Forgive Me Not

by Samantha Tonge

  Emma touched her arm. ‘Please. It’s so good to be talking honestly like this. Sit down. Let’s sort this out once and for all.’

  ‘You still don’t understand. There is no once and for all.’ Andrea’s voice was a monotone. ‘There’s no solution. No answer. How can you expect that after everything you did? After the way you left?’

  ‘But there is. I’ve learnt why all this happened. It’s down to me – my character flaws. It’s nothing to do with you or Bligh, or anyone else.’

  ‘Then I guess you’ll just have to work on forgiving yourself.’

  ‘But I love you, Andrea. I do,’ Emma said in a broken voice. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Andrea’s face crumpled. ‘And I love you too. Always have. You’re my little sister.’

  ‘So why can’t we try to resolve this?’

  Clenching her hands together, she looked Emma straight in the eye. ‘Because I can’t ever forget.’

  4 months before going back

  Emma loved her new flat. It consisted of three basic rooms, it was on a main road, and she could have sworn it had tap dancers for neighbours. But it was hers, and it was safe. Slowly she personalised its blank canvas. Working in the charity shop gave her access to beautiful but affordable features, such as the tasselled Indian silk scarf she hung across the bed. In each room she placed a fragrant candle from the pound shop, including white musk in the bedroom.

  Small things made a big difference.

  White musk was supposed to smell sexy, she thought, walking home after her shift. Today was Valentine’s Day and her thoughts strayed to Joe. She still missed his smile, which could warm up the frostiest winter day. She’d loved the banter between them. They used to laugh that they could read each other’s minds. Was it any surprise that the old Emma had wanted more than he could provide?

  Back at the flat, she switched on the kettle and sat on her small sofa in the dark. She had been the worst kind of friend to Joe. Heat swamped her neck as she recalled giving him a Valentine’s Day card he hadn’t wanted.

  On the way home, she’d treated herself to a bar of chocolate – Beth’s favourite Twix. Had Beth stayed sober? Was she back living with her kids? Emma drew the curtains and sat down again. The silence exacerbated the discontent she’d felt since her due date in January. She leant forward to the fake mahogany coffee table and turned on a small second-hand radio.

  Her time at recovery services had ended now. The volunteering and AA were her lifelines – and her doctor. He’d agreed she wasn’t quite ready to go back to work and had signed her off for a while longer.

  A song came on. Emma stopped chewing. It was ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’ by Queen. That had been her and Bligh’s song. A joke at first – he’d sing it affectionately. She recalled their first ever Valentine’s Day together. He had taken her out for a romantic dinner in Manchester’s Chinatown. He’d rung ahead to ask for red roses and candles. Bought her favourite perfume and written a poem inside her card. Emma bit into the chocolate bar again and thought back to that night of making love. She’d been drunk. Bligh had taken a glass of water to the bedroom for her. She’d given him his present – a humorous pair of furry handcuffs. Why hadn’t she been more thoughtful?

  Unable to finish the chocolate, she paced around the lounge with a growing sense of unease. She tried to meditate. Lit a joss stick. Skim-read part of the Big Book. Valentine’s Day had raised all sorts of unsettling questions. Bligh… Joe… they were the two big loves of her life. But neither relationship had been real.

  Her mind went into overdrive, playing over and over again the turning-point scenes from the last couple of years. Her first night on the streets, sleeping with Joe, losing Josephine… And she tried to block out memories of that morning she’d woken up in the luxury hotel. It would do no good remembering. Yet the scenes came back in minute detail. It was as if someone had Photoshopped her life from matt to glossy, with the room’s plush decor. That was if you ignored the condoms on the carpet. She’d woken up on the freezing floor and had eventually seen the splats of latex, wet and sticky…

  Her hand rose to her throat and she squeezed her eyes tight, hoping to somehow destroy the memories, but the dried blood stuck to her dress flashed into her mind and a wave of nausea rose up her throat as she recalled the panic. She had pulled the material away from her body. Had she been stabbed? No. Thank God. There was no wound. Did that mean she’d injured someone else?

  The radio played another song and she returned to the present. She picked up the chocolate bar again, praying the past would stay where it was meant to. But it came back as she shivered, thinking back to the sickly fear that had crept over her as she’d sat in that hotel room, desperately trying to remember what had happened the night before. Eventually her mental fog had cleared. That was it – Bligh had asked her if she’d bothered buying Andrea and Mum a Christmas present. Of course, she hadn’t, so to spite him, she had taken both of the debit cards from his wallet. She’d got all dressed up and driven the family car into Manchester, where she was due to meet friends for a bar crawl. She knew the PIN code of one card and had withdrawn cash up to its limit. The other card was contactless.

  In the end, she’d decided to skip the shops and met her friends at the hotel instead. She’d insisted on buying all the drinks. What happened after last orders had been a blur, and when she’d woken on the floor, her mind was a blank. She’d gone to the window. It was still dark. Six o’clock. Ice everywhere. Someone had knocked sharply on the door. It was the assistant manager. She’d handed over a receipt.

