Ice and a Slice (19 page)

“Yes,” Tanya agreed. “You’re right. Maybe if I put it like that. You are quite a wise old soul, aren’t you?”

“If that were true I wouldn’t have ended up in this mess,” SJ said with a sigh.

“But alcoholism’s an illness,” Tanya said. “It can happen to anyone, can’t it?”

“Mmm.” SJ wasn’t sure she was just talking about her life being a drinking- related mess any more. She wanted to mention how things were with Tom, but it didn’t seem fair. They were always talking about
her
problems. It was Tanya’s turn.

“So tell me about the dressing up at home – I mean, if you want to. How are you coping with that?”

Tanya hesitated, but only for a moment this time. “He doesn’t do it all the time. I mean, it’s not an everyday thing. A lot of the time our life is perfectly normal.” Her eyes clouded a little, and SJ wondered at her choice of words – deep down, she suspected that Tanya would have given a very great deal to go back to the normality their life had once been.

“He tends to do it when he’s stressed. Sometimes if there’s a problem at work – or if he’s worried about something. I think it gives him comfort. We’ve talked about it quite a lot and I’ve wondered if there’s any connection to the relationship he had with his mum. She brought him up single-handed, you see, because his dad had left them. He never even met his dad.”

“Poor little mite,” SJ sympathised.

“Yes – but she also had to work for a living, so Michael used to get passed around a bit between relatives. He hated it. He was quite a mummy’s boy, so she used to give him something of hers to cuddle until she got back. Usually a scarf or something. I don’t know ... SJ, your psychology’s better than mine, but it struck me that there could be a connection. What do you think?”

“Makes sense,” SJ said. They were still sitting very close and she could smell Tanya’s perfume mingling with the sweetness of jasmine beside the deck. “Childhood has a lot to answer for, that’s for sure. So does Michael actually wear your clothes?”

“Oh no.” Tanya wrinkled her nose. “There are shops you can go to that specialise in cross-dressing, or you can get stuff online…which is what we’ve been doing up until now. Lingerie’s tricky. We knew roughly what size he was – from mine – you know… So we just choose stuff he likes the look of. And the feel of – textures are very important. He likes silk best.”

“I’m with him on that one,” SJ said, fascinated. “Silk’s my favourite too – and, hey, you won’t have any trouble with Christmas and birthdays any more, will you? Silk knickers beat boring old socks any day of the week, don’t they?”

Tanya’s face froze and for a moment SJ thought she may have taken her ‘lightening the mood’ comments too far but then, to her relief, Tanya nodded.

“To be honest, I’m not very keen on the actual dressing up bit. I’d be quite happy if he did that in private. But I quite enjoy helping him choose the clothes. This is going to sound strange, but it’s a bit like helping out a teenage niece who’s just blossoming into womanhood. Or a friend who hasn’t got much fashion sense.”

“Like me,” SJ supplied helpfully, and Tanya smiled properly now.

“No, not like you, you walnut. You’re beautiful – naturally beautiful – and it’s all the more appealing because you’re so unaware of it.”

SJ was so startled she choked on the last of her smoothie. “I’m not beautiful. I’m a mess. I’m overweight and I’ve got witch’s hair.” She twirled a strand of it around her fingers to demonstrate.

“Good grief, you talk some rubbish sometimes. You’ve got the most amazing hair and beautiful eyes. You’d be stunning if you made a bit more effort. When was the last time you went to a salon?”

“I’m allergic to beauty salons,” SJ muttered, having visions of fake nails and tanning beds and being uncomfortably reminded of Alison.

“I’m talking about hairdressing salons. They wouldn’t need to do much. You’ve got naturally lovely hair. You remind me of Cindy Crawford. It’s a gorgeous colour anyway, but it’d look fantastic with the right cut.”

SJ felt heat in her face. She wasn’t used to compliments.

“I do need a haircut, I know. I’ll get it sorted. Maybe you could recommend the place you go to?” Not that she had any illusions of ending up looking like Tanya, who was always stunning.

Tanya took a card out of her bag and slipped it across the table. “I see Oliver – he’s the owner. The salon’s in the precinct. Tell him I sent you.”

“Right. Thanks, I’ll go.” They seemed to have got off the subject of Michael, but at least Tanya looked happier now. Her face was open and relaxed.

“I’d tell you some more, SJ. But Michael’s due back in about ten minutes.”

