Another Love (16 page)

The next morning I woke early, sat at my little desk and carefully removed the note from my reading book. I tore the slip off, not worrying that it wasn’t straight. I took a felt-tipped pen and wrote
Romilly Wells
on it in my best writing. And then I drew a big red, yellow and green flower on it, with a smiley face. I drew flowers on most things; I was trying to perfect them. I decided this wasn’t enough of an embellishment, so I put two stickers on it too, one of a rabbit holding a dandelion and the other saying ‘Great Teeth!’ that I’d been given when I went to the dentist. I arrived at school and handed it in to Mrs Hopkins. I was certain she’d think it was from Mum.

She had to admit that, apart from feeling a little out of sorts, physically uncomfortable and missing home so badly she almost couldn’t think about it, the first day and night at Orcus weren’t too bad. She had declined the thick, gloopy, carrot-based juice that Gemma had brought her and had similarly dismissed the thinner green one that smelt like soil and had appeared some hours later. The surroundings were luxurious and everyone was friendly. So far, so good. Whether it would help her kick the booze, she wasn’t sure. It all felt a bit tame, if she was being honest. At some level, she’d been hoping for a sterner intervention, a shock to her system that would leave her swearing off alcohol for life. She needn’t have worried. On day two, the shock came.

Romilly woke with an empty, gnawing pain in her gut that made her double over into a foetal position. She wanted to spend the day curled up and hiding, but Gemma and her colleague Neil had other ideas. ‘We’ll get you hooked up and the infusion will make you feel better, I promise.’ Gemma was as usual, stern but kind.

Romilly shook her head; her hair was stuck to her face and scalp with sweat. ‘I just… I just want to stay in my room.’

‘I know, sweetheart, but you can’t. We need to get you hooked up to the IV and get the good stuff into your system. Come on, up you jump.’ Gemma pulled back the duvet.

‘Why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone! I’m not a child!’ Romilly roared. Her outburst shocked her more than it did her carers, who had heard it all a thousand times before.

‘You don’t mean it, Romilly, and we’re not going anywhere, so come on, up you get!’

She hauled herself into a sitting position and tried to stop her jaw locking tight and her muscles spasming with tension. It was the most uncomfortable state she’d ever found herself in. ‘Please can I j… just stay here?’ she whispered, shivering and contrite now, ashamed of her tantrum.

’Fraid not. Do you want to shower now or later?’ Neil asked as he tidied the towel from the chair and folded her dressing gown, which she’d flung from her bed in the night.

‘Later.’

She reluctantly left the confines of her room, accompanied by Neil and Gemma.
Not like prison, my arse
, she thought as they escorted her to the treatment room.

Romilly sat in the chair and closed her eyes as they inserted the needle into her arm. Her teeth ground together, her body ached and wave after wave of sickness washed over her, starting in her gut and rolling out like a tangible, tumbling thing, not content until it had curled along her limbs and up to the top of her head, filling her completely with the horrible sensation of emptiness, starvation and a stomach-churning need for a drink. Her face and palms were sweating and she smelt. Not just a regular, wake-up-and-need-a-shower smell, or end-of-a-busy-day, need-a-bath smell, this was something else. She stank and she knew that if she could smell it, then so could others. And then the diarrhoea started.

Her tears, when they came, were of frustration and embarrassment. She kept thinking about Celeste and wondering what she was doing at that very moment. She pictured her on her way to school, chatting to her dad as he dropped her off en route to the office; in the playground, doing skipping with her friends; back home, watching
Blue Peter
all on her own; snuggling up with Teddy under her little ladybird duvet. She cried even harder.
I’m sorry, my darling girl. I miss you so, so much…

On day four, Romilly was called into Lorna’s office.

‘David has phoned every day and sends his love.’

Romilly had to stop herself glaring at the woman.
That’s my husband you are talking about! Don’t you dare send me his love. You don’t know him, you don’t know us! I just want to talk to him.
Instead, she simply nodded.

‘I understand it’s hard not talking to your family.’ Lorna had correctly read her expression. ‘But it really is for the best. It can be a huge distraction from the task in hand and it’s far better to give the programme your whole concentration.’