  ‘This is your bar bill. The security guard who escorted you back to your room said it fell out of your hand but you wouldn’t take it back.’

  Security guard? Bar bill? She’d studied the slip of paper and her legs felt shaky. ‘Almost fifteen hundred pounds? That’s not possible, just for one night.’

  ‘Two,’ the woman had said sharply.

  That meant it was now Christmas Eve. Emma couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Your guests left in the early hours yesterday morning, and last night you were quiet,’ the assistant manager said. ‘Otherwise we’d have been forced to ask you to vacate too. We only let you stay on as a goodwill gesture, seeing as you… didn’t feel well. But it’s my duty to tell you that you aren’t welcome here again – whoever your boss is. And I’d now ask you to leave within the next hour.’

  Emma had slammed the door shut and headed straight for a half-full bottle of champagne. Her boss? What a joke. She wondered what else she’d made up.

  She’d taken out her phone and, ignoring the texts from Andrea and Bligh, gone onto Instagram. Ah ha! There she was dancing. Taking selfies. People were using empty bottles as pretend microphones. It looked as if she’d had the best time ever. But then she watched the videos she hadn’t posted.

  Someone had knocked over the TV and tried to pick up the shards of glass. They’d cut their arm badly and fallen against her. That was where the blood had come from. The room had emptied apart from an older man and two young women on the bed who couldn’t have been much more than eighteen. Disgust had lifted the champagne to her lips once more. Something about him had seemed familiar. She couldn’t get a close look but reckoned he was old enough to be their grandad.

  The screen then went black, but an hour later she’d recorded again. It was just her now… No, wait… another person was sitting on the bed. Legs with thread veins and saggy knees hurriedly pushed themselves into trousers. She couldn’t see his face but sensed it was the familiar older man. She was shouting that she’d report him – that he’d lose everything. The screen had then gone dead again.

  Buoyed by more champagne, Emma had shrugged off the confusion and sense of unease. She’d got dressed and sauntered through the lobby. Having already paid the huge bill she’d gone outside and withdrawn cash with Bligh’s debit card again – well, she might need money for New Year’s Eve. She’d climbed into the car. The dashboard said it was six forty-five and minus one outside.
Somehow she left the crowded car park without scraping another vehicle and half an hour later was on the outskirts of Healdbury, listening to her music.

  The road began to wind as she approached the Christmas tree farm. Humming, she opened the Instagram app on her phone and every now and again glanced across at her friends’ photos. Suddenly her body was thrown forward as the car hit something and skidded. Emma struggled to keep control of the steering wheel, but at last the car slowed. She thought maybe she’d hit a fox or a badger – although it had felt heavier than that. Perhaps a big sheep.

  When she reached Foxglove Farm, she cleaned the blood off the front headlight to avoid any boring questions, then opened the back door, hoping to go straight to bed.

  She hadn’t counted on the welcome party…

  Emma jolted back to the present day and her flat. The chocolate bar had fallen from her hand. She felt sick. Afraid. Ashamed. Disgusted. Her pulse raced as she picked up her phone and clicked into WhatsApp.

  Emma: Hello? Rachel? You there?

  Rachel: Hi there! What are you up to?

  Emma: Eating chocolate. You?

  Rachel: I’ve had a knackering day at work, so me and Idris are spending the night together

  Emma:

  Rachel: You okay?

  Emma: Yes. No. I don’t know. Memories. Bad ones. They keep coming back. I just needed someone to chat to.

  Rachel: Oh lovely, I understand. I’m here for you – I mean, you did listen to me for over an hour last week after I had that run-in with a client. Do you keep replaying the past?

  Emma: Yes. Sometimes it just won’t go away.

  It made her want to drink. It did. There. She’d said it. Despite all her efforts to get sober. Despite how bad she knew life with alcohol used to be.

  Rachel: I still have sleepless nights, you know, hating on myself for the things I’ve done.

  Emma: You do?

  Rachel: Of course. That’s probably normal, don’t you think? Now we’ve got perspective, it gives the past a whole different feel. But I reckon the horror will eventually pass.

  Emma: It’s just with it being Valentine’s Day I can’t help thinking about all the relationships I’ve messed up.

  Just one glass would make her feel so much better. Take the edge off. Give life that warm glow it was currently missing.

  Rachel: Oh dearie me – that’s not a pity party you’re holding, is it?

  Emma: Why? Wanna come?

  Rachel: No thanks! I’m perfectly happy.

  Emma: Are you?

  Rachel: Um, yes. I am actually. I’ve been meaning to tell you…

  Emma: ??

  Rachel: I… I’ve met someone. I was too scared to tell anyone in case I jinxed it. I haven’t got the best track record either.

  Emma: Right. Gosh. Congratulations.

  Rachel: It’s Rick. The guy from work I mentioned a few weeks ago, who’s been really supportive. We’ve been out for a few coffees and started going to the gym together. He’s given me some great tips on healthy eating. I wasn’t sure at first, I mean – I’d forgotten what genuine attraction felt like. For the last few years I’ve always had my beer goggles on when going for the opposite sex. But he’s really sweet, Emma – and clever. His edgy designs make mine look like doodles.

