Ice and a Slice (13 page)

She was so pleased she’d got rid of Dirty Derek and married Tom. At the thought of Derek a sliver of unease rose in her. Hadn’t she thought Derek was the love of her life, once? No, she couldn’t have done, because she loved Tom. Adored Tom. Beautiful Tom. She adored everyone at the moment. Even Alison – because if her sister hadn’t set her sights on Derek then she’d never have realised what a two-timing rat he was.

SJ spread her arms out wide and did a little dance around the shadowed lawn, whirling and twirling in step with an imaginary partner. It felt wonderful to be so sensible and mature and forgiving. Oh, yes, she could forgive anyone the way she felt now. She could forgive the whole bloodeh world.

Twirling and dancing, pirouetting and jumping, gliding and swirling with infinite grace below the stars – beautiful stars – so many of them. She wondered if anyone had managed to count them properly without a telescope and how long it would take. And then she wondered with a vague sense of awestruck astonishment why they seemed to be swapping places with the ground. One moment they were as clear as little lights above her head and the next – curiously – they were below her feet. She experienced a brief moment of confusion before something hit her hard in the face.

SJ stayed where she was, shocked and hurt and not sure what had happened because although she now seemed to be stationary, the world was still moving. It must have been the ground that hit her. The dank scent of earth filled her nostrils and she realised she was lying face down. Warily, she rolled onto her back and immediately felt a concerned wet nose nudge her face.

“Sorry, Ash.” She moved her head and a glorious galaxy of stars spun with renewed brightness above her. What on earth was going on? Perhaps she was having some sort of religious experience.

This theory lasted as long as it took for her to realise she felt terribly unwell. If she moved again she knew she would be sick. Clamping her hands over her mouth she tried to stay still, but it was no good, everything was moving. The lawn wouldn’t stay flat. SJ hated being sick, but it was coming anyway, rising inexorably in her throat. She scrambled to her knees, some deep-rooted survival instinct murmuring insistently that it was not a good idea to vomit while lying flat on your back, however much the world was moving.

Flat on your back - supine – that was a good word, she thought distractedly, even as she threw up over and over again. There was some part of her mind that was clear. An impartial observer to her body, which was no longer under her control as it retched and heaved and retched some more beneath the velvet sky.

Being sick might not be good, it might not be dignified, but it was a marvellous relief, she realised, as at last her body was empty. Her head throbbed in a continuous thump of pain, but at least the world had stopped moving. And she was suddenly alone and shivering, on her knees in what turned out to be a flower bed, not the grass.

Somewhere nearby a voice was calling. An anxious voice, her mother’s voice, over by the light that spilled from the back door. “Sarah-Jane, are you out there, pet? Only we’re going to make a move now. You’re not smoking out there, are you?”

Chapter Fifteen

When she woke she was lying beneath a pale striped ceiling. The stripes were pale plastic criss-crosses, a little fuzzy around the edges. SJ blinked and they came back into focus, but only briefly. For a while she played the blinking game. In focus, out of focus, in focus, out of focus – but it wasn’t long before this made her feel sick. Keeping her eyes closed also made her feel sick so she was forced to open them and stare fixedly at what she gradually realised were the plastic mouldings on the ceiling of their lounge, faintly illuminated by the shards of light that poked through gaps in the drawn curtains – knife-like, evil, grinning shards of light.

She was lying on the sofa with her trousers on but no top and no bra, and the caramel-coloured throw from the spare bedroom draped half on and half off her. A heavy weight at her feet shifted and she realised Ash was on the end of the sofa. Tom must be in bed upstairs. How odd. A very slow tilt of her head revealed a glass of water and a packet of Nurofen on the coffee table, which had been pulled up close to the sofa.

Every part of her body felt bruised and sore. What on earth had happened last night? She’d obviously been run over by something very heavy. A train, possibly? Or a steam roller? Or at the very least a double-decker bus?

‘You drank too much.’
The voice, which was little more than a fuzzy and accusatory thought, came from somewhere inside her head. ‘
You really did surpass yourself last night. Feel a little sick, do we?’

SJ frowned, which hurt like hell so she stopped. Perhaps it was the voice of her conscience – no, her conscience was fair and quite pleasant generally. It definitely wasn’t triumphant and snide. It didn’t generally tell her how useless she was, how weak-willed and pathetic not to be able to give up drinking, even for one night.

I’m never going to drink again.

‘No?’

Never.

‘You can’t cut down – you’re a lush, an old soak. Call yourself a tutor? What would your students think of you now?’

I’m cutting down.

