by Jane Green
“Oh God!” she says. “Both of you? Hammered? Really?”
“I’m not hammered,” disputes Aidan, putting his arm around her and pulling her in for a kiss, and I’m really quite impressed with how nondrunk he seems. “I am quietly merry, as is Cat, who is also on holiday and therefore entitled to have some fun.”
“Isn’t it a bit early?” asks Julia, who does not push Aidan away in disgust but instead folds into him with an indulgent smile. “Even for you?”
“I don’t have to be at work until later,” he says. “I’ll have a nap and be as right as rain by the time I have to work.”
“I’m speechless,” Ellie says, her features contorted with rage. “Once again your boyfriend has shown a complete lack of respect. As for…” She looks at me, and I know she can’t even bring herself to say my name. “Her. What kind of a person shows up to visit her family, who she’s never met, and gets so shitfaced she can’t even walk properly?”
Aidan lets out a bark of laughter. “At least you know she’s related to you!” he says. “No question about that.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh come on, Ellie. Get that poker out of your arse. The number of times I’ve been here and seen your father drunk as a skunk. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I might add. It’s a family trait, and one I heartily approve of, by the way, my family being much the same way.”
“How dare you tell me to get the poker out of my arse? And how dare you talk about being drunk as if it’s something normal, something fun? I grew up with it, with a father who’s always drinking, and I know just how damaging it is for everyone around them.” She turns to Julia. “I get it, Julia. I get why all of your boyfriends are alcoholics or drug addicts. I get this is all to do with our father, but keep it out of the house, for God’s sake. I have young children here. Keep it out of the goddamned house!” Her voice isn’t loud, but as cold as ice as Julia disentangles herself from Aidan.
“Don’t you dare say a word about my father. I’m lucky to have him. Jesus, you’re lucky to have him, especially given the mess your mother made of your life. You’re always so damned judgmental, Ellie. Everything in your life is always so perfect; you look down your nose at everything and everyone around you. Including your own family. It makes me sick. So what if Aidan’s drinking? Or Cat? Or me, for that matter? We’re young. We’re supposed to. Just because you’re on your high horse and living the life of a fifty-year-old Park Avenue matron doesn’t mean the rest of us have to. Get over it.”
I want to applaud, and then, with slight dismay, I realize that everyone is looking at me in horror. Oh shit. That thought somehow moved into my hands and I realize I actually did applaud. I stop. Quickly. And Ellie lets out an anguished groan and runs upstairs.
“Let’s get Cat to bed,” Julia says, and as I refuse all help, weaving my way out of the room, one sober and sobering thought makes its way into my head: Nothing is as perfect as it seems.
Fourteen
I wake up with the familiar pounding head and no idea where I am or what time it is. I am completely disoriented, it is dark, and it takes a few seconds for the full mortification of what I have done to set in.
I cannot believe I got drunk today. I cannot believe I showed myself up like that with my family, gave them such a terrible impression of me so soon after arriving here. I can’t believe I drank that much, after these past few weeks, after determining never to do that again.
What is the matter with me? Why didn’t I stop after two beers? Or even three? What the hell is wrong with me that I am so easily influenced I dived into that bottle of vodka with barely a second thought?
I lie in bed, disgusted, utterly disgusted with myself, awash with shame. How do I ever face Jason again? How am I supposed to tell him what happened? I can’t. I couldn’t. The look on his face would be unimaginable. After all the effort he’s put into me, taking me to meetings, finding me a sponsor, what kind of a terrible person must I be that this is how I repay him?
I should find a meeting. Right now. That’s what I should do. I should get myself off to a meeting, confess my sin to a roomful of strangers, and go every day while I’m here so I can get off the plane back in London and feel something other than this horrific mortification.
There is a knock on the door. Julia. With a glass of water and three pills.
“I hoped you were awake. How are you feeling? I brought you some Advil.”
“Advil?” My voice is croaky as I try to sit up.
“Painkillers.”
