This Charming Man (50 page)

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‘Marnie!’ Grace rushed into the room, but was brought up short at the sight of the bruises and bandages. Marnie saw tears in her eyes: that meant she wasn’t angry.

Thank God thank God thank God.

Fear, which had weighed on her like a heavy stone, rolled away and suddenly Marnie felt lighter, freer – ridiculously, almost cheerful. The clouds of black horror that had wreathed her since she’d woken up in the hospital, began to disperse.

‘Can I hug you?’ Grace asked her. ‘Or does it hurt too much?’

If Grace had been angry, she’d have let her hug her; she’d have given or done anything to win back her love. But she could afford to be honest. ‘It hurts too much.’

Grace climbed onto the bed. ‘So what
happened?
’

‘You know me. Accident-prone.’

‘… No, I mean… you got really drunk again. Why?’

Why?

She didn’t know why. She hadn’t meant to.

‘Didn’t you hear? About Nick’s bonus? He bought us this huge bloody house and now he can’t afford the mortgage repayments.’

Marnie didn’t care about the house or the money. But she needed a reason. Grace needed a reason.

‘But you’ve known that for ages.’ Grace was puzzled. ‘I thought something terrible must have happened. I mean, after the last time you got so drunk… when was it, six weeks or so ago? You swore you were never going to drink again, remember? You hurt yourself so badly when you fell down Rico’s stairs –’

‘Her partner in crime,’ Nick said.

‘So now I’m a criminal.’

Marnie remembered very little of the episode that Grace and Nick were talking about. She could evoke the run-up to it and the aftermath, but there was a vast chunk of time in the middle that was unaccounted for.

It had been about six weeks ago, that horrendous day with Wen-Yi and the discovery that Mr Lee was in Shanghai, when she’d been caught out in her inefficiency and – worse – dishonesty. The shame had been so painful that when Rico invited her for a drink, she’d been overtaken
by a pleasure rush which had swept away all in its path. She’d been powerless against it; she’d had to go where it took her. The need to drink had been building for days and weeks, she’d tried to deny it even while the tension wound tighter and tighter – and her resistance had finally broken. She’d promised Melodie that she’d be home by 6.15 so that she could leave for her next job, but even as she was swearing black was white to Melodie, she knew she wouldn’t be back and she felt nothing: no guilt.

She and Rico had gone to a newly opened bar in Fulham, far away from the office, where they drank vodkatinis and complained about Wen-Yi. She remembered being there for a very long time, long enough for reality to become reduced to splinter-like flashes. There was a sliver of memory of them leaving the bar and Rico accidentally dropping a bottle of vodka on the pavement where it smashed in an explosion of silver light. There was a burst of recollection of buildings rushing past them – they must have been in a taxi – and a picture in her head of Larry King interviewing Bill Clinton. But was that real? Had she been watching telly in Rico’s apartment? Or had she simply conjured it up?

Then there was nothing – blank, blank, blank – until she’d woken up in her own bedroom – which she hadn’t recognized at first.

She discovered afterwards – courtesy of Nick – that she’d gone missing for a full day and a half. She’d made the phone call to Melodie on Monday evening and it was Wednesday morning when Nick found her.

Nick – having intuitively sensed that this was going to be bad – had driven to Basildon and deposited Daisy and Verity in the care of his mum. Then he’d phoned Guy and got Rico’s address.

When Nick told this to Marnie, she wanted to die with shame – he would have hated having to do something so humiliating.

In Rico’s apartment block, Nick had found Marnie, spreadeagled, face down and unconscious, in the communal hall.

What was I doing there
?

Perhaps she’d been trying to leave?

She was black and blue all along the front of her body because – Nick deduced – she’d toppled down the wooden staircase from Rico’s first-floor flat. There was no answer from Rico’s door because – as
Marnie discovered a week later when she returned to work – he’d also been dead drunk.

Nick had taken her home, dressed her in a cotton nightdress and put her to bed.

When she’d come to that time, she didn’t have words to describe her horror. The front of her body was patterned with astonishing bruises. Bumps and cuts had become a feature of her life; emerging into reality after a bout always involved taking an inventory of her injuries. But that had been the worst ever. One of her teeth felt wobbly and for some reason that horrified her utterly.

Worse than her physical damage was the scalding guilt about what she’d put Daisy and Verity and Nick through. It made her want to – quite literally – cut her own throat, and she’d sworn to Nick – and to herself – that she’d never drink again.

