by Daisy Pearce
‘Am I dying?’ I ask, and the paramedic replies, ‘Not now, you’re not.’
Later, in the hospital, I lie on my side. I have a dextrose solution being fed into my vein through a cannula on my arm. I am not on the ward: I am in a small curtained-off cubicle in A&E. It is busy, chaotic. When the nurse comes to see me her rubber-soled shoes squeak on the floor. She looks me up and down, briskly. I notice Carmel is in the chair a little to my right. I don’t know how long she’s been there. She has been crying, I can see. There is a pile of shredded tissue in her lap. Her hands are limp, her complexion dull. It reminds me of the dream I had, that strange woman who had looked so much like me.
‘How are we feeling, Stella?’ the nurse asks.
I tell her my throat is killing me. She nods, explains that the intubation was necessary to stop me choking on my own vomit. I look over at Carmel but she won’t meet my eyes. And where is Marco? I feel like I am dying. I ask for water and the nurse hands me a tiny plastic cup. Tells me to sip.
‘There will be some pain for a while in your throat, and maybe in your stomach. You need rest and fluids. You have a good friend here looking after you.’ She indicates Carmel, who doesn’t smile. ‘Make sure you don’t drink that too fast. There’s a jug here if you need more.’
‘What time is it?’ I croak.
Carmel looks at her watch. ‘Four fifteen.’
‘In the morning?’
She nods. Her hands are folded into her lap. They are usually so animated, full of life, gesturing as she speaks. It worries me, this limpness.
As the nurse leaves through the blue curtain I say, ‘I don’t know what happened, Carmel.’
‘You overdosed,’ she says simply. ‘You overdosed on our sofa and nearly choked to death. When I found you, I couldn’t tell if you were breathing or not. You were covered in red, I thought at first it was blood. I thought you’d been stabbed. I’ve never been so scared.’
It was just tomato juice, I try to tell her. She doesn’t listen. She sounds flat, dismissive. I ask where Marco is. She shrugs.
‘He went to get coffee and pay for parking. That was, like, an hour ago. I thought you were going to die, Stella.’ She starts to cry. It is soundless, and she does not cover her face. I have never understood this. Like my mother, I am horrified by tears. Real tears, the rawness of them. I am not a pretty sight when upset. I sob and snort and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. My eyes burn, rimmed pink like myxomatosis. I pride myself on my stoicism. I hadn’t cried when Ben Madison dumped me at college, and I was the only person I knew who hadn’t cried at Watership Down.
‘I came home early from the cinema and there you were on the sofa, and I couldn’t wake you,’ Carmel tells me, ‘and you weren’t moving, even when I started shaking you. I said your name. I screamed it.’
The cinema, she’d said. I’d forgotten we were going to the cinema. We’d planned it last week. Some movie about teenagers getting hacked to death in the woods. We love that shit. Pizza and a film, we’d said, and I’d promised to be there. I don’t say anything but she looks at me anyway, already nodding because she knows.
‘It doesn’t matter. You forgot. It happens. It was a shitty film anyway. I walked out before the end.’ She wipes her eyes with her fingertips. ‘The blonde one got garrotted with a piano wire and the black one was sassy and angry. The usual shit.’
We fall silent for a moment. I think there is some sort of scuffle outside the curtains, I can hear a man, very drunk, shouting, ‘I don’t want to be here. I want to be home.’
‘I lost my job.’
‘Is that why you did it?’
‘Did what?’
‘Took the pills?’
I’m genuinely confused. I blink at her rapidly. My throat is so sore, as though it is being scraped by crushed glass. I take another sip of water; outside the man is still shouting, ‘I won’t go, I won’t go’, over and over.
‘I didn’t—’
‘Because that’s what Marco said. That you must have taken them while he wasn’t around. What are they anyway? God knows you don’t need downers.’
I don’t know what they are, but I don’t want to tell her that. She wouldn’t understand. They make me feel good, removed, detached. Carmel thrives on living, on being present. She wouldn’t get it.
‘Do you want to die, Stella?’