I manage to sit up, overcome with a sudden bout of dizziness and a wave of first hot, then cold. I leap out of bed and make it to the bathroom just in time, practically falling on top of the loo as I throw up, my stomach heaving until there’s nothing left to come up. I lay my head on the seat, as unsanitary as it is, feeling the coolness, knowing that in a little while I will feel better.
“Are you okay?” she asks, coming into the bathroom and stroking my back, and I think that even though I barely know this girl, I might actually love her.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak. “I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe I did that.”
“First of all, I’m more than used to it. We all like a drink. Apart from Ellie, obviously. I’m really sorry for everything that she said. I guess we react to the drinking very differently. She has always been disgusted by everything to do with alcohol, and people drinking, and getting drunk. When we were kids and my dad would have too much to drink, she would behave in much the same way as she did with you this afternoon. She’d stand there and scream at him, try to shame him into not drinking. If you loved us, she’d shout, you wouldn’t do this.”
I raise my head and turn to look at her. “You didn’t feel the same way?”
“I tried to make everything better. I was never a shouter. I think I thought that if I behaved better, if I was better, maybe that would make him stop. And then when he didn’t, I’d be the one that ended up looking after him. No surprise, I guess, that every man I’ve ever dated has liked the booze, or drugs, a little too much, and I’m always the one that ends up looking after them.”
“Aidan’s so nice,” I say. “He seems to look after you too, although maybe in different ways.”
She smiles. “That’s why I love him. He does. Very occasionally I think our partying might be a bit much, but what the hell. We’re young, we’re supposed to be having fun, right? This is the time to party, before settling down, before kids, real responsibilities.”
“Exactly,” I say, thinking of Aidan and understanding exactly why she forgives his transgressions; thinking of Jason and wondering if he would forgive mine. And then I think that Julia would probably know if there were AA meetings on the island, and if so where I might find them, and I mix the words around in my head hoping to formulate a sentence that would come out without me wanting to die in shame, and I can’t figure out a way to do it, so I end up saying nothing at all.
“It’s nine o’clock,” says Julia. “At night,” she adds helpfully, seeing my confusion. “Ellie’s so furious she’s checked everyone into the Wauwinet, which is what she always does when we have fights, so I thought maybe you and I could go down to Aidan’s restaurant and grab some dinner.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“Tonight’s his night at the Chicken Box. He’ll doubtless get a ride home and roll in sometime in the early hours. We tend to stay out of his way on nights like these.”
“Will you give me a minute to get ready?” I say, really not wanting to go out, nor have dinner, food being the very last thing on my mind, but experience has told me the best way to go about getting rid of a hangover is painkillers and food in my stomach. And hair of the dog. But I’m definitely going to give that one a miss tonight. This is it. No drinking from now on. It’s just not worth the shame.
* * *
I don’t drink. Well, I don’t drink anything hard. Beer doesn’t count. It isn’t easy, but I sip my beer as
everyone around me drinks vodka and tequila, as the night grows more raucous, and I am the one who ends up driving everyone home, which is something of a first.
The next morning, I wake up with no hangover, feeling bright, happy, and excited to see what the day brings. I am thrilled with myself for not drinking the hard stuff last night when everyone around me was; I’m determined to keep this up, to put my best foot forward, not to embarrass myself again with my family.
I can do this. I can absolutely do this. I can be the sister, the daughter, the friend they need me to be.
* * *
The days pass in a haze of sunshine, boats, walks, and great food thanks to Julia and Aidan, who seem to spend most of their time at home in the kitchen.
I manage to stay away from the booze. Mostly. A few drinks here and there but nothing unmanageable. Nothing drunken. No blackouts and no hangovers. Hey! Maybe I can do this after all. Maybe I don’t have the problem I thought I had.
Julia is the unexpected delight. I came here to get to know my father, and while Brooks is warm and kind, and exactly the sort of father I always wanted, it is Julia I find myself gravitating toward.
