Another Love (30 page)

Romilly was a star pupil and the further she progressed through the Clean Life, Clean Start programme, the more clearly she could see her horizon. After eighteen months, her model behaviour and commitment had earned her a tiny single room in one of the independent flats owned by the trust, a short stroll from Waterloo Station. The Tube trains rattled her windows as they rumbled along beneath her block on their way to Kennington, sending a judder through the entire building that unnerved newcomers, but she’d got used to it. She found the hum of all those people travelling underground like little moles quite comforting.

Her room was sparse, just the way she liked it. Anything more homely might have made it feel permanent and that would have been wrong. This was always going to be a stepping-stone. Tempted one weekend to put up a poster that T had given her, to cheer up the white wall above her single divan bed, she hesitated and thought about the house in Stoke Bishop, the cool, tiled floors, comfy sofas, soft bathroom lighting and fluffy white towels nestling on a rack. She quickly folded the poster and put it in the cupboard. Let someone else prettify the walls, not her. This was a rare slip. She deliberately avoided thinking about the house, because if she did, she inevitably started thinking about the people in it, and to even picture their faces was more than she could cope with.

The ache she felt to be with her family did not fade with time. In fact, the closer she came to feeling ‘cured’, the more she ached, as if her mind allowed those feelings to stir now that it was all within reach, almost. She had started to look at her recovery in terms of probability, understanding that the longer she abstained from drinking, the clearer her mind became, the more her physical cravings weakened and the less she felt like she needed a drink. And so it went. She was learning that it was important to stay locked in an upward spiral of success, celebrating every day of sobriety and taking great care not to spoil or undo all the work she’d done so far.

Her regular attendance at the group meetings helped. For the first time, Romilly listened, really listened and was able to identify with many of the tales told within that circle of chairs. The routes there were many and varied and they were bound not by where they had started but by their having ended up in that room, rock bottom for many. Among her own group of mumblers, shufflers, nail biters, angry men and crying women was a managing director, a florist, a grandparent, a teacher and a policeman. Ordinary people like her, former functioning members of society who had fallen into the dark crevice, lured by the scent of a cork or the feel of a glass bottle against their mouth.

Romilly walked to Chandler House every day, in all weathers. Pulling her jumper over her hands and buttoning up her coat, she marched over Waterloo Bridge, never tiring of the majestic view of Big Ben to her left and the City rising high into the sky to her right. The Shard stood like a razor, sharp and gleaming in the morning sun. She walked in a throng, everyone but her tapping or talking into phones, gripping cases and bags whose laptops and tablets linked them to the rest of the planet. She, however, felt removed from the world, unconnected, without a phone, computer or purse. She had no real identity, at least not there, and that was the way it needed to be for her.

She knew that, though she was doing well – it was twenty-two months, three weeks and two days since she’d had a drink – she was still teetering at the edge of the crevice, balanced on tiptoes. One harsh word of criticism from her mother, one flippant remark from Holly or indifferent sigh from David and she couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t jump. Only when she could confidently remain flat-footed and steady on the surface, with the crevice behind her and her purposeful stride taking her in the other direction, only then would it be time to pick up the phone or hop on a train. Only then would she make contact with Celeste, when she was certain that she was not going to let her down or harm her ever again.

Romilly stopped every morning to pick up a pint of milk at a corner shop on the edge of Theatreland. It was an incongruous little space among the bars, restaurants, coffee shops and designer offerings of this London postcode. Here, the shelves bulged with cheap white bread in plastic bags, no-brand biscuits, bottles of fizz, a huge variety of crisps, tiny jars of coffee, tinned peaches in syrup, cans of deodorant and a whole range of birthday cards aimed at young girls who loved glitter and cats. Romilly liked it because, for a minute or two while she surveyed the shelves, she could be anywhere, in any little shop in any street in any city, and it made her happy. There were a multitude of memories for her among these shelves, from nipping to the store for her mum, with coins nestling in her palm, to stopping at the shop on the way back to halls after a night out, eager to pick up junk food.

