Who Did You Tell?

by Lesley Kara

  ‘Astrid? Astrid, what are you doing?’

  With fumbling fingers, I stick the first key in the lock, but it won’t turn. I try the other one on the key ring, but my hand’s shaking so much I drop it. Now I don’t know which one I’ve just tried. By the time I’ve got the right key in the keyhole, she’s behind me. Her hand grips my shoulder, pulling me back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Astrid, but I can’t let you leave.’

  I twist the key, but it won’t fully turn. There’s some kind of obstruction. Rosie tries to push me out of the way.

  ‘Stop it!’ she hisses. ‘You’ll break the lock. Give me the keys!’

  I grab the handle with my left hand and pull the door towards me at the same time as twisting the key as forcefully as I can. At last, it works and the door springs open. I elbow Rosie sharply in the side of her chest and run away from her into the night. She’s shouting after me, but I’m back up the alleyway now and on to Flinstead Road, my chest tight with panic, adrenalin coursing through my veins.

  43

  I don’t stop running. I don’t even glance over my shoulder. I daren’t. I don’t care if Helen’s been drinking. I don’t care if she’s mad at me for turning up in the middle of the night. She’ll have to let me in. She’ll just have to.

  I reach her block of flats and hold my finger on the buzzer. What if I can’t rouse her? What if she refuses to get out of bed to open the door? But just when I’m on the verge of giving up the intercom crackles into life.

  ‘Helen, it’s me.’

  ‘Astrid? What are you doing here?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Helen! Let me in. Please! I’ll explain when I come up.’

  At last she buzzes me through.

  I take the stairs two at a time. It’s a good job it’s not the holiday season yet or this block would be fully occupied. I’d have disgruntled residents threatening to call the police, the racket I’m making. Helen is standing at her front door in her pyjamas.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘Rosie,’ I gasp, hanging over my knees in her hallway to catch my breath. ‘It’s Rosie!’

  My chest is tight with pain. I’ve never run so fast and so far in such a short space of time. Years of drinking and not looking after myself properly have taken their toll. I could have given myself a heart attack.

  I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out the folded photocopy. ‘Look what I found in her bag. She’s got his T-shirt too.’

  Helen takes the paper and walks away from me into the living room.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I told you. From Rosie’s bag. She’s his mother, don’t you see? Rosie is Simon’s mother!’

  My knees give way. Helen rushes forward and steers me towards the sofa.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In the shop. That’s where I’ve just come from.’

  ‘But Astrid, it’s one thirty in the morning. How could you have been in the shop?’

  ‘She’s got nowhere to live. She’s sleeping there.’

  Helen stares at the piece of paper. ‘Did Rosie say anything? About Simon? About … this?’

  ‘Just a load of weird shit about needing to talk to me, but I was so freaked out by then I wasn’t really concentrating on what she said. My mind was too busy working out how to get away from her.’

  ‘Did she try to come after you? Does she know where you are?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t hear anyone behind me. I didn’t look. I just kept running.’

  ‘Does she know where I live?’

  I think of the grey blur that rushed past the flats the first time Helen brought me here. The one I thought might be Rosie.

  ‘I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve never told her. Have you?’

  ‘No.’ Helen takes a long, deep breath through her nostrils. ‘Which means as long as you’re here, you’re safe. But what about your mother? Won’t she be worrying about you?’

  ‘Mum’s on a Quaker retreat. She won’t be back till Sunday evening.’

  Helen nods. ‘Well, that’s sorted, then. You’ll stay here tonight and we’ll work out what to do tomorrow.’ She rests her hand on my arm. ‘You must be terrified, you poor thing. And exhausted. You need to sleep.’

  ‘I can’t imagine falling asleep any time soon.’

  ‘Has Josh been in touch yet?’

  Josh. Richard. The party. Ever since finding Simon’s T-shirt, the pain and humiliation have been squeezed out. Now they come surging back. Tears well up in my eyes as I explain.