‘Yeah – right.’
The voice seemed to find this intensely funny. The voice rolled and roared and hooted with laughter, hollering and howling around every corner of her head until it throbbed with the pain of it.

“Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT!” She didn’t realise she’d spoken out loud until Ash, who thought she was talking to him, thumped his skinny silver tail on her feet.

“Good boy.” She leaned forward to stroke him, feeling a tear slide down her cheek as she did so. She hadn’t felt so awful for a long time and to top things off she was talking to herself. Wasn’t that a sign of insanity? “Very good boy,” she said again, to prove she was not mad and was not talking to herself. Ash rubbed his soft head against her hand in pleasure.

‘Bet you do drink again.’ 

She shook her head.

‘Bet you’ll have a glass of wine in your hand by nine o’clock this evening.’
The voice had softened, become cajoling, almost menacingly sweet.

“No.” SJ shuddered and clamped her hands over her eyes to blot out the voice, although why it should be her eyes and not her ears she was covering she had no idea. When she uncovered them again, the room was still and silent. And the clock on the wall told her it was still only five thirty a.m. Far, far too early to get up on a Sunday – which was just as well, because she was fairly sure she couldn’t move further than the glass of water and Nurofen.

The next time she opened her eyes, Tom was standing by the window. He’d just pulled back the curtains – the noise must have woken her – and he was silhouetted in the sunshine so she couldn’t see his face.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful.”

“I’m not surprised.” He moved across the room and knelt by the sofa. She would have felt better if he’d shouted at her – told her what a stupid little idiot she was. But he just picked up her hand in his big gentle one and squeezed it. His eyes were infinitely tender. “Can I get you anything?”

“A shotgun would be good.”

“Don’t talk daft. We’ve all been there.”

“Some of us more often than others,” SJ mumbled, trying to recall if she’d ever seen Tom raging drunk, and failing. He was moderate in all things, except perhaps for work, which he put his all into. Once or twice since they’d been married she’d thought him too moderate – too middle of the road. She’d wished he’d take the odd risk. Go a bit mad, be a bit more exciting. Now she loved his moderation. It felt safe and calming and peaceful.

“I’m sorry, Tom. Did I show you up?”

“Well – not unless you count dancing round the lounge and singing, whilst using a champagne bottle as a mike.”

“Oh my God – please tell me you’re joking.”

He didn’t smile.

“Did Mum and Dad see me?”

“Afraid so, but don’t worry. You still had your top on at that point.”

SJ groaned and clutched her head. “Tom, please tell me I didn’t take my top off in front of Mum and Dad?”

“Of course you didn’t. That was much later.” He looked puzzled, but his consternation was nothing compared to SJ’s dismay. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to remember something – anything – about the previous evening. But she had absolutely no recollection of dancing around the lounge. Her last memory was of being sick in the garden.

“Don’t worry,” Tom went on hastily. “You didn’t seem that drunk to me – more happy, and your dad thought it was a laugh, he was singing along with you.”

“What was Mum doing?” SJ was positive her mother would never condone drunken singing under any circumstances.

“Waiting in the car. Now I come to think of it, she did seem in a hurry to go. I must admit things are a bit hazy. I had a few too many myself. It was that champagne. Mixing your drinks is always a bad thing.” He frowned, and SJ felt her heart sink to a new all-time low. She wished she shared his conviction that mixing drinks was responsible for the way she felt now – but in her heart she knew it wasn’t. It was sheer quantity. Desperate to know just what she’d actually done, she steered the subject back to last night.

“But what about when I took my top off? Didn’t you think I was drunk then?” Mortified, she covered her hands with her face.

“Well, no – I was in the loo, and when I came out you were twirling your bra around your head and singing The Stripper. I thought you were messing about, to be honest.”

She would have giggled if she hadn’t felt so ashamed. She hitched the throw up around her chin, which was pathetic, she knew – a bit like getting dressed behind your towel when you’ve been sunbathing topless on the beach all afternoon.

“Don’t worry about it.” Tom seemed genuinely puzzled at her reaction. “If I hadn’t been so sozzled myself I’d have taken more advantage of the situation.”

He winked. He was missing the point entirely. But that was hardly his fault. How was he to know she had no recollection of deciding to put on a lap-dancing routine in their lounge? She wanted to ask if the curtains had been drawn. If they hadn’t, she’d probably have been strutting her stuff at about the same time as the gastro pub around the corner kicked out its noisy revellers. Deep joy – the next time she went out, the entire street would be sniggering behind their hands.

Perhaps they should move.

“Don’t worry,” Tom said again. “I quite enjoyed it, actually.”