‘What are you doing?’ the middle-aged man behind the counter asked as she stood with her hands in the fridge, moving stuff around.

‘Oh, sorry! I was just sorting your milk. You had the bottles with the older dates at the back, so I was just bringing them forward, otherwise you’ll be left with a lot of out-of-date milk tomorrow morning.’ She looked at the floor.

‘I see. And what else would you like to change about my business?’ He folded his arms across his fat belly, which was encased in a zip-up cardigan that had dark stains down the front.

She looked around. ‘Well, you’ve put household bits and bobs like floor polish and scourers next to the cakes – that’s no good, they should be separate. People don’t want to think about bleach and cake.’

He sighed. ‘Anything else?’

She held his gaze. ‘You have too many of the same type of greetings card. You should have “Sorry You’re Leaving” cards and “Congratulations On Your New Job”. There are lots of offices around here and I bet people would pick them up.’

The man scratched at his grey stubble. ‘You want a job?’

‘Do I…?’ She thought she might have misheard.

‘What am I, a parrot, having to repeat everything? Do you want a job? The money’s crap and I am the worst boss in the world. I will forget to open up and leave you outside in the rain and I am one miserable bastard.’ His stony expression indicated he wasn’t lying.

‘I… I’m in a programme at Chandler House. I drink. Well, I did. I haven’t for a long time and I don’t intend to again. I’m from Bristol, but I’m here away from my family.’ She felt her lip tremble.

‘For God’s sake, do I look like I want your life story? I don’t!’ He shook his head. ‘So is that a yes?’

‘So, come on! Tell me! Is it yes or no? Don’t leave a guy hanging!’

Romilly smiled at him and nodded her head. ‘It’s a yes.’

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, lifting his chin.

‘Romilly.’

‘What kind of name is that!’

‘What’s yours?’

‘Doruk.’

‘For some people that might be as odd as Romilly,’ she shot back.

He ignored her. ‘Three days a week, ten till three. Start tomorrow.’ He threw a tabard at her, bottle-green with red piping.

She caught it between her hands and stared at it and then him. Feeling the polyester squeak between her fingers, she smiled at him. This was so much more than a job, this was a chance and it was a gesture of trust that she had no right to expect.

‘Oh and Ronnylee, or whatever that was, don’t be late!’ And he winked at her, flashing a wide, brief smile.

*

The round of applause was loud and heartfelt; it had been a great meeting. Father Brian stood and started to collapse the chairs, turning the space back into an office.

‘Father Brian?’

‘Yes?’ He continued to work as she hovered in the middle of the room.

‘Guess what? She beamed.

‘I don’t know!’ He removed his glasses and returned her smile.

‘I got a job! Someone gave me a job! Can you believe it?’

‘Yes, I can! And congratulations. At this rate, Romilly, you’ll be out of our hair before we know it. I’m so pleased for you.’

‘It feels like a big step.’

‘It is, that’s why.’

Romilly held the doorframe and looked at the man who had helped turn her life around. ‘You know, I used to have a great job that I loved, and a lot of responsibility.’ She pictured Tim, her lovely colleague, and the kind, kind Dr Gregson. ‘But I can’t imagine doing that now. I’m different, things are different.’

‘Yes. Now they are, but who knows about the future?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess. I wouldn’t have done any of this without you, Father Brian.’

‘Oh yes, you would. You’ve done it all. I’ve just provided the tools, but you’ve had to work hard with them and you have and you still are. You are a strong woman. Stronger than you know.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you. I have never believed in God, not really. I’ve always let the science part squash that kind of faith for me, but I do think that this place and you…’ She didn’t know how to phrase it. ‘It’s special.’

‘Goodness me, Romilly Wells, we’re not shifting that boulder, are we?’ He laughed.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. But it may have moved a fraction of an inch to let a thin ray of light into an otherwise dark place.’