  ‘Seeing him there, it made me realize how much I’ve hurt him by not telling the truth. It made me realize how much I’ve got to lose if he decides he doesn’t want me. I can’t bear it, Helen. And now all this, with Rosie. I mean, why is she here, in Flinstead? What’s she going to do? She could ruin everything.’ I sniff back the tears. ‘If it’s not already ruined.’

  And then I see it, sitting on the kitchen counter. A three-quarters-full bottle of red wine and an empty glass. My heart sinks.

  Helen sees what I’m looking at. Her whole body stiffens. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she says. ‘I had a friend round earlier.’

  ‘Oh, Helen, surely you don’t expect me to believe that?’

  For a second I think she’s going to continue with the pretence, but then she hangs her head and sighs.

  ‘Okay, okay. I was going to tell you,’ she says, her voice suddenly low. ‘You’re right, I have been drinking again.’ She stares at the floor.

  ‘I know, I saw you in M&S the other day.’

  Her head jerks up. ‘I’ve just been having one glass, every now and again.’

  ‘Stop it, Helen. You’re deluding yourself. You know you are.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m not. I’m honestly not. I haven’t wanted any more than that, I promise. I know what they say in AA, that it’s impossible for people like us to just have one. But it is possible. After everything I’ve been through and all the soul-searching since, I’ve found a new resolve. And it’s working, Astrid. It really is. It’s called moderation management.’

  I can’t believe she’s saying this. I can’t listen to it any more. I can’t. It’s the same old rubbish I used to say to myself. The endless rules I kept setting – no more than two glasses a night, no drinking before 9 p.m. – they were all just excuses not to stop for good. Because the prospect of never having another drink was unthinkable. Still is.

  ‘So why did you buy so many bottles? You must have put at least four in your basket.’

  She won’t meet my eye. ‘They were on special offer.’ She gets up and goes over to it. ‘I have one small glass every day, and that’s it. I can do it now. I can manage my drinking.’ She looks down. ‘Apart from that one little slip before.’

  I have to stop her doing this. I need her sober. Tonight more than ever. I shake my head in despair.

  ‘Soon it’ll be two glasses, then three, then the whole bottle. You know it will. You can’t do this, Helen. Please, listen to me. You’re trying to normalize your drinking, but nothing about people like us is normal.’

  Her hand is on the neck of the bottle, her fingers almost caressing it. Suddenly, she twists off the screw cap and pours the wine into the glass. My stomach flips at the familiar glugging noise. A dangerous, glorious sound.

  ‘Please, Helen. Don’t do this. Not now. I need your help. I need you sober.’

  But it’s too late. The glass is already at her lips.

  44

  I watch the sinews in her neck contract as she swallows. Something inside me stretches taut, then sags. Josh doesn’t want me any more. What he said about needing time to process things – it was just a polite way of telling me to get lost. He hates me. And even if he does agree to see me again, Rosie and her twisted vendetta will put paid to any future we might have together. She’s not going to sit back while I start again with somebody else. As far as she’s concerned, I’m responsible for her son’s death.

  Helen licks
her lips and places the glass on the counter.

  ‘Don’t be taken in by the cult of AA, Astrid,’ she says, her voice soft and low. ‘You are not powerless over alcohol. You never were. You just lost your way for a bit. You’re a different person now. Just like me.’

  She picks the glass up again and holds it in front of her face. I see the light reflected in the ruby-coloured liquid, imagine the rich, grapey smell of it in my nostrils. The way it will taste on my tongue. The smooth, velvety feel of it sliding down my throat.

  ‘If Josh really loved you, he wouldn’t be putting you through this,’ she says, and takes another measured sip. There’s nothing wild or reckless about her. Nothing remotely alcoholic. Quite the opposite, in fact. She looks more in control than I’ve ever seen her. ‘How long is it since you told him?’ she says. ‘Two weeks now, isn’t it?’

  I dip my head. Helen’s right. Josh doesn’t love me. She’s right about AA too. It is a cult. If alcoholism is what they say it is, if it’s a medical condition, a disease, then why the hell is God the only cure? And how can I trust in it when the person so keen on peddling its diktats at every meeting was lying to me all along?

  I raise my eyes. Helen’s still there in front of me, poised and reasonable, the wine in her glass barely touched.

  The last piece of my resolve finally snaps. If she can do it without falling apart, why can’t I?

  ‘So,’ I say, my mouth watering in anticipation. ‘Are you going to pour me a glass or not?’

  The wine blazes a path from my mouth to my gut. The sensation is so familiar. So right. Like coming in from the cold to a room filled with warmth and long-forgotten comfort. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve downed several mouthfuls, one after the other. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. What the hell’s wrong with me? This is madness. I’ve got to stop before I drink the lot.

  I lean towards the table and put my glass down next to Helen’s. It feels wrong at first, like lighting a cigarette and letting it burn out in an ashtray. What’s the good of wine if it’s all the way over there on the table and not right here in my hand, where I can swig from it whenever I please? But it’s different now. It’s not going to be like before. I’m going to moderate myself. I’m just going to have one glass. That’s all. If Helen can do it, so can I.

  ‘What are we going to do about Rosie?’ she says.

  I’m so grateful for that. The way she says, ‘What are we going to do?’ It makes the whole thing seem manageable, somehow. Less scary.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I lean forward to reach for my glass, then change my mind at the last moment. It’s too soon. I’ve only just put it down. I’ve got to get used to this new way of drinking. I’ve got to get used to being normal.

  ‘What I can’t understand is how she found me here. Simon couldn’t have told her where my mum lived – he didn’t talk to her any more. He hated her. And anyway, I didn’t move in with Mum till after he’d died and I’d come out of rehab.’

  I reach for my glass, resisting the temptation to slug it right back. I’ve got to be sensible about this and savour each and every sip.

  ‘He didn’t talk about her very often. From the little he did tell me, it sounds like she used him to fulfil her own emotional needs after his father died.’

  Helen nods. ‘I read an article about that once. I think it’s quite common. They end up treating their own child like a surrogate spouse.’

  ‘But why didn’t he tell me she was an alcoholic?’

  Helen has suddenly gone very still.

  ‘What? Helen, what’s the matter? What are you thinking?’

  She picks up her glass and takes a sip. ‘Maybe she isn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe she’s just pretending.’

  ‘What, pretending to be an alcoholic just so she could attach herself to me at meetings? Bloody hell, Helen. That’s really creepy. Mind you, it explains why she was so keen to work with me on my recovery.’

  Recovery. My recovery. The words reverberate in my head. I stare at the wine in my hand and the glass starts to shake. Oh no, what have I done?

  It’s not too late, Astrid. It’s not too late. You can stop right now.

  But my mind is already starting to become fuggy and there’s a funny, bitter taste in my mouth.

  Helen eyes me over the rim of her glass. Her face looks all blurry. ‘Did he tell you that?’ she says.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That he hated her?’

  Helen stretches her legs out and rests her bare feet on the coffee table. She has the biggest feet I’ve ever seen on a woman. They’re veiny, like her hands, and there’s a disproportionately wide gap between the big and second toes. Simon had that too, but somehow it didn’t look so bad on him.

  I start to giggle.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she says.

  ‘Your feet.’

  ‘They’re not funny, they’re—’

  ‘Tragic,’ I say. ‘Your feet are tragic.’

  She lifts each foot in turn and circles her ankles. ‘So you don’t think I could make a living as a foot model, then?’

  Now we’re both laughing hysterically.

  ‘I’m so glad I met you,’ I say, when our laughter has subsided into long sighs and occasional snorts.

  Helen hands me my glass of wine and I take another mouthful. Maybe it’s because I haven’t drunk anything for ages, but it’s gone to my head already. I’m starting to relax at last, the sinking dread of the last couple of hours now fuzzy and weightless. Still there, somewhere, but too far away to matter. This is what I’ve missed. The sweetness of not caring.