Romilly shrugged.

‘How are you sleeping?’ Lorna’s tone was level.

‘I’m not really.’ She removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes, which felt full of grit, before replacing them. ‘I find it hard to drop off, my mind is churning so much, and then when I do, it’s almost getting-up time. I’ve had some terrible dreams.’

‘What about?’

Romilly took a deep breath. ‘I dream I’m drinking and I’m in a kind of holiday resort and my whole family are sitting back, having dinner, shocked and horrified by my behaviour and it’s like I’m watching myself from above. I stagger in the street and I can hardly stand. I take my clothes off and I’m yelling and swearing. It makes me cringe and makes me feel guilty, but then when I wake up, I long for the drink that I had in my dream and that makes the dream guilt feel real, and makes me feel like crap.’ She picked at her cuticles.

‘Do you want to break that dream down further?’

Oh, for God’s sake! It’s obvious, isn’t it?
‘No, I think I can read it quite well.’

‘Are you managing to take any of the juices? They are so good for you, bursting with lovely organic veg, and they will really help.’

‘I’ll try and have one today.’

‘As you’ll understand, being a scientist, when your body is used to getting its calories from alcohol, your bowel and intestines can take a while to adjust to processing regular food again. Juices are a great way to ease you back in. Are you drinking plenty of water?’

An image of a metallic-green
Cicindela splendida
she’d seen while she was at a conference in Florida flashed into her mind. She’d spent ages watching as the tiger beetle lapped up the morning dew on a leaf, getting the water it instinctively knew it needed. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago now.

‘Yes. I’m drinking plenty of water.’

‘And you have a group counselling session now?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Romilly whispered, trying to sit up straight and at least look engaged.

‘How are you finding them?’

Pretty pointless. I can’t see how listening to a bunch of strangers talk about how well or badly they’re doing will help me stop wanting a drink.
‘Okay. Yes. Fine.’

Lorna shifted in her seat and closed her laptop. There was a second or two of silence before she spoke and Romilly felt her face flush, as though she might be in trouble.

‘The thing is, Romilly, there are two strands to being here. One is physical; trying to almost recalibrate your body so that it no longer expects alcohol and can cope without it. And the other is psychological; trying to understand why you choose to drink and how you might break your dependency. And that is only really possible if you
want
to break the dependency.’ Lorna gave Romilly a searching look. ‘When you’re fully committed to stopping drinking. Do you understand?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’ Romilly nodded her understanding and left to go and join her group therapy class.

‘Red! I saved you a seat,’ Jasper called out, pointing at the comfy leather recliner next to his.

She kicked off her shoes and sat down, curling her feet under her.

‘I wonder what the main feature is. Hope it’s a
Die Hard
, they’re my faves. I went to get you popcorn and a Coke, but I didn’t like the look of the queue and didn’t want to miss the trailer.’ He grinned.

She gave him a sideways smile. ‘Thanks.’ She found him irritating but had to admit that she’d miss him if he weren’t there to lighten the mood.

‘I wonder what revelations lie in store for us today?’ he whispered. ‘My money is on Brendan finally breaking down and confessing to his cross-dressing ways.’ He nodded at the quiet older man with the large bushy moustache and mass of grey hair that was so naturally bouffant it resembled a wig.

Romilly bit her lip as he continued undeterred. ‘Or Mary the speedy blinker revealing her “Love” and “Hate” tattoos, which she has on each tit. What do you reckon?’

Romilly looked at the neat fifty-year-old woman who picked holes in her cardigan and had already shared, in a voice little louder than a whisper that she’d worked in local government for the last twenty years.

‘I think you’re going to get me into trouble.’ She widened her eyes at Jasper and sat back, waiting for the session to begin.

Mario the therapist was confident, nice-looking and consciously sympathetic. He cocked his head and knitted his eyebrows in concentration at whoever was responding to his question, as though the words they spewed contained insight and wisdom and weren’t just the ramblings of a would-be-drunk. As usual, he began the session by leading a five-minute relaxation exercise, getting everyone to breathe in slowly through the nose and out of the mouth, designed to get them all to a calm place. Then Helen, a fortysomething fashion designer from west London, was given the floor.