  Emma: I’m sure that’s not true. So you aren’t out with him tonight?

  Rachel: No. He’d arranged a couple of months ago to take his dad to a big band concert.

  Emma: He sounds decent. So… have you and he…

  Rachel:

  Emma: !!

  Rachel: Weird it was. Weird in a good way, but very different. Tess once talked about this – said it can be hard to get used to, getting naked without the drink fooling you you’re a sex god. I felt so self-conscious about how I looked, how I sounded and whether Rick was having a good time. Awful to admit, but it’s the first time in years I’ve thought about what my partner wanted.

  Emma: So is sober sex to be recommended?

  Rachel: Oh definitely. You know… I cried afterwards. I’d experienced such an emotional connection. I never knew that was possible.

  Emma: <3 <3

  Rachel: So yes. Go for it. When you meet the right person. And that’s my last word on the matter. It wouldn’t be fair on Rick to talk about our sex life again. Oh God. Listen to me. I’ve developed a sense of integrity

  Emma: We’re changing – I think it’s called growing up

  Despite all the smiley faces, Emma still felt low hours later, as she got into bed. She was genuinely happy for Rachel, but her friend’s news just added to her dwelling on how selfish she’d been with Bligh and Joe. She couldn’t stop fidgeting. Didn’t meditate; didn’t fill in her gratitude journal or do her nightly reading. Didn’t do any of the things that kept her safe.

  She closed her eyes tight and threw off the covers as if to get up, but then pulled them back. There was one thing she hadn’t told Rachel. On the way home today, she had stopped off at the off-licence. She hadn’t meant to, but they’d had a three-for-two sale. She’d hovered outside for a while, the fuck-it button looming large and bright, then decided it wouldn’t hurt just to go in and look. And now a bag by the front door contained a trio of white wine bottles calling her name.

  3 months before going back

  It was the end of March and Mother’s Day. This date was always going to be a hard one. Emma wished she hadn’t been rostered to go into work. The charity shop was humming with families who had been out for a celebratory lunch. Grandmas and daughters, grandkids in buggies…

  Over the months, babies, prams had slowly become less prominent as she’d strolled around Manchester. The sharp yearning to have something of her own to look after had turned into a dull ache. She could appreciate now how tough it would have been to bring up a small child on her own during early sobriety – but none of that stopped today’s what ifs and if onlys.

  Josephine would have been two months old and smiling.

  She took an afternoon break but couldn’t manage a hot drink or a biscuit. All she could think about was those three bottles she still had at home, still unopened.

  She said goodbye to her colleagues and hurried back to her flat with only one intention. She hardly felt the spray of water from a car speeding through a puddle near the kerb. When she got inside, she threw down her bag, shook off her jacket and went into her room. She pulled the bottles out from under the bed – proof that the old insanity had already started: where was the logic in hiding them from herself? She put two in the fridge and almost laughed at her sophistication. Then she grabbed a glass and put it, and the third bottle, on the coffee table. She sat on the sofa and stared at her two accomplices. The wine bottle winked.

  Go on. Unscrew my top. You know you want to.

  She leant forward, picked it up and ran her fingers down the smooth glass. Then she placed it back down on the table and put her head in her hands. That rambling narrative had already started in her head.

  Go on, just have one, it really won’t hurt. You can start your resolutions again tomorrow. Yes, but then I’ll have lost all of these months’ hard work. No you won’t, it’s just a slip. But then what does that say about the new person I’m becoming – has it all been a sham?

  Cue the identity crisis she hadn’t felt for a while. Who was she? Which was the real Emma – the drunk or the meditating charity worker?

  A car backfired outside and she sat up. The bottle winked again and Emma began to unscrew the lid. She’d not gone to as many meetings recently, convinced that friends would see that she was almost tipping over the edge.

  She twisted the lid shut again and put the bottle under the table, then jumped up and paced up and down. She knocked back a large glass of water. Flicked on the telly, then flicked it off. Ate a biscuit. Scanned a magazine. Finally she retrieved the bottle and carried it into the bedroom. The mattress creaked as she dropped onto the bed.

  The bottle felt seductive. Inviting. Like an intimate friend. She crashed
it down onto her bedside table and held her head in her hands again.

  Fuck it. She deserved a drink for getting sober.

  Tears trickled down her face as she acknowledged the insanity of that sentiment.

  Teeth clenched, she grabbed her phone and went into WhatsApp.

  Emma: Rachel?

  Rachel: Hi, Emma? How are you doing?

  How could she admit the truth?

  Emma: You first. Things better today?

  Rachel: A bit. Thanks again for the chat last night. You helped me realise that me and Rick splitting up… it’s for the best. I should never have started a relationship until my recovery was really concrete.

  Emma: You sure you’re okay? How was it at work today? Was he still understanding about you needing to just focus on yourself?

  Rachel: Awkward. He apologised. Said the last thing he’d want is to jeopardise my health. He didn’t realise about all my routines. It’s my fault I let them slip because of our relationship. I really like him still, Emma, but I can’t afford to risk going back to old habits. Not when things are finally getting back on track with Mum.