This was not at all reassuring. He might think she’d found a new way to spice up their sex life and expect her to do it again. And she could no more have done a striptease for him when she was sober than she could have suggested they go to a wife swapping party.

“Right,” she said bleakly. “Tom, would you mind awfully if I stayed here a bit longer? I don’t think I can face getting up for a while.”

“Course I don’t mind. Want me to close the curtains again?”

“Please.” Please, God – who she didn’t believe in – let him have had the sense to do that last night, too. “And, Tom, could you take Ash for a walk?”

“Sure. I’ll make you a cup of tea first.”

Why was he so nice? Why was he so bloody nice? She’d have felt better if he’d had a go at her. She’d have felt less ashamed. Not that she was ever going to feel better again. Not today anyway. Thank God it was Sunday.

It wasn’t until six o’clock that evening that the mother of all hangovers released its grip enough for her to haul herself off the sofa, go upstairs and get showered and dressed and then go cautiously back into the kitchen.

Tom was reading the papers. “It lives,” he remarked, giving her a wry grin.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me. I’ve had a productive day. Paperwork,” he added, gesturing to his briefcase on the table. “I’ve caught up on last week’s.”

“And tomorrow it begins all over again. Aren’t you tired?”

“Not really, no. I find paperwork quite soothing.”

SJ didn’t – she found it irritating and largely unnecessary, particularly the endless, inane forms that the college insisted she complete every week. Thank God that was over for the summer. Mind you, Tom wasn’t talking about that sort of paperwork – tying up the loose ends of sales he’d closed was probably more interesting.

“Do you think I should apologise to Mum and Dad?”

“I shouldn’t think so. You didn’t say anything to upset them. On the contrary.”

“I said we’d go to their party, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and you also said you’d help your mum with her next car boot sale because Doreen’s off to Malta.” He grinned. “And you told your dad you’d be a reserve for when his team plays The Cock and Bottle next Thursday.”

“But I don’t even play darts.”

“I was a bit surprised, I must admit.”

“Maybe he’ll forget. Hey, maybe they’ll forget we said we’d go to the party too.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely. They were thrilled. And we’re going.” His voice was peaceable, but firm and she sensed he wasn’t going to budge on this one. And as she had quite a lot of making-up to do, she didn’t even attempt to argue.

“Are you hungry? Shall I make us some tea?”

“Just a sandwich or something will do me. SJ, if you’re going to the fridge can you grab us a can? I could do with a beer.”

“Sure,” she said, escaping. The beer was stacked beside a bottle of Chardonnay. SJ glanced at it and shuddered. No way was she ever drinking again. She’d just wasted an entire Sunday, not to mention made a complete exhibition of herself last night – LITERALLY. Dancing around the lounge half-naked was the behaviour of a teenager, not a thirty-six year old woman.

Would she have done it if she hadn’t been so drunk? She knew the answer to that one. Self-loathing tightened her stomach.

Once they’d eaten and watched Sunday night TV, and Tom was snoring softly on the sofa, she held her hands out in front of her, palms down. Her fingers were shaking. Moving and trembling with a life of their own. It was an awful feeling. A part of her body was outside of her control – perhaps she should be relieved the rest of it wasn’t outside her control, as it evidently had been last night. She tried to still her fingers, but the only way to do it was to clench them in her lap. And although her hangover was all but gone she had that awful black cloud feeling that usually followed.

It was like standing in a pit of despair, with no light coming in anywhere and the sure and certain feeling you would never get out. She wanted to wake Tom so she’d no longer be alone with the blackness. But she’d been selfish enough this past twenty-four hours. Tom was still snoring, his one empty can – his symbol of moderation – on the floor beside his armchair.

Suddenly, SJ couldn’t bear it any more. Couldn’t bear the suffocating depression and the tidal wave of her own dark thoughts. She leapt up and went into the kitchen: opened the fridge door; stared at the bottle of Chardonnay; closed the fridge door again; re-opened it; closed it; sighed; fetched the corkscrew; drew out the bottle; uncorked it; hated herself briefly, savagely, totally; fetched a glass; poured the wine and put it on the worktop beneath the kitchen clock.

She ached to drink it, but a memory was stirring at the back of her mind. A memory of the conversation she’d had with some inner voice some time around dawn that morning.

‘Bet you’ll have a glass of wine in your hand by nine o’clock this evening.’

SJ glanced at the clock. It was just before nine. All she had to do was wait a few minutes and she’d have won the wager. She drew up a chair and, with her gaze still fixed firmly on the glass, she sat and waited. The room filled with the quiet ticking of the clock.