I laugh. It’s absurd. Carmel looks at me thoughtfully.
‘How come Marco has keys to our flat? That’s something you should have discussed with me, don’t you think?’
I stare at her. I feel like I’ve been hollowed out – all that puking, I guess – but also that I’ve woken up in the middle of a conversation. I have no idea what she is talking about and tell her so.
‘Because that’s how he got in. I came in and found you on the sofa at about eleven o’clock. I tried to wake you for about five minutes. I was getting hysterical. Then in walks Marco through the front door. Called out your name. He’d got a takeaway for you both. I turned around and he was there, asking me what was going on. He looked angry, Stella. Not upset. Angry. I don’t think he expected to see me.’
She rubs her arms as though she is cold, leans forward, elbows resting on her knees.
‘I told him to call an ambulance and do you know what happened? I heard sirens. We both did. Pulling up outside the house. Someone had already called them. Was it you? And if it wasn’t, who was it?’
Carmel finally looks at me, and I am shocked at how calm she is, how deliberate. I am about to speak when Marco appears, holding coffees. He bends and kisses my brow.
‘All right? How’s the patient?’
‘Sore,’ I tell him. He looks tired. They both do. I feel another wave of guilt and bury it. ‘Marco, I don’t remember a thing.’
He looks over at Carmel then back at me with painful sympathy.
I speak quietly. ‘You don’t – you don’t think I did this deliberately, do you? Carmel?’
‘I don’t know, Stella,’ she says. ‘The first thing the paramedic asked me was what you’d taken, and I had to tell him I hadn’t a clue. I haven’t even seen you with pills unless you count the Valium you think I haven’t noticed you taking from my room.’
‘You can’t possibly think I meant to do this, can you?’
‘I think if you’re hiding what you’re doing – if you’re at that point – then you should see someone,’ Carmel says quietly, ‘and talk about your father.’
She turns to Marco and takes the coffee from his hand. ‘I’ve got to be at work in four hours, and I have to get a taxi. I’m going to need to borrow some money.’
‘Again?’ I hear him say quietly. I lie back on the starched pillow which rustles about my ears. He takes a note from his wallet, passes it to her. Before she leaves Carmel bends down and strokes my face, a gesture so tender it makes me dizzy. She parts the curtains, pulling her cigarettes from her pocket.
I look at Marco. ‘Marco—’
‘She’s upset. You gave her a scare. You gave us both a scare.’
‘What was I doing at home? How did I get there?’
‘We had a row.’
‘What? Really?’
‘Yup. Something stupid. We were both a bit pissed, I think. You don’t remember?’
‘No, I—’
‘You were pretty out of it.’
‘What are those scratches on your neck?’
‘Ah, Stella.’ He rubs his palms along his thighs. I stare at him aghast, feeling nausea building. ‘It’s okay. We were both drunk and you’ve – well, you’ve been through a lot.’
There is a silence for a moment.
‘Did I do that? I did, didn’t I?’
‘Stel—’
‘Let me see.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You bloody well can.’ I am struggling to sit up but my muscles are weak, shaky. A look passes over his face, almost of distaste.
‘I wish you wouldn’t swear,’ he says quietly. ‘You do it more often than
you think.’
‘Marco, show me.’
He lowers the collar of his dark wool jumper. I clutch at myself, horrified and ashamed. His neck and upper chest are a crosshatching of welts, dotted with blood. I am shaking my head and he takes my hand in his, saying it’s all right baby, it’s all right. I look down and see his exposed wrist, the tanned skin, the dark and ravenous indentations in his flesh, the small ring of bruising. He sees me looking and laughs but he is nervous.
‘You bit me.’
‘No. No.’
‘It doesn’t hurt. Not anymore. You didn’t break the skin.’
I cover my mouth with my hand. Bitten him. Something curdles inside me. Where’s your muzzle, Katie Marigold? Now why am I thinking of that?
‘I’m sorry, Marco, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t remember.’
