Another Love (24 page)

‘The what?’

‘Urine test. They make you whizz in a beaker. Have you just arrived?’ He twisted to look at her.

‘How often do they do that?’ She was aware of the quake in her voice.

‘Every day.’

She felt her eyelids flutter.
Shit!

‘Morning, Mrs Wells. Please come through.’ Dr Nagel stood at the open door and beckoned for her to enter. He was wearing a white coat over his black trousers and white shirt and must have been about her age. ‘Please take a seat.’ He gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

‘So, all a bit strange for you, I expect?’ he asked kindly.

She nodded and picked at her thumbnail.

‘The first thing I need to ask is that you sign this form.’ He brandished a clipboard in her direction and handed her a pen. ‘It grants us permission to treat you and it also includes a confidentiality clause stating that there will be no sharing of pictures or events on social media and that details of all treatments, classes, interactions with and identities of other residents will remain confidential.’

She looked up at him. ‘Why would anyone want to put on social media that they’re here or talk about anyone they met here?’ She pushed her glasses up, out of habit rather than necessity.

‘You’d be surprised!’ He laughed. ‘Have you had a drink today?’ His tone had changed.

‘Yes.’ She nodded, figuring it was better to be straight.

‘Okay. Well, starting from tomorrow we will conduct a daily urine test and if we find the presence of alcohol or any non-prescription drugs, that will be the end of your time here. We run a popular programme and quite frankly we need everyone to be on board with the treatment. Otherwise it’s just a waste of your time and ours. We can help you, Romilly, but you need to want to help yourself.’

She scrawled her name on the dotted line and stared at him, wondering if every unit and every treatment started with the same phrase.

The first thing she saw when she returned to her room was an envelope stuck to the door with sticky tape. Peeling it off, she read and reread the short note that had been folded inside. It informed her that her room had been inspected during her absence and that a package had been removed from inside the toilet cistern and destroyed. As a result she was being given a warning; one more violation would mean that she would be asked to leave the programme.

Romilly sank down on her bed and cried again, pointless tears of longing and regret, wishing that, like Dorothy, she could click her heels and be home. Not that she could be certain of a similarly warm welcome. She looked at the scrunched-up note in her palm. Now she properly knew what it felt like to be waiting outside the headmaster’s office. Tilting over, she laid her head on the thin pillow. Thoughts of her family evaporated. She hoped for sleep, prayed for oblivion, but it was as if the booze spectre had placed its dark hood over her head. It was all she could think about, all she wanted.

*

The routine at Rechtsmittel was very similar to that at The Pineapple, only here she was being medicated. And it helped. During the supervised lakeside hikes and at mealtimes she mixed a little and made two new friends. Leather trouser guy, it turned out, was called Lenny and though originally from the UK now lived in Miami, where he clung to the coattails of those who clung to the coattails of the rich and famous. Romilly asked him if he was a rock star, wondering if that was what had prompted Dr Nagel’s speech on anonymity and privacy. Lenny laughed loudly. ‘Yes, I am a rock star every single night between 10 p.m. and when I pass out, and I don’t even need an audience!’ That told her pretty much all she needed to know.

Her other new friend was Sam, a lady from the Home Counties who she estimated to be in her fifties and who was on her sixth stint in rehab. During one group session, as they all sat on the floor in a circle, Sam openly confessed that she had drunk away her house, her looks, her job and her self-respect, gaining quite a reputation in her home town in the process. Most devastatingly, she’d also lost contact with her only son. It wasn’t until she came up for air, eight years later, that she properly realised the true state of her life and by then it was too late. As she herself put it, ‘Life had moved on; everyone, everything had changed, apart from me. And now what does my future look like? I can’t see one a lot of the time. I mean, I’ve missed his birthdays, his eighteenth, his exams. Maybe he’s driving? Maybe I’m a gran?’ She gave a small laugh to hide her anguish. ‘I’m forty-two and I feel finished.’

Romilly stared at her with her mouth open, shocked to discover her real age. She thought Sam’s words were the saddest she had ever heard and was thankful that she wasn’t like that.

Dr Nagel seemed to be watching her more than the garrulous Sam and when the session drew to a close, he beckoned her over. Taking up the chair next to him, she sat politely, a little uneasy at having been singled out.

‘How are you doing, Romilly?’ His smile was fleeting.

‘I’m doing okay. Looking forward to getting home eventually, obviously. I miss my daughter very much, but I think it’s beautiful here and… I like the walks around the lake.’ Nerves were making her babble.

Dr Nagel tapped his fountain pen on the hard-backed A4 book that sat on his legs. He stared at her, his expression questioning. ‘This is your second time in therapy?’

She nodded.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ He crossed his legs, as if settling in for a chat.

‘Of course.’ She gave a tentative smile but received none in return.

‘How did you find it today? What do you think of the people you have seen here in the group session?’ He folded his arms, with one hand coming to rest on his chin. With his arms and legs twisted together, he looked like a little human puzzle, which was ironic, she thought, as it was his job to try and figure everyone out, crack the code.

She looked at the window and recalled a few of the faces. ‘They all seem very nice,’ she said evasively.

‘Yes, they are. Do you think you are like them? Or rather, do you think that they are like you?’

Almost instantly she shook her head. ‘No, not really,’ she whispered conspiratorially.

‘You don’t see anything in common with them?’ He leant forward.

She hesitated, trying to think what it was he wanted to hear.

He didn’t wait for her response. ‘Let’s phrase it a different way. Why are you not like these people? What makes them different to you?’

She decided to come clean, having the distinct feeling that he would keep her there until she told him the truth. ‘I don’t think I am like these people, no.’ She shook her head. There, she’d said it. ‘They are addicts, alcoholics, and it’s very sad, obviously. I can’t stand listening to stories like Sam’s or the man who spoke—’

‘Wilhelm,’ he prompted.

‘Yes, Wilhelm. It’s horrible to see them distressed and to see them struggle like that, but I’m not like them. I’m not. I’m a scientist; I know how the brain and the body work and I’ve just hit a bump in the road. I’m grateful to be here, but I’m confident that I’ll be back on track soon.’ She adjusted her glasses and returned his stare, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

Dr Nagel uncrossed his arms. It was a second or two before he spoke. ‘Wilhelm is a leading academic surgeon in Stuttgart. Do you think he understands the brain and the body? Or what about Markus? He was a test pilot – intelligent and with super-fast reactions. Sam was an interior designer. Lotte, a concert pianist. I could go on. The point I’m making is no one is immune from this disease. Alcoholism. That’s what these people are: alcoholics. It’s a disease and in my opinion one you are also suffering from.’

Whether consciously or not, she shook her head slightly. ‘I’m not that bad,’ she whispered.

Dr Nagel stiffened. ‘Do you ever feel guilty about your drinking?’

There was a slight pause, not long enough for her to form a response, but long enough for a devastating image of David to appear, hurling their china on to the kitchen floor.

‘Are you ever dishonest about how much you drink? Does your drinking cause others to be concerned? Have you ever drunk yourself into oblivion and had no memory of the episode? Can you take a sip, put the lid back on and leave the bottle?’

She stared at him, her muscles tense, her top lip dotted with sweat.

‘How bad do you think it has to be, Romilly, before you qualify?’

She shrugged, feeling like a child that had been caught out, disliking the man and his manner.

‘I see people like you all the time and the difference between those that get better and those who just go through the motions is the extent to which those individuals are willing to own their problem, see that they need help and accept the help they’re given.’

I know I need help. I’ve hit some lows, but I can do this! I’m strong and I have a hell of a lot to get stronger for. This is just a bump in the road.