I’m in the kitchen when Julia comes downstairs, two rolled-up towels under her arms and a straw bag over her shoulder.
“I’m taking you to the beach.” She opens a drawer and takes out a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic. “It’s a beautiful day, and you and I need to get tanned.”
“You’re already tanned.” I point out her dark skin.
“Never tan enough,” she says. “And as my sister, you should really be doing the same thing, in solidarity.”
“What about Ellie?” I ask dubiously, for Ellie’s skin is lighter, Ellie goes nowhere without a hat, and does not, as far as I know, sit on the beach unless covered by an umbrella.
“That’s the point. She’s freaked out about the sun aging her skin, I need someone like you to live on the wild side with me. You ready? Let’s get moving!”
We climb on bikes and cycle down to the beach, a boom box stuffed in Julia’s straw basket, Julia chattering away, shouting back over her shoulder as I laugh, unable to hear half of what she says. I love this girl’s energy. I love her enthusiasm and warmth, and that it feels as if I have known her forever.
“Tell me more about you.” She stretches out her arms and sighs with pleasure at the warmth of the sun hitting her oiled-up skin. “Boyfriend? Dating? What’s the story?”
I tell her about my disastrous love life, and then mention Jason, my un-boyfriend, my hopefully future boyfriend, Julia hooting with laughter when I recount the story of how we met.
“You actually don’t remember how you got there?” In anyone else I would expect to see shock, because God knows waking up in a stranger’s bed is not exactly something I’m proud of, but Julia thinks it’s hysterical. “That’s wild!” she says. “Imagine if he’s the guy you end up marrying! What a great story to tell your kids!” And she goes off into peals of laughter while I smile.
Imagine.
We talk, and laugh, and giggle, and confide secrets. I don’t remember the last time I did this with anyone; I had forgotten just how much fun girlfriends can be. I have had it at work, with Poppy, with Jackie, but they’re all so busy now with their boyfriends, husbands, other couples, I had forgotten how great it is to just hang out with someone just like you.
* * *
“It’s just a weak Bloody Mary, for God’s sake,” says Aidan, sliding it off the tray and putting it on the table. “I promise you I’m not going to get you drunk again. And I’m really sorry for that, by the way. But I can tell by looking at you that you need a drink. Hell, everyone needs a drink. Isn’t life just more fun with a drink under your belt?”
He’s right. Life is more fun with a drink under your belt. I’ve managed not to drink anything for ten days now. Surely I deserve one small drink as a reward?
“I’m just going to have the one,” I say, first to him, then to Julia, who is reaching out for a Bloody Mary of her own.
“Whatever.” She grins. “Cheers!” And we clink glasses and my God, but it feels good. Who would give this up by choice?
One leads to another, to another, and soon whatever mortification I felt the other day is forgotten, and whatever shame I felt has disappeared, and life is not only good again but huge amounts of fun, and Aidan is working, and Julia and I sit together and laugh and share stories, as Aidan brings us drinks, and food, and I love life again, and most of all, I love that I have finally found the one thing I always wanted: a sister.
* * *
The restaurant has closed; the staff is sitting around, all of them drinking, smoking, telling funny stories. It is late, and I am drinking, and thinking I should stop, although I’m not sure why, when the peal of the restaurant phone interrupts the raucous telling of stories, and Julia is called to the phone.
“Shit. My dad just passed out at the bar. I have to go and get him.” I realize Julia, standing at the table, who I thought had drunk just as much as I have, is actually completely sober, and I have no idea how she did that.
“We’ll come,” says Aidan, who is definitely not sober.
Julia shakes her head. “It’s fine. You guys stay. I’ll go and drop him home, then come back and get you.”
“Don’t be silly,” says Aidan. “We’ll get a ride home. Are you sure you don’t want us to come?”
“Absolutely sure,” says Julia, leaning down and giving him a lingering kiss. “I’ll see you at home. Bye, Cat!” She blows me a kiss and is gone.