Father Brian smiled at her knowingly. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

Romilly liked her job very much. Doruk was grumpy but kind, critical but generous and she was slowly learning how to react to him. He made constant jokes about how his wife should be in the kitchen and how business was a game for men. It was only when she met his formidable wife Ayla, saw how he adored and feared her in equal measure, that she realised his talk was all part of his sport. Ayla ran their two businesses and looked after their three kids. ‘This is the only place he’s safe, Romilly, at least in here I know where he is and he can’t cause too much damage! Keep an eye on him for me, will you?’ She placed a hand on Romilly’s arm as she left.

Doruk watched his wife leave and turned to Romilly with his hands on his hips. ‘She’s just showing off in front of you. Don’t listen to Ayla. It’s me that runs things around here!’

‘Oh hi, Ayla!’ Romilly waved over his shoulder. The speed with which he whipped around, with a look of abject fear on his face, was a picture. She laughed with her hand over her mouth to hide the gap where she’d lost two teeth.

‘Ah! Very funny!’ he spat and went outside for a cigarette.

*

It was an ordinary night at Chandler House. There were the usual familiar faces gathered in the circle, as well as a new girl, in her late teens, who’d been sleeping rough. Romilly was struck by how young the girl seemed and her thoughts immediately flew to Celeste. She wondered what her daughter was doing at that moment in time. She hadn’t spoken to her family in months and months; it was easier that way. Any snippets of information could keep her awake into the early hours, cluttering her head with grief and longing, making it hard to stay clear and focused, putting her recovery in danger.

Romilly listened as the girl spoke of her journey. She described in such detail the yearning for a drink that coursed through her veins that Romilly felt a flicker in her gut that she hadn’t experienced for quite a while. She sat on her hands to stem the shake and swallowed the bitter spit that filled her mouth. She would not give in to it, not now that she had her job and was doing so well.

Father Brian noticed her discomfort. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine. Just feel a bit blown off course tonight. A good night’s sleep and I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.’ She smiled.

‘If you’re sure. You know where I am if you want to talk.’

‘I do. And thank you.’ She reached over and gave him a small peck on his papery cheek, unsure if that was the correct thing to do, but not giving a fig.

‘Actually, Romilly before you go, I have something for you. It arrived today.’

He made his way to the desk and opened a drawer, removing a slim cream envelope on the front of which was the unmistakeable script of David Arthur Wells.

Romilly was rooted to the spot as she took the envelope into her trembling hands. She sank back onto the worn sofa that lived in the corner of the room and stared at the letter, addressed to her, the first she had received in a very, very long time.

‘Are you okay?’

She looked up quickly, having almost forgotten that Father Brian was in the room. She nodded. ‘Can I open it here?’ she whispered.

‘Of course! I’ll give you some privacy.’ He patted her shoulder and left her alone.

Romilly flipped it over and ran her finger up under the glue that held the flap fast, wondering if he had licked this very edge, if he’d written it at the table in the kitchen, just like he used to. She slowly peeled the cream sheet from its envelope, her heart beating loudly in her ears. Her thoughts leapt ahead, trying to guess the contents.
I would love to see you, Rom…
Her heart lurched at the prospect.

The first thing she noticed was the brevity of the communication: a single paragraph. Swallowing her disappointment, she studied the words. Knowing David, this would probably have been the third or fourth attempt, to make sure he’d got the tone and content exactly right. She adjusted her wonky specs and read his words.

Dear Romilly,

I got your address from your parents. This is not an easy letter to write, but I think probably easier than meeting or even trying to do this over the phone. I am sure your life has moved on, as mine has. To this end, I think it would be a good idea to start the procedure to end our marriage. I have met someone else, but that is incidental. I feel this would allow us to move forward with our lives, which are now so separate. Please advise best address for my solicitor’s correspondence.

Very best wishes,

David

She was stunned. She read and reread the lines over and over.

There was no mention of their daughter, the one thing she wanted to read about. His words cut her, not least the assumption that she, like he, had moved on, when every day she was totally preoccupied with surviving. And the very idea that him meeting someone else was incidental – how could it ever be incidental? He was her husband! She was too numb to cry.