‘This is my fifth attempt at coming off booze,’ she began.

Weak…
The word leapt into Romilly’s head uninvited as she appraised the slightly grimy, slightly lost-looking middle-aged woman in front of them. Her self-pitying tone didn’t help, either.

‘And I know this time it’s different because I am free to go and yet I’m choosing to stay. I think that’s a really good sign. It means I’m here because I want to get clean and if I want to get clean then that’s over half the battle.’

There was a little ripple around the circle of smiles, a few nods and one or two claps.

I’m not like you. I’m not anything like you. I live in a nice house in Stoke Bishop, I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter at Merrydown School. I’m not like you. I’m not like anyone here. I just want to go home.

‘The holistic programme, the juicing, everything has really helped me. I never thought I’d want to swap alcohol for health, but I do! I want to be healthy.’ This earned another ripple of encouragement. ‘At my lowest point…’ Helen paused and spoke more slowly, staring at the floor. ‘At my lowest point, I was on the game and the men I went with paid me in vodka.’ She looked up, catching the eye of several in the circle.

What the fuck?
Romilly tried to hide her disgust and suspend judgement, but it was difficult.

‘I could never have imagined falling so far, but I did and in a way I needed to hit rock bottom before I could start to climb back up. That’s it, really. I am feeling confident about my future and I want to keep feeling like this and so I’m going to do everything I can to get better, every day.’

Helen shrugged her shoulders and tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears. Mario looked overwhelmed as he walked forward to embrace her, rewarding her openness with a hug and a gentle, sincere squeeze on the arm.

Romilly sat with Jasper for their evening juice, sipping the beetroot, ginger and celery concoction through a fat straw.

‘This is way better than steak and chips!’ He clinked his glass against hers and she tried hard to suppress the image of cold glasses of wine that popped into her head.

‘Do you find
everything
funny?’ she asked.

He considered this as he swallowed the purple iced puree. It was sharp and he sucked in his cheeks then stuck out his tongue. ‘No, I don’t. But I’m very good at hiding behind my funnies.’

‘How old are you, Jasper?’

‘Twenty-two. And you?’

She smiled. ‘Twenty-nine.’

‘Is this your first time in therapy?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘And you?’

He tipped his head back and laughed. ‘Oh God, no! I’ve lost count. I’ve been everywhere, including to three clinics in America, one of them in the desert, where I was supposed to chant away my demons while sitting in a pit and holding a special stick. Another was in Spain, where we were encouraged to hike up the Sierra Nevada and eat only what we could catch—’

‘That sounds harsh!’ she interjected.

‘Not really. I found a pretty boutique hotel and managed to catch a platter of tapas and a fine bottle of local red.’ He winked at her. ‘I’ve had stints in several clinics all over the British Isles and now here, again.’

‘You’ve been here before?’ She was surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her that you might return again and again.

‘Yep. My parents will send me anywhere and do anything rather than sit and talk to me about what’s going on in my crazy, messed-up head.’ He tapped his leg nervously. ‘It seems it’s just too much to ask for them to figure out how to live a life where they don’t have to lock their booze in their gun cabinet.’

‘So what
is
going on inside your crazy, messed-up head?’

‘My brother died, in a car accident.’ He stared at the floor.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’

Jasper nodded his acceptance of her condolences. ‘Unfortunately, it was me that was driving the car, illegally, aged sixteen. And it’s fucked my head and I will take any drug or drink, practically anything I can get hold of, just to blot out all feeling. And my mum and dad can barely look at me, let alone help me. He was brilliant and handsome and funny and now he’s nothing and it’s my fault. It’s pretty fucked up.’ His smile had faded and he now looked like the young man he was, a very young man who was scared.

‘Does it help you, being here?’ she whispered, feeling a wave of affection for this damaged boy.

‘I think the distraction is good, but does it cure me of my addiction? No.’ He held her stare, pale and unsmiling.