* * *
More wine. Vodka. The night has got away from me, and I am back to exactly where I have always been, unable to stop, uncaring that I’m unable to stop, and I don’t give a shit. Nothing matters anymore except that I am young, I have no responsibilities, and I am happy to party the night away. Now that Ellie has gone, and Brooks is off doing his own drinking, who is there to judge me? Who is there to point out the error of my ways? Who is there to tell me that this isn’t what I wanted for myself, that I am not just letting myself down but all the people in my life: my mother, my friends at work, my friends at the AA meetings, Jason.
Fuck it. I’m young, free, and single, much as I would like it to be otherwise, and I have found my family, and nothing is as perfect as it first appeared, and that’s okay because me and my friend vodka have been reunited, and just as it always does, it eases the pain, rubs out the disappointment, makes everything in my life good.
At some point, I am aware that Aidan, who is in similar shape to me, ushers me to a parked car, someone else driving, and we squeeze into the backseat with three other people, staff from the restaurant, and I have to sit on Aidan’s lap, which would be massively awkward if I were sober, but as it is, I fold into him and am delighted that he runs lazy circles on my back with his big hands.
I don’t say anything the whole way home, just sinking into a warm body feeling the circles, and when we both get out of the car, we both stumble up the path, giggling, and he’s holding me up, although I think I’m holding him up, and we get to the door of the cottage, and I turn to say good night, and I have absolutely no idea how this happens, but suddenly we are kissing, and my insides have turned to mush, and I don’t remember anything that happens next.
Except when I wake up the next morning to a scream, to Julia standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, and to me and Aidan, both naked, both in my bed.
Fifteen
London, 2014
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I cradle the phone between my neck and my shoulder, tap-tap-tapping everything the woman on the end of the phone is saying, trying to ignore the creeping pain in my back, which always happens when an interview goes on a bit longer than I expect.
The door slams, and damn, Annie is home, which means I have to get off the phone, have to hang up my journalist coat and go back to being Mum. I can’t interrupt her, though, my interviewee, not yet, not until there’s a natural break, but I’m willing her
to hurry up, so I can go and catch up with Annie on the events of the day.
Since my divorce, and to try to make up for the kind of mother I was for most of my marriage, I have tried to be present for her when she comes home. I’ll never be the kind of mother who sets out elaborate teas, an assortment of cakes, biscuits, sandwiches—trust me, there are plenty of mothers around here who do actually do that—but I try to have something nice for her to eat, a hot chocolate in winter or lemon squash in summer. Even if I don’t often have something homemade, I will at least get the biscuits that she likes.
“Mum!” she yells through the flat, even though she knows I’m where I always am if not in the kitchen: in the tiny cupboardlike office at the end of the corridor.
“Coming!” I say, finally telling the woman on the phone I have to go, saving my document, tidying the papers on my desk that manage to spread over every available surface, every day, and joining my delicious daughter in the kitchen to finally be the mother I always hoped I would be.
* * *
Every day, after school, I sit at the kitchen table and marvel at the child I have created, this person who is, in looks, a combination of both me and my ex-husband, but in personality is all her own.
I would like to tell you I knew what her personality was from the beginning, but the truth is, for a very long time I never bothered to stop and look. For a very long time, the only thing I cared about was numbing everything in my life with alcohol, and as ashamed as I am to admit it, it wasn’t until I got divorced that I finally woke up and realized the mess my life had become.
Of course, I recognize the irony of writing feature after feature about divorce, and feature after feature about being a single mother, and even—yes, I will admit this—a first-person piece in the Daily Mail about the shame of being a mother who drank, which, by the way, garnered over a thousand comments online, almost all of them filled with a vitriol and hatred that felt like someone was twisting a knife in my stomach. There I was, trying to be honest, to own my part in it, to admit my sins in the hope that I would emerge renewed, and all those people could see was my deficiencies, what a terrible mother I’d been, what a terrible person I was.