He smooths my brow. It is nice. I am a little girl again, sickly. I close my eyes, breathe him in. He’s been smoking. I can smell the cigar lingering on him, faintly exotic. He keeps them on his mantelpiece in a humidor. When I told Carmel he had them imported from Havana, I thought she was going to roll her eyes right out of her head.
‘Carmel said you had a key.’
‘Yes, I had your key. You insisted that we go back to yours. This was about eleven, I think. I went out to get a takeaway. We hadn’t eaten, either of us. Maybe that’s why the drink hit us both so hard. You must have taken the pills when I was out.’
‘Marco, I didn’t – I don’t—’
‘Ssssh. I know. I know. It’s all right now.’
We are quiet for a time. I can feel his pulse beneath the thin skin of his wrist. It’s not quite true, what I had been about to say: I don’t remember taking the pills. I do. I had taken them out of my bathroom cabinet, the one at home. I can even remember wondering what I was doing there. ‘I should be in Marco’s place,’ I thought as I took the bottle from the cupboard, ‘how did I get here’, as I shook two, three pills into my hand. I was feeling miserable. It must have been the argument. Fight, I correct myself. Call it what it was. Look at those marks on his neck. I swallowed them dry. I remember that. They made me retch. But I kept them down. But it had only been three pills. Now look at me.
‘She told me tonight that she was worried about her party.’
For a moment I am genuinely confused. ‘Who?’
‘Carmel. While the paramedics were working on you. She said she hoped you wouldn’t be in hospital for long because the party was only half paid for.’
‘S’right,’ I mumble, my eyes closing. I am so tired. ‘She put the deposit down last week. We’re paying off the rest this week.’
‘Clarification. You’re paying the rest this week. Come on. You need to get some rest. I’m here. I’m here until you get better.’
He hasn’t asked me why yet. He hasn’t asked why I did it. That is good, because I honestly do not know. I hold his hand. Marc-oh. I am so lucky.
Chapter 8
I am allowed to go home the following evening, a tiny bruise on the back of my hand where the needle went in. I go straight to bed, and I sleep deeply and dreamlessly for nine hours. When I’m jerked awake by my phone my skin feels too tight, and for a second or two I can hear my frantic pulse at my temples. I reach for it just as it stops ringing. My arms tingle with pins and needles.
‘Fuc—’
I wish you wouldn’t swear, he’d said. I lie back in bed and lift my phone, seeing that the missed call is from Aunt Jackie. That can wait. I begin scrolling through my Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. The Devil makes work for idle hands. I’m on a news site when I see it, beneath a story about free school dinners. The headline: ‘Former Child Star Overdose Drama’. I am throbbing all over with shame as I click it open. There I am, age seven, next to a golden Labrador with my hand on its head, bent at the knee as though I am proposing to it. I am wearing a blue satin dress, which bulges at the arms, making me look distended. There is that gap in my teeth that I had filled in as soon as I left the show. The story is a skeleton; no meat to it.
‘Former child actress and star of Marigold! Stella Wiseman was rushed to Lewisham Hospital late on Friday night following a suspected barbiturate overdose. Paramedics were called to a South London address in the early hours of Saturday morning after an alarm was raised about the welfare of a woman. The actress (35) starred in the long-running sitcom from 1985 to 1993 before disappearing from public view.’
Oh God. A drink. I just need something to take the edge off. I walk into the kitchen and look in the fridge, but there is no wine, no beer. We have vodka in the freezer, and I take a slug of it standing in my pyjamas. There is a clutter of dirty washing-up in the sink, crumbs and stains on the worktop. I can hear my phone ringing and I wander down the hallway carefully, taking the vodka with me cradled beneath one arm.
‘Hi, Jackie.’
‘Hello, love. Are you all right?’
Since Jackie divorced and remarried her tennis coach she has joined a gym and given up smoking. This means she incessantly chews gum even when working out. Her mouth is in constant motion. I can hear it now, a soft churning sound. She is holding the phone too close to her mouth.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Stella? For God’s sake. I could have helped you.’