But she’d remembered none of what had taken place, and because she couldn’t remember, she became able to pretend that it hadn’t really happened. She’d sealed it away in a vault in her head where she put things she was far, far too ashamed to think about.

And now it had happened again. The same, only worse because this time she’d been in hospital. With broken bones.

And Grace was here.

‘She’s out of control. She needs residential help.’ Nick was still standing by the bedroom door, neither in nor out of the room.

Marnie stared, plunged into mute terror. It was the first time he’d made such a suggestion. Was he serious? Or was he just trying to frighten her?

‘You mean…?’ Grace, always so sure, looked uncertain. Scared even.

‘Rehab, treatment,’ Nick said. ‘Whatever you want to call it.’

‘Isn’t that a bit…?’ Grace jumped in.

‘A bit what?’

‘… drastic?’

‘Grace, she’s an alcoholic!’

Marnie was relieved to see Grace flinch; obviously she wasn’t buying any of this.

Nick turned to Marnie. ‘Face it, you’re an alcoholic.’

‘I’m not,’ she said anxiously. ‘I’ll stop, I’ll –’

‘There’s a place in Wiltshire,’ he said. ‘It looks nice. They let kids visit at weekends, so the girls would get to see you.’

Christ, he was… he
was
serious!

‘Nick, please, wait.’ The words tumbled from her mouth in a scramble. ‘Give me another chance –’

‘Yes, Nick, calm down,’ Grace said. ‘Let’s not go mad here. She’s had two bad experiences –’

‘Two!’ Nick put his hand to his forehead. ‘For crying out loud, Grace. Two hundred, more like! Not all as bad as this one, yes, I admit. But the gaps are getting shorter and the injuries are getting worse. That’s what they warned me to expect. I
told
you all of this.’

Confused, Marnie watched the interplay between Grace and Nick. ‘Who’s “they”?’ she asked in creeping fear.

‘The alcohol counsellor,’ Grace said.

‘What alcohol counsellor?’ Marnie’s lips had gone numb. ‘How come you know and I don’t?’

Grace sounded surprised. ‘Because Nick rings me about you…’

Does he?

‘He has done, over the past couple of months.’

Marnie was stunned. ‘Grace…? You’re talking to Nick behind my back?’

Grace stared. She looked shocked. ‘I’m not doing anything behind your back! The first thing I did after he rang me was ring
you
and shop him.’

Did she?

‘We were on the phone for ages, you and me. Don’t you remember?’ Grace sounded panicky.

No. And it wasn’t the first time she’d found a blank where there should be a memory.

‘I
thought
you were drunk. I asked you at the time,’ Grace said anxiously. ‘You said you weren’t.’

‘I wasn’t! I remember it all.’ Then Marnie understood something. ‘So that’s why you’ve been calling me so often, all concern?’

‘I’ve been so worried.’

‘Why? I’ve always been a drinker. How many times have I told you that the only time the world seemed normal was when I’d had two drinks?’

She could see Grace struggle. She could see Grace asking herself what right she had to begrudge Marnie those two drinks.

‘Look, I can stop,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I can go for weeks without a drink.’

But Grace turned away from her and looked at Nick. ‘Can she? Can she go for weeks without a drink?’

‘Maybe.’ He sounded reluctant. ‘Although there have been times when she says she hasn’t had a drink and I can smell it on her breath. I’ve found bottles of vodka in her handbag–’

Grace looked shocked. ‘Have you?’ she demanded of Marnie. ‘You never said –’

‘Once! One time! Because they’d run out of carriers in the off-licence.’ She stared into Grace’s eyes. ‘I
can
stop for weeks at a time. I
do
stop.’

‘And then you disappear!’ Nick said. ‘You don’t come home for days –’

‘Not “days”!’ Marnie cried. ‘Nick, you make it sound like… Grace, don’t listen to him. It hasn’t ever been even two days! Twenty-four hours at the most.’

‘Twenty-four hours is a long time,’ Nick said. ‘Especially when you’re a little girl.’

‘Oh go on, make me feel guilty! As if I’m not feeling awful already!’

Suddenly Marnie’s eyes were spilling tears. Nick clicked his tongue impatiently and announced that he was going to work but, to Marnie’s relief, Grace crumbled into sympathy.

‘Marnie, please, this is way too serious. You fall. You hurt yourself. You could get raped. You’re lucky you haven’t been done for drunk-driving. You’re lucky you haven’t killed someone.’