“I should be going, anyway. Tom will be home.” She felt suddenly close to tears. Tanya and Michael’s marriage may still be recovering from the meteor blast of his revelations but at least they were picking their way over the rocky ground together. At least they were talking. She wished her problem and the way she was dealing with it had drawn Tom closer to her, but if anything it had pushed them even further apart. Sometimes she wondered whether she’d ever feel close to him again.

“Thanks for coming round, SJ.”

“Thanks for asking me.” It seemed that Tanya had forgiven her. She should feel relieved. So why did she feel so sad and churned up as she kissed Tanya goodbye, clipped on Ash’s lead, and took him out to the car?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Perhaps it was because the anniversary party, which had been looming like a thunderstorm on the horizon, was now just three weeks away. Her mother had been on the phone twice this week, ostensibly to confirm they were still bringing the wine, and had they done anything about glass-hire? But really it was to check they were still definitely coming.

SJ had assured her they wouldn’t miss it for anything. But the thought of seeing Alison again, of having to introduce her stunning and manipulative sister to Tom, made her shake more than giving up the booze had done. Knowing she couldn’t even have a nerve-calming drink to take the edge off the experience made the whole thing worse.

She glanced at her watch. Despite what she’d told Tanya – because she hadn’t wanted to overstay her welcome – Tom wasn’t going to be home for another couple of hours. Suddenly, the thought of going back to an empty house filled her with dread. They still had wine everywhere – Tom had said there was no way he was chucking it all out – and SJ was scared of its pull.

Perhaps she should take Ash for a walk while it was a bit cooler. He was one of the reasons she’d driven to Tanya’s. He liked to stroll around a nice park, but he wasn’t so keen on hard pavements these days, so she tended to drive him somewhere. Maybe they could go somewhere different for a change.

Instead of turning for home, she headed out of London. The one thing she really missed about Bournemouth was the seaside: the flat blue infinity of the sea; the cries of the gulls; the sharp tang of ozone and seaweed. Suddenly she knew where she wanted to go and, glad at least to have a purpose, she drove through the Rotherhithe tunnel, picked up the A13 and headed for the coast. She’d had a friend who lived in Westcliffe on Sea once, near Southend, and while she didn’t remember the beach being all that big, at least she would be able to smell the sea and the place was familiar to her, which felt comforting – and Ash would love the feel of the sand on his paws.

Forty-five minutes later she was on the coast road. When she’d been here with her friend Carol they’d always walked, and parking was obviously at a bit of a premium. But even looking for a parking space was a hundred times better than sitting at home being tempted to open a bottle of Chardonnay.

Oh, why had she thought about Chardonnay? For a few moments the idea of an ice cold glass of wine hovered in her mind, calling to her like a lighthouse beacon to a sailor on stormy seas. She could taste its dryness on her tongue and feel the coolness slipping down her throat, and then the delicious soporific effects of the alcohol easing its way around her body.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Shit, shit, shit. Get rid of that thought. Get rid of that thought now!

Gloria Gaynor’s
I Will Survive
blasted out of the radio. It was amazing how many songs had lyrics that pertained to alcohol – not that they were meant to be about alcohol, of course; they were meant to be about love. But it was uncanny how well they fitted what she was feeling now.
“I will survive,”
SJ sang along in time with Gloria.
“I will survive – hey – hey.”

The song faded. The craving didn’t. The DJ started wittering on about how much he was looking forward to getting home for a cold beer in his garden.

SJ spotted a parking space. Thank God. She pulled into it and turned off the ignition and the radio, along with it. Somewhere in her head the voice of
Alco
was taunting her – how had she ever thought she could do this? Even with Kit’s support and encouragement, even with Dorothy’s kindness, she must have been mad to think she was strong enough to beat alcohol. It was all around her – she would never be able to escape its seductive siren call.

Alco’s
voice hammered away in her head like some evil troll with a pickaxe. Tap, tap, tap against the rock face of her mind. How could she be a real alcoholic anyway? Real alcoholics didn’t have jobs and decent husbands. They had ravaged faces and great big bellies and yellow skin and raincoats. Oh God, she was slipping into stereotype land.

For some reason she thought of Dorothy, with her clear blue eyes and serene smile.
“If ever you want any help with anything, hen ...”

SJ slid her wet hands off the steering wheel, shakily got out of her car and liberated an interested Ash from the back. He pricked up his grey ears and scented the fresh salty air. It was a lot cooler here than it had been on Tanya’s sheltered decking. SJ stared out at the choppy water. The power station chimney was silhouetted against a sunlit horizon and there was a brisk breeze coming off the sea. It whipped her hair around her face and smashed a little common sense into her mind.