‘You’ve seen the news? It’s crap, Jackie, totally out of proportion. Some idiot has sold that story – that non-story, I should remind you – for a few quid.’
‘I didn’t know it made the news. Marco called me.’
There is a muffled noise, static blown into the mouthpiece. She is sighing.
‘I wish he’d called me sooner – I could have been down there in three hours. Honey, don’t you know how precious you are? How important? Your parents wouldn’t have wanted this.’
I can’t take this in. I sit down slowly on the bed.
‘Is it drugs? Is that it, honey? God knows what you’re taking these days. You don’t know what they’re putting in it, Stell. They’re ruthless, these people.’
‘What people?’
‘Drug dealers. We had a problem with them here a while ago, hanging round schools and giving it to kiddies. And of course the police aren’t doing anything. It’s a joke.’
‘I’m not on drugs, Jackie.’
‘Well, I hardly think you overdosed on Lemsip, did you? Marco is extremely worried about you, we all are.’
‘He had no right to call you.’
‘Stella, he did the right thing. I’m your family now. I’m all you’ve got. I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened to you too.’
‘I’m fine. I’m really, really, really fine.’
‘Marco knows a private doctor with his own surgery near Holland Park. We talked about it, and I think you should go and see him. He might be able to help you.’
‘Help me with what? There’s nothing wrong!’
Silence. I know she’s still there though. I can hear her chewing.
‘Denial is the first sign of a problem, Stella. You of all people should know that. Your father was the same. Could never admit it.’
‘Jackie, I have to go.’
‘I’m here. We’re all here. Let us help you.’
I hang up and put my head in my hands. Am I losing my mind? Is this how it happens? Slowly, destroying everything, like the descent of lava.
Chapter 9
It is the day of Carmel’s party, and the flat is a mess – she is packing for her move to Paris, drinking tea, filling out forms, walking back and forth across the sitting room with her phone tucked beneath her chin.
‘Stella, did you hear what I said?’
I look up. I’m reading a book but I’m struggling to concentrate, reading the same line over and over: There’s a large dog loose in the wood.
‘I said will you come and visit me in Paris? You’ll have your own room with all your special things in there like a kid with divorced parents. And there is a patisserie just next door so we can get nice and fat on croissants.’
I fold the book ont
o my lap and look up at Carmel. She is so beautiful – luminous – that I wonder how we can bear it, the glare of her. I know people think I’m jealous. I know that. But I’m not. I could never be. She’s never made me feel that way, despite what Marco says.
‘Of course I will. I can’t wait.’
Carmel looks out of the window. ‘My taxi’s here. I’ve got to go the wine merchant with Tia and sort out the boxes of champagne. Will you be okay?’
‘Yes. I’m not going to try and hang myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
I laugh, but she doesn’t smile. I suppose it wasn’t that funny. Tia is Carmel’s sister; she arrived last night from New York. We’ve hired a field just outside London and a huge marquee will be strung with fairy lights and glittering chandeliers. There’s going to be a roulette table and a cocktail bar and huge displays of cherry blossom and ferns. I am looking forward to it. And I love Carmel’s sister. The last time I saw her, Carmel and I were off our heads the morning after a night out in New York about ten years ago. Her apartment on the East Side had been full of vegetation; mosses and ferns and tiny Tillandsia plants hanging above her bed.
‘Stella?’
‘Huh?’
‘I said maybe you could talk to Tia about work. She knows some great galleries in New York. Could be a big thing for you.’
‘Sure, okay.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You won’t, will you?’
‘I can’t move to New York, Carmel.’
‘Why not?’
I hesitate and she nods knowingly.
‘Marco can’t fund you forever. You lost your job over two weeks ago. I move at the end of the month. I just think you should feel—’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Urgency? You seem to be ignoring everything; it’s not healthy. How will you pay the rent when I’m gone? Where will you live? What will you do for money?’
‘I’ll manage.’
I can’t tell her I haven’t thought about it, any of it. It’s there the same way all my thoughts are these days: at the back of my skull, muddy and as slow-moving as treacle. Every time I try to focus it slides through my fingers.