  ‘I never realized a glass of wine could last so long.’ I chink my glass against hers. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘No indeed,’ she says, giving me a strange little smile. ‘But what are we going to do about Rosie?’

  Rosie. Fuck! How could I have forgotten about Rosie? I rub my eyes. It’s hard to make sense of it all. I can’t get my head round the facts. What they mean. My brain feels like cotton wool. Something scary happened earlier, but I can’t quite remember the sequence of events.

  ‘Fuck Rosie and fuck Josh!’ I shout. ‘Fuck both of them!’

  Helen clinks her glass against mine. ‘Foul-mouthed little slut,’ she says.

  I laugh. She’s good at the old banter is Helen. Except her voice sounds different. There’s a tone to it I haven’t heard before. Something snags at the very edge of my conscious mind. Why is she looking at me like that?

  My head slumps to my chest and suddenly I’m awake. I must have dozed off. Shit, I’ve got the spins. I rest my head on Helen’s shoulder and close my eyes, but that only makes things worse.

  ‘Need to puke.’ My voice sounds all weird and disembodied.

  Helen plonks the wastepaper bin on my lap and I wrap my arms round it. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Something isn’t right. It’s all spiralling out of control. I’m ill. I need to get to the loo.

  I try to stand up but lose my balance and fall down again. How the hell did I get so pissed on half a glass of wine? I stopped, didn’t I? But wait, there are three empty bottles on the coffee table. What the fuck? Where the hell did they come from? This wasn’t meant to happen. I wasn’t going to drink any more. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. And yet, the evidence is here. My spinning head. The empty bottles.

  I slump over my knees and retch in disgust. I’ve lost control. After all those months of staying sober, I’ve ruined everything.

  *

  I’m curled up in an uncomfortable position, and I’m cold. So cold. The room is pitch black and my head is throbbing with pain. Feels like there’s a creature trying to punch its way out of my forehead. I struggle to sit up, but a wave of nausea forces me back down.

  I don’t know where I am. Oh yes, I’m on Helen’s sofa. But where are my clothes? Oh, no. I haven’t, have I? I have. I’ve been sick. I can smell it.

  ‘Just look at
the state of you.’

  The voice startles me. It’s coming from the other side of the room.

  ‘Helen? Is that you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?’ Her voice is unusually bitter, her face cold, immobile. She switches the main light on, blinding me with its harsh glare. ‘You just couldn’t stop yourself, could you?’

  It’s several minutes before I can keep my eyes open long enough to see anything. When I do, I wish I couldn’t. I’m lying here in my underwear, my vomit-covered clothes in a heap on the floor next to me. Four empty bottles of red wine on the coffee table and … a pair of Helen’s brown tights, discarded on top of them, hanging limply down like the shed skin of a snake. What the hell is happening here?

  I roll off the sofa on to the floor, shaking and sweating. Then everything goes black.

  45

  When I come round the tights are gone but the bottles are still there. There’s only one glass, though. Daylight streams in through the large window. How could I have let this happen? After all the promises I’ve made. How many times do I have to make the same mistake before I learn?

  I rack my brain to work out what day it is. It must be Saturday morning already. But then I hear church bells. Sunday. How can it be Sunday? I take a long, deep breath to steady my nerves. If I can just get myself home in one piece, I have the rest of the day to sober up before Mum comes home.

  Oh God. Mum. She won’t forgive me. Not this time.

  I heave myself into a sitting position. A mouthful of bile shoots into my mouth and I shiver uncontrollably. I’m in serious trouble here. I reach for my sodden T-shirt, still lying on the floor with my jeans. And that’s when I realize I’m not alone. Helen is sitting in the armchair by the window, watching me. She’s fully dressed and she looks so different. Smarter, more fashionable, her hair unusually sleek, as if she’s just styled it with straighteners. She’s holding something on her lap, something soft, caressing it with her fingers.