She was not going to listen to
Alco
. It was tempting to put her hands over her ears – to block him out. Tempting, but probably pointless, as his voice was coming from inside her own mind. Her addict’s mind, she thought bleakly, as she took Ash down on to the shoreline and set him free.

One day at a time, that was all she had to do. Her feet sunk into the damp shingle. One step at a time if that was easier. She struggled to get back the positive thoughts she’d had all week – the thoughts going to AA had put there.

That didn’t work either and, walking beside the water with her dog strolling peaceably ahead of her and the mournful calls of gulls wheeling above her head, SJ had never wanted a drink so much in her life.

Her hands were still sweating – perhaps that was some kind of delayed withdrawal symptom but she didn’t remember sweating hands being on the list. She’d have to check. She wiped them on her jeans. Then, on impulse, she stopped and phoned Tom’s mobile which, his service provider informed her, was switched off.

Frustrated, and desperate now to talk to someone – anyone – to distract herself from thoughts of drinking, she scrolled through her list of numbers. Her finger hesitated over her parents’ landline. Was it too early to say she’d contracted an infectious disease and could see no one for at least a month? Yes, probably.

Dorothy’s mobile was listed below her parents’. She glanced at it, momentarily puzzled, before remembering Dorothy had insisted she have it.

“Call any time,” she’d said, her beautifully manicured hand covering SJ’s. “Day or night. I’m usually up till the small hours working.”

At the time she’d wondered why Dorothy had thought she’d need to call. It was difficult enough seeing her at Poetry and a Pint and trying to pretend nothing had changed. Had Dorothy known how hard she’d find this? With a swift glance to check Ash hadn’t wandered too far, she stopped in the shelter of an old wooden sea break and called her.

Dorothy answered on the third ring and SJ took a deep breath. “Hi, it’s SJ. I was just – er – wondering how you were doing?”

“I’m good, thank you, SJ, absolutely fine. How are
you
doing?”

SJ was tempted to say she was absolutely fine, too, but before she could speak, Dorothy added, “How’s the not drinking going? Are you finding it tough?”

“Yeah – a bit,” SJ confessed, wondering if she’d always been such a master of understatement. “Well, actually a lot. Actually, ever such a lot. I’m on the beach at Westcliffe on Sea. I’ve been fantasising about a bottle of Chardonnay ever since I got here.”

“I take it you haven’t got one with you?”

“No,” SJ said, sighing deeply, and to her surprise Dorothy laughed. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be sympathetic and tell her the craving would pass. Instead Dorothy changed the subject. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was on holiday in Dumfries?”

“No,” SJ said with another sigh. “I don’t think you did.”

Dorothy launched into an account of being stuck in a hotel with nothing to drink and how in the end she’d been so desperate she’d knocked back a whole bottle of perfume.

“Scent contains alcohol,” she explained.

“What did it taste like?” SJ gasped in fascinated horror.

“Disgusting. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever poured down my throat – I wasn’t too bad at that stage, you see.”

The fact Dorothy didn’t consider drinking perfume ‘too bad’ put things in perspective a bit. SJ would never consider any such thing.

“Did it work?” she asked, breathlessly. “Did it take the edge off the craving?”

“No, it didn’t,” Dorothy chuckled. “When I looked at the bottle properly I realised it was the kind of perfume that doesn’t have any alcohol in it. So I’d just had myself a very expensive drink, pet. And it was all for absolutely nothing.”

“My God,” SJ said. “That’s terrible.” She wasn’t sure which was worse – the fact that Dorothy hadn’t satisfied her craving, or the fact she’d been desperate enough to drink a bottle of perfume in an attempt to do it.

And in the moments of silence that followed, SJ realised to her horror that she’d already prioritised the two things by the order in which they’d occurred to her. It was far more terrible that Dorothy hadn’t satisfied her craving – God, did that mean she was already thinking like an alcoholic?

The silence went on so long that SJ wondered if Dorothy had hung up. She coughed experimentally.

“So then, SJ – how are you feeling now? Any better?”

“Yes, I am. Thank you, Dorothy.”

“My pleasure. So tell me, hen, what have
you
been up to today?”

By the time she had finished talking, twenty minutes later, SJ realised that her hands were no longer sweaty. The terrible tension in her muscles had eased off. The craving had gone.

“Thank you so much,” SJ said, rocked with a humbleness that made her want to weep, because she’d just realised that Dorothy had known exactly how she felt, and exactly how long to keep her talking. And she must have been interrupting her work – Dorothy had often said that evenings were her best time for writing. “Thank you so, so much, Dorothy.”

“Any time, pet. You can phone me any time you want to.”