Marshmallows for Breakfast (53 page)

It wasn't until I kidnapped my children—yes, I really did that—and I started drinking again that I realized who I was. What I was. I gave in. I stopped fighting. I stopped fighting the truth and hiding from the truth, and I came back here.

I got it. For the first time I realized that I am powerless over alcohol. I am an alcoholic. I am like you. I used to sit in these rooms and think I wasn't like you. I wasn't that bad. I just liked a few drinks; I wasn't that bad. But I was. I am. I am an alcoholic.

When I drank I was funny and pretty and I could talk to anyone, I thought I could cope with anything. That wasn't the reality at all. Everything was always someone else's fault when I was drinking. If my husband would just tell me he loved me more I wouldn't need to drink to boost my self- confidence. If my mother didn't nag I wouldn't have to drink to be able to speak to her. If my kids weren't so energetic I wouldn't need to
drink to be able to keep up with them. If the people I worked for weren't so demanding I wouldn't take so long to finish my projects. It never occurred to me that it was the drinking that was stopping me from being able to function properly.

The most important thing I can do now is get sober. Stay sober. That's number one for me at the moment. I've been going to at least one meeting a day every day. At first I thought that would be impossible, then I realized I found the time to drink every day, why shouldn't I be able to go to a meeting every day?

And, when the time is right, and I'm sober, I can be the mother I want to be. But that's future thinking and if there's anything I've learned it's that I've got to do this one day at a time. I never really understood that before. You simply decide to not drink one day at a time. Every day you make that commitment again. Sometimes it's one moment at a time because the urge is so strong. But I try to think, if I can make it through the next hour or next half hour or next minute without a drink I'll be OK. Or I'll call someone. I won't sit there and struggle. I get help. One day at a time.

It's only now that I'm starting to see that I've been grieving these past few months. Grieving for the person I was when I drank. Don't get me wrong I don't want that back, but I found it hard to know who I was without my liquid self- confidence. But you know what? I remember what my son's imaginary friend is called. I know that my daughter thinks that Weetabix tastes like marshmallows when you have it for breakfast on a Saturday. Not any other day, just Saturday. I know my daughter won't wake up in the middle of the night having nightmares about me throwing up on her because earlier on she got a whiff of alcohol on me. I know my son won't ever have to stand over me, scared because I've passed out and he can't wake me up. I go to work and I don't have to swim through a brain fog to be able to concentrate.

One of the most painful things is that my ex- husband is dating again. Nothing serious, but he's a good man, it won't be long before he meets someone special. I thought he had, but they're just friends. It kills me to think of him with someone else. Kills me. But it's good, too. It hurts, but I'm not using it as an excuse to drink. I have a bad day and I have to live it. I have a good day and I have to live it. I get to experience the world for real. I get to experience the world as me—not hungover me or drunk me. Just plain old Ashlyn.

Today is my first sober birthday. One year without a drink. I thought it'd have got easier by now, but the urge never truly leaves you. My ex- husband wanted to bring the children and come spend the day with me. We'd go out and celebrate, he said. And he'd come to this meeting to be with me. Yes, even though we're divorced. But I said no. Their lives, my children's lives, have been enough about my drinking and my getting sober. The next time I see them I just want to be celebrating being with them. Because I'm their mum. I can't wait until I can go home to them.

My name's Ashlyn and I'm an alcoholic. Thank you for listening.

CHAPTER 51

L
et me get this straight, Gabrielle. You're the one having the party, but I'm the one you want to stop off on the way and pick up the dips, chips, wine, chocolates, olives, soft drinks, cheese and French bread?” I say. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘taking advantage of a friend’?”

I hear her grin down the phone at me. “Oh, sweetie, you don't really mind, do you? It's been so intense getting reac-quainted with Ted that I haven't had time.”

“You're the one with the day off!” I reply, incredulous.

“Listen, you're my only bridesmaid. Call this one of your duties.”

“Like Summer would ever let me be the only bridesmaid.”

“Please?” I can hear her batting her eyelashes down the phone at me. “Pretty please?”

“Well, I'm going to want something in return,” I say. “You owe me, Traveno.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you. Bye, love, bye.”

“Hmmm,” I say as we both hang up.

Ten seconds later the phone rings again. I snatch it up. “Don't tell me, you need me to buy you the perfect outfit to wear as well,” I say.

There's a pause. “I need to see you, we need to talk,” the voice on the other end says. I don't register for a moment who it is. “We need to talk about our baby.”

The room stills.

This is like the moment between heartbeats. The space
where nothing happens. Where the blood slows in your veins, your breath catches and your mind spins out into that huge blank space of unreality.

I'm talking to him on the phone.

It's him. It's really him.

“We need to talk about our baby,” he says.

I would throw down the phone if I could move. If his voice hadn't snaked its way through my body and caused all my muscles to petrify.

“Kendra?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”

The line crackles slightly because he's calling from a mobile, a phone is ringing somewhere across my otherwise empty office but I can hear him. Of course I can hear him. Every word is clear and precise, his low voice is as deep and smooth as a vat of warm syrup. I can hear him and the memory of him flashes through my mind.

His large, muscular hand reaches out to stop me from stumbling; his steel-like grip encases my throat. His mouth smiles as he says he'll do anything for me; his breath is against my ear as he promises to kill me.

“Kendra, can you hear me?” he repeats to my silence.

“Yes.” I push out the words. “Yes, I can hear you.”

“We need to talk about our child … You need to tell me about him or her.” He pauses, sucks in a breath. “I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl. That's not fair. I have a right to know about him or her. I have a right… Kendra, you have to talk to me. You owe me that much at least.”

I say nothing.

“I'll meet you,” he says. “After you've finished work. I'm outside your building now but I'll wait. What time do you finish?”

Like a nest of disturbed bats, panic rises up inside and becomes a blanket of thick, black leathery wings, dampening all other sensations.
He's outside? He's outside—now?

“I'm busy tonight,” I reply, trying to sound normal. Trying not to let my voice expose my fear.

“I don't care if you're busy,” he hisses. “Nothing is more important than this. We have to talk.”

“I, um, I, erm …” I falter. I have to take back control of this situation. He can't do this to me.

“I know where you work, how long do you think it'll be before I find out where you live? I'll show up at your house. I'll come to your work every day and then go to your home. I won't leave you alone until you talk to me. You can avoid all that if you meet me now.”

He means it. I know he means it. I know what he does when he doesn't get what he wants.

“I'll meet you outside at quarter to five,” I say. “I can give you half an hour.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, his tone soft, reasonable and calm. “I knew you'd do the right thing. I can't wait—”

“Bye,” I blurt out and cut the line, almost throwing the white handset back into its cradle.

Five minutes ago I never thought he'd find me. Five minutes ago it never occurred to me he was looking for me. Five minutes ago the most pressing thing on my mind was about which supermarket to visit for the shopping.

And now this.

His hand crushes my throat; his honey voice crawls in my ear.

He's really going to kill me this time, isn't he?

I take my time as I leave my desk, then the building. He stands across the street, suitably casual in black jeans, white T-shirt, trainers, and pinstripe suit jacket. His hands are buried in his pockets, his legs are placed wide apart.

I cross the pedestrianized high street slowly, but I can't delay it long enough. Within seconds, I'm in front of him. Suddenly, for the briefest moment, I'm looking up into the eyes of Lance Peters.

“Hi, Kendra,” he says, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

I turn my cheek and my whole body away, disgust flooding every nerve. “We can go here,” I say, leading the way into a little café four shops down from our office.

The café owner shows us to a quiet little table at the back. I sit with my back to the wall so I can see the door.