Summer Secrets (17 page)

*   *   *

I don’t drink. Well, I don’t drink anything hard. Beer doesn’t count. It isn’t easy, but I sip my beer as everyone around me drinks vodka and tequila, as the night grows more raucous, and I am the one who ends up driving everyone home, which is something of a first.

The next morning, I wake up with no hangover, feeling bright, happy, and excited to see what the day brings. I am thrilled with myself for not drinking the hard stuff last night when everyone around me was; I’m determined to keep this up, