off, complete with ice and a slice, just how you like it. And to say thanks for bringing the wine – it’s a lovely gesture.” He beamed at her, but SJ was too busy staring at the glass he was holding out. He didn’t need to tell her what it was – she could smell the juniper berries from here. Oh God, oh God, oh GOD. What should she do now? If she said she didn’t want it, he’d get very suspicious.

And it would be ungrateful and selfish, wouldn’t it? Like saying you didn’t want a slice of someone’s birthday cake when you were on a diet. She hesitated, hoping Tom would rescue her. Fat chance. He was flirting with her mother by the cooker.

“Go on, love – we got that in special. No one else is on the gin.”

So it would be wasted as well. She looked back at her father’s beaming face. She took the glass. It wouldn’t hurt to hold it, after all. She could pour it over the roses when they went outside. Yes, good plan. The roses could probably do with a decent drink. No doubt they were sick to death of the horse manure her father shovelled over them every Sunday morning.

The front door slammed and, as if from a long way off, she heard her mother’s over-bright voice. “Ah, I expect that’s her now, Tom. You must come and say hello, she’s been dying to meet you.”

Was she not even going to be allowed to introduce him herself? If it had to be done, she should be the one to do it. She could hear Alison’s voice in the hall.

Feeling as though things were sliding out of her control far too rapidly, SJ stared into her gin and tonic. She raised the glass to her lips, sniffed it and was swamped with an overwhelming compulsion to down it in one. No one was looking at her – no one cared if she was sober or not. Mum, Dad, Tom – they were all looking towards the door. Waiting for Princess Alison to make her entrance.

SJ had one final battle with her conscience, and lost. She took a sip at the same moment as her sister walked into the room.