‘I know, I know, I know.’ Tears poured down her face, their salt stinging her cuts. ‘But you don’t know what it’s like to be me.’

She saw pity flare in Grace’s eyes and that made her feel worse.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I’m always sad,’ she wept, all of a sudden feeling the full weight of her constant burden. ‘When I drink it takes the sadness away. It’s the only thing that does.’

‘But it only makes things worse,’ Grace said helplessly. ‘Surely you’re sadder now than before you drank?’

‘Yes, I’ll stop. It’ll be hard but I’ll stop.’

‘You don’t have to stop completely. Just don’t go mental on it. Are you still on anti-depressants?’

‘They don’t help.’

‘Could you get a higher dose?’

‘I’ll ask. I think I’m on the highest, but I’ll ask. I’m begging you, Grace, don’t let him send me to rehab.’

‘Okay.’ Grace moved a little closer and in a quiet voice asked, ‘What about this Rico bloke?’

‘Rico?’ She wiped her face with her hand. ‘He’s just a friend.’

‘Is there something going on with the two of you?’

A flash of bodies, naked limbs, Rico on top of her, his rough breathing in her ear.

It didn’t happen
.

‘No, no, he’s just very kind to me.’

‘But you drink with him?’

‘You make it sound… like tramps drinking meths. We
go
for a drink sometimes.’

Grace got into bed beside her. To forestall any further interrogation, Marnie put on the television.
Trisha
was on; today’s theme was ‘I Hate my Daughter’s Boyfriend.’

‘Will I change to something else?’

She didn’t expect Grace and her right-on sensibilities to go for
Trisha,
but Grace was transfixed. ‘Leave it on, leave it on.’

There was shouting, swearing and accusations of jealousy and infidelity.

‘I despise myself for watching this sort of crap,’ Grace said. ‘But I can’t help it. It’s too big to fight.’

Now you know how I feel
.

When it ended, Grace suddenly asked, ‘Marnie, have you ever heard of a man called Lemmy O’Malley?’

‘No.’

‘Or Eric Zouche?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ Grace jumped from the bed, full of vigour. ‘Right, you’ve to start getting back to normal. Get dressed, just for a couple of hours. Which one’s your wardrobe?’

‘That one.’

Grace opened it. ‘You have so many clothes. And shoes!’ The wardrobe
floor was covered in boots and shoes. ‘Those riding boots!’ Grace bent down to take a closer look.

No, wait. Stay away from them.

‘Funny, aren’t they?’ Grace was half inside the wardrobe and her voice was muffled. ‘So stiff, the leather almost looks plastic.’

‘Because I never broke them in –’

‘God, you’re a right swot, with boot guards still in them to keep them standing straight –’

Don’t touch them. Leave them alone.

‘Grace, don’t –’

But Grace was sticking her hand down into the boot and her face was changing and her hand was emerging with something and she was looking at Marnie with an expression she had never seen before, and in a calm little voice, sounding so unlike Grace, she asked, ‘Now why would you keep a bottle of vodka in a riding boot?’

‘Grace, I… don’t!’

Grace had thrust her hand into the matching boot and drew out a second bottle of vodka, this one empty. She turned that same strange face to Marnie, a radiance of shock and understanding, then whipped back to the wardrobe, launching into a frenzy of excavation.

‘Grace, no!’

‘Fuck off!’

Half in, half out of bed, Marnie could only watch the horror unfold. Grace was scrabbling with her hands, snatching wildly at shoe boxes, boots and handbags, flinging them out onto the bedroom carpet, upending them so that bottles clinked and scattered as they tumbled from their hiding places.

This isn’t happening this isn’t happening this isn’t happening.

When Grace was finished, she lined them up boldly on the dressing table, banging each one down hard. Nine in all – full bottles, half bottles, quarter bottles. Marnie found it hard to believe there were so many, she’d known there were one or two in there, stashed temporarily until she got an opportunity to dispose of them – but
nine
? All were vodka bottles and all were empty except for the first one.

Grace was breathing heavily and gazing at Marnie, as if she’d never seen her before in her life.

‘Have you been drinking since you got home from hospital?’

‘No, I swear it!’

She was telling the truth. She had wanted to drink – especially after she’d discovered that Grace was coming – but she wouldn’t have been able to keep it down. She knew her body well enough to expect that any alcohol would kick-start an orgy of vomiting that could go on for days.