Tom swung around to glare at his mother. ‘Just say it straight, Mum. You think I should divorce Ali because she’s got a drinking problem?’
‘I don’t think that’s exactly what I’m saying,’ she said. ‘It’s just that if you do want to have children… well.’
He stared at her in disbelief. ‘I married Ali, not a bloody broodmare. I’m going for a run now, and then I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll stay in a hotel until I’ve worked out what I’m going to do.’
‘Oh, Tom,’ his mother said, but he didn’t wait to hear more. He had to get out; let his feet hitting the pavement drown out everything else.
Ali
Ali was still hungover on Monday morning. She’d been so sick on Saturday that she’d broken her usual no-grog-before-midday rule just to make the headache and nausea go away. But then that had led to an all-day binge on Sunday in a futile attempt to forget about Tom leaving, and now here she was at work, her head still thick and her hands shaking as she tried to write the most sensitive media release she’d ever had to prepare.
Alex had pulled her aside the second she’d walked in to let her know what was going on: Dixon had finally been asked to resign. He’d already appeared before the ICAC several days in a row, and despite his insistence that he’d done everything above board, the evidence against him was too strong. It looked like the ICAC was going to refer his case for prosecution, so they had to act now before it got into the media. Alex hoped the story would disappear beneath the waves of pre-Christmas optimism, clearing them for a positive election campaign in the new year. The official line, of course, was that Dixon was resigning to spend more time with his family, and it was Ali’s task to put out a media release from Geoff tomorrow, thanking Dixon for his service and wishing him well for the future.
The very thought made Ali’s lip curl. The public were going to see right through this. She was convinced that Geoff should have followed the media announcement with an open press conference and stated that once the details of the travel rort had become clear, he’d had no choice but to act immediately. People wanted to know the truth. They wanted strong leaders. They didn’t want this kind of pathetic spin.
She paused and pressed her fingers into her temples. Her head was throbbing. She found some ibuprofen in the back of her drawer and swallowed the tablets with a gulp of water. She hadn’t eaten all morning and was having trouble thinking straight. If she could have a quick drink—just a few mouthfuls—her head would clear and she’d be able to finish this media release. If only she’d brought the bottle of vodka with her.
She opened up Twitter to distract herself. All the journos seemed to tweet the news before they’d even written and filed their stories these days. She scrolled down her feed without absorbing much. After a minute or two, she noticed she had a direct message from Helen. She clicked on it.
Is it true that Dixon’s resigning tomorrow? ICAC announcement must be on its way, then?
She tapped out a message in return.
I’m preparing a glowing statement from Geoff right now. Spin that wheel!
She sent the message, then immediately hit new to type another.
Dixon’s a fucking crook. If the public believe this garbage they’re as stupid as we are.
Send. New message.
I mean, the guy’s taken six overseas trips since he’s been in the job. Funny how he never takes any policy people with him though, isn’t it?
It felt good to spew forth everything she’d been silently ruminating on for months. She opened up a new message.
He must think we’re a bunch of fucking morons. And we are, because we’ve been funding the philandering bastard’s holidays for three years!
She’d just hit send again when her mobile started to ring and Charlotte’s name flashed up on the screen. At the same time, her desk phone rang. She frowned.
‘Hi, Charlotte,’ she said into her mobile.
‘Hey, Ali,’ her former colleague said, but Ali could sense the eagerness beneath her casual tone. ‘You’re certainly having an interesting morning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you care to comment on the tweets you just sent?’
Ali’s heart thudded. She scrolled up her feed with her free hand. There they were. Her four messages, in quick succession, interspersed between the tweets of others. She hadn’t sent private messages to Helen. She’d tweeted them to all her followers. Including every local journo on Twitter. Horror shuddered through her.
She hung up without answering, her hands shaking. Her desk phone was still ringing. As she found her sent items and began to delete them, her news feed shot upwards rapidly. With growing horror, she saw her own words repeated back at her. People were retweeting her.