*

The Romilly that returned from Austria was determined. She had stood in front of the mirror at the clinic with fists clenched, jaw set and a steely look of determination in her eyes. She would not drink alcohol. She would not. It got her into all sorts of trouble and she knew that their lives would be better if she didn’t go near it. She made promises. She promised to make it up to David. Her drunken infidelity, the details of which he had teased out of her, sat in her throat like a bitter lump, as if visible to all and tainting everything she tasted. She hated, truly detested what had happened and wished that she could rewind that night, politely decline Sara’s invitation and stay at home with her family. Her whole body shuddered if she let herself remember waking on that morning… How different things were going to be from now on. Even the idea of this new beginning sent a leap of happiness around her stomach. She couldn’t wait to get home and start afresh. With distance, she could see that Sara was not the kind of friend she should spend time with or have around her daughter. She would be polite if they did bump into each other, but otherwise she’d keep contact to a minimum.

Romilly was as good as her word, arriving home with a clear head and a fiercely determined attitude. It was like shaking off a foggy veil and it felt great! She watched the taxi trundle away down the cul-de-sac, then she turned to the front door. David opened it before she had a chance to knock and his face broke into a wide smile, as if for a second he had forgotten and was as delighted as ever to see his Bug Girl. As quickly as he had smiled, his expression changed, became stony. Reality had flooded in. ‘Come in.’ He stood back, as if inviting in an unwelcome guest, and that was exactly how she felt.

The best way she could describe relations with David was that they were thawing. She didn’t blame him; she often wondered what it would feel like if it had been her having breakfast that morning when the key finally found the lock and their whole world was thrown upside down. He had started to look her in the eye and now ate his meals with her and Celeste at the kitchen table, not hidden away in his study any more. She knew he was trying hard for the sake of his family to rid his mind of the memory of her bitten neck, her unkempt hair and that distinctive smell. She’d caught him once or twice, staring out of the kitchen window, mid task – the tap might be running to rinse a cup, or the dishwasher hanging open awaiting powder, but he was distracted, quietly gazing out into the garden in deep thought. About what she could only guess, but judging from the slope of his shoulders, the look on his face and his air of sadness, it was something that filled him with regret.

What she didn’t know was how far back that regret extended. To a time before that terrible morning, certainly. But was he also wishing away their early married life, the times he’d laughed off her antics with their friends? Did he even regret dropping to his knee on the suspension bridge, heedless of the tourists trying to squeeze past them on the narrow path? Even the possibility of this sent her into a spiral of self-doubt and anxiety and it took every ounce of her strength not to jump in the car or run four doors up in search of her medicine.

The mums at the school gate seemed pleased to see her back on the school run, no doubt fully briefed on events by Amelia’s mum. Frankly, what the parents at Merrydown Middle School thought of her was the least of her worries, and anyway, those in glass houses should never throw stones. Romilly was sure there had to be other mothers out there who came close to losing it after their nightly bottle of Chardonnay in front of the telly.

Celeste no longer gave her so many wide-eyed stares and for this Romilly was grateful, confident that she had very little inkling about the state of affairs. Her daughter was too preoccupied with playing games under her bed or giggling with her friends to fully understand, but that said, there was a certain distance between them now. Romilly tried hard to come across as responsible and reassuring, but she knew she’d let Celeste down and it was inevitable that her daughter would be a bit wary of her.

One morning, a few months after her return from Austria, Romilly was making her second cup of tea of the day when the phone in the kitchen rang. She wondered if it might be Mike Gregson. She was looking forward to his call. They had spoken a couple of days earlier and he’d said they would catch up soon. She knew he had done all he could to smooth things over with the powers that be, but she also knew that, like a leaky dam, there was only so much he could do to hold things off and time was against her. The bosses weren’t overly happy about her long periods of unplanned absence. Mike had hinted that they had a replacement lined up and were simply toeing the legal line to make sure they handled her case properly, wary of any repercussions should she feel she had been improperly ousted. Even though she wasn’t on full pay, it was more about them being a pair of hands short in the lab than anything else. She decided she would tell Mike she’d come back to work after the weekend. She knew the routine would be good for her and it would send David the right message that things were slowly getting back to normal.

‘Romilly, it’s me.’