‘Fuck fuck fuck!’
She’d deleted all her original messages, but someone had taken screenshots and now everyone was retweeting those. The gates were open. She was too late to stop the onslaught. The door to her office swung open and crashed into the wall. Alex towered over her, his face deep red with rage.
‘What. The. Fuck?’ he shouted.
‘It was an accident!’ she cried. ‘They were meant to be DMs to Helen!’
‘Too right it was a fucking accident! I’ve got journos calling asking me for comment!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Ali’s voice shook.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ali, we’d almost got ourselves out of this! This time tomorrow, we would’ve been in the clear. Sure, we would’ve had questions, but it would all be over. But now we’re fucked. Fucked! This could lose us the election, you stupid bitch!’ Spittle flew from his lips as he yelled at her.
‘I’m sorry!’ she said again.
‘Don’t talk to the media at all,’ Alex said. ‘Not one fucking word, do you hear me? Pack up your stuff, delete your emails, and get out of here. You’re gone.’
‘You’re… you’re firing me?’ Ali could hardly get the words out.
‘Of course I’m fucking firing you!’ Alex threw his hands up in disbelief. ‘I’ve tolerated nothing but mistakes from you for months. You come in every day reeking of alcohol—don’t look at me like that, we’ve all noticed. You’re a disaster. I’ve given you break after break, but this is too far. Now get out of here so I can clean up your mess.’
He stalked out, leaving the door open. A few of the correspondence staff stared at her from their desks, then looked away quickly when she met their curious gazes. Ali’s desk phone rang on and on. She sat still. Numb. In less than six months, she’d lost her baby, husband and job. Everything in the world she’d cared about.
Gone.
Tom
It wasn’t until late afternoon that Tom noticed some of the other staff giving him strange looks as they passed him in the corridors.
He hadn’t told anyone about him and Ali yet. Not even Cliff. Had someone found out that he’d been living in a hotel room for the last few days? Had he become the latest fodder for office gossip?
By the time he left the office at six thirty, all but a couple of the other partners had gone for the day. He slipped out to the lift without saying goodbye to anyone.
He stopped at a small cafe to order a container of limp pasta that looked like it’d spent the entire day in a bain-marie, then continued on to his hotel. His room card slotted into the door and the little light turned green, permitting his entry. Tom put the pasta on the bed, unbuttoned his shirt and switched on the television. He wasn’t hungry, but he opened up the container anyway and wrinkled his nose at the smell of cheap, powdered parmesan. It was only then that he realised he hadn’t asked the cafe for a fork. A couple of teaspoons were the only utensils he found beside the kettle. He groaned. If he called the concierge desk, someone would probably bring him a fork, but he didn’t care enough to bother. He sat on the edge of the bed and dug the teaspoon into the lukewarm pasta. The seven o’clock news started, and Tom half watched it as he shovelled the tasteless pasta into his mouth and forced himself to chew and swallow.
>
‘…and the state government has gone into crisis control after media adviser Alison O’Hare today unleashed an extraordinary tirade on Twitter about embattled education head Joshua Dixon…’
Tom choked on his mouthful. The teaspoon fell silently to the carpet. There, on the TV screen, was a close-up shot of his wife’s face from her Twitter profile. The sight of her confident smile, her pre-Elizabeth smile, made Tom’s heart contort.
‘In a stream of vitriolic messages, O’Hare revealed that Dixon had used government funds for private holiday trips and was reportedly going to resign tomorrow after being pushed by education minister Geoff Saunders. She went on to accuse the public of being “stupid” if they believed the minister’s statement. O’Hare has since deleted the offending tweets, but political reporter Daniel Thomas managed to get this screenshot shortly after they were broadcast.’
The screen showed the tweets Ali had sent. They’d blurred out the swear words, but there was no mistaking their meaning.
‘O’Hare could not be reached for comment today. A spokesperson for Minister Saunders provided a statement to say that O’Hare’s contract with the government has been terminated.’
Tom stared at the TV, stunned, as the newsreader moved on to other stories. The Ali he knew would never have had such a lapse of judgement. After a few minutes, he switched off the television and called his wife, but it went straight to voicemail.
‘Ali, it’s Tom. I only just saw the news. Shit, what happened? Call me back.’
He hung up and nursed his phone in his hands. The container of pasta, now cold and congealing, remained beside him on the bed. So that was why he’d been getting all those funny looks at work today. None of the bastards had had the guts to tell him. Or maybe they’d presumed he already knew, since as far as they were aware he was still living with Ali. He stood up and grabbed his wallet and keys. Regardless of what had happened between them, he wasn’t going to leave Ali to deal with this alone.
Ali
Ali sat in a green leather booth, body limp and brain numb, contemplating the wreckage of her life.
The bearded bartender was too discreet to ask what a woman in a suit was doing drinking spirits in a bar by herself. But when Ali laid her head on her arms over the table, he came across with her credit card, which she’d surrendered on arrival. ‘Sorry, but I can’t legally serve you any more drinks. I think maybe you should call it a night.’
Ali didn’t even look at the total as she keyed her PIN into the handheld terminal with an unsteady finger.
‘You OK getting home?’
She nodded, weaved her way to the exit and stumbled up the steps. Daisy-yellow sunlight still splashed across the laneway when she emerged into the evening. Somehow, she’d expected it to be dark. Like she’d been in the bar for days. Despite the summer warmth, a cool breeze raised goosebumps on her bare arms.
She reached the end of the lane and turned left. Vision blurred. The footpath swam before her, threatened to leap up and grab her. The street sloped downhill, or was her drunkenness pulling her down? Flashes of neon lights; the smell of smoke from cigarettes and shisha bars, one acrid, the other sweet. Hindley Street.
She tripped and almost fell.
‘Taxi!’ A raucous cry from the shadowy interior of one of the strip clubs. Uproarious laughter.
Ali stumbled again in her haste to move on. She’d been walking forever when she came to a main intersection. Morphett Street. She was heading further away from home. Pausing, she glanced back at the pub behind her. The Rosemount. Not so long ago, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a dive, but she wasn’t ready to go home yet, and this place would have no qualms about serving her more alcohol.
Beer-soaked carpets and stale vomit cut through her numbness, and she would have brought up the contents of her stomach had it contained anything more than vodka. She reached the bar.
‘I need something to eat,’ she slurred. ‘And a beer.’
‘Ah, it’s the party girl.’ The white-shirted bartender’s wry smile danced through her foggy vision.
She stared at him blankly.
‘You look like you could use a big bowl of chips,’ he went on.
She nodded and climbed up onto one of the bar stools. It was missing a cap from one of its feet and teetered to the side under her weight.
‘You sure do get around,’ the bartender said as he set down her pint of lager. ‘Parkside on Friday night, Hindley Street tonight.’
Ali blinked at him, and then it clicked who he was. The bottle shop attendant. She took a gulp of beer and winced at the rancid taste after the strong, pure sensation of the vodka.
‘How many jobs do you have?’ she asked, trying to ignore the churning in her guts.
He chuckled. ‘Just these two. Although I’m going to give this one up soon. My masters thesis is due next year and I don’t need the late nights. Plus, this place is a shithole, even on a quiet Monday evening.’
‘Ah, you’re studying.’ Ali pointed a finger at him. ‘Good man.’
He laughed again. ‘Glad you approve.’
Ali drained half the glass of beer and held it against her flaming cheek. She closed her eyes against the shock of the cold, and when she opened them again, the bartender was placing a white square bowl in front of her, overflowing with hot chips. Ali plunged her hand in and put three in her mouth at once. They burnt her tongue, but she grabbed another handful immediately.
‘Hungry?’ the bartender observed.
‘I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.’
He frowned, elbows on the bar. Studying her. ‘Are you OK? You look like you’ve had a hell of a day.’
She smiled. ‘You could say that. What are you studying?’
‘International relations.’
‘Mmmm. Any jobs in that?’
He grinned. ‘Guess I’ll find out when I graduate. I’m Jake, by the way.’
‘Ali.’ She reached out a hand to shake his. This helped, talking to someone who knew nothing about her. Her head felt clearer.
‘So, why are you out drinking by yourself on a Monday night? I’ve seen you in the bottle shop a bit. You seem like the type who’s got it all together.’
Ali finished her mouthful and regarded him for a moment. ‘Not anymore. I lost my job today.’
‘Redundant?’
‘No. I fucked up. Got fired.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ He looked embarrassed.
‘Could I have a vodka, please?’
Jake turned to get the bottle of vodka from the shelf behind him, but not before she caught the slightly worried look on his face. Just another person cloaking his judgement in false concern.
She watched as he poured her a careful measure and pushed it across the bar towards her. She snatched it up. Threw it back. Grimaced. Held the glass out for more.
‘I see you’re married,’ Jake said.
Ali’s eyes followed his gaze to her left hand. Her emerald-cut engagement ring and diamond-studded wedding band glinted back at her. Even after everything, she still put them on every morning. At some point she would probably have to stop wearing them. Another casualty.
‘Have you got a family?’ the bartender prompted.
She shook her head faintly. ‘Gone. All gone.’
He looked alarmed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ali gestured at the vodka bottle, and he poured her another hit. Without hesitation, she threw her head back. The fire raged down her throat, roared in her belly, then suddenly began to come back up.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, half jumped, half fell from the bar stool, and stumbled blindly towards the bathroom. Too late. She didn’t quite make it into a cubicle before the day of ruinous drinking overflowed from her. Bent double, she shuffled to the toilet and hunched over it, her body convulsing and heaving as she purged everything inside her.
When it was over, she got to her feet, shaking all over. Vomit had splashed across her skirt and stained the front of her shirt. She moved to the b
asin and rinsed her mouth out. Her reflection was almost unrecognisable. Mascara streaked her cheeks. Her eyes were wet from the exertion.
When she finally emerged, ashamed, from the bathroom, Jake was sitting on the bar stool she’d vacated. Another bartender had taken his place behind the bar.
‘My shift just finished,’ Jake said. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
Ali tried to narrow her eyes at him, but her face wouldn’t obey her. ‘Why are you being so nice to me? You don’t even know me.’
‘You obviously live local to the Arkaba, since you walked there the other night. I live close too. It’s no trouble, and after the day you’ve had, I want to see that you get home safely.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but a wave of exhaustion swept over her. The last thing she wanted now was to walk up Hindley Street alone hunting for a taxi. She nodded weakly, and followed him out of the pub and into the cool of the evening.
Jake put his hand on her waist, steadying her. His touch was both welcome and repellent. She was grateful for his kindness, but he wasn’t Tom.
Tom. The thought of him was an almost physical pain. It seemed like weeks since she’d seen him, but he’d only been gone for three days. How was she going to survive without him?
Tom
Tom was asleep on the couch when Ali’s key rattled in the lock. He sat up abruptly and blinked the sleep from his eyes. Her voice, slurred and wavering. Another voice. A man’s voice.
A man’s voice?
Tom leapt up and rushed down the hallway. Ali was on the doorstep. She looked like hell, her eyes bloodshot and bleary, her clothes stained with what looked like vomit. A guy stood behind her, hands in his pockets. He was good looking. Young. Tom’s face twisted. ‘You didn’t waste any time.’
‘Tom.’ She collapsed against him, her arms winding around his neck, clinging to him.
Tom was bewildered. His arm automatically encircled her waist as he glared at the guy on the porch. ‘Who are you? Why have you brought my wife home in this state?’
The man raised his hands in defence. ‘She was drinking in the bar where I work. She was in a pretty bad way and my shift was just ending, so I offered to drive her home. I live near here, so…’ His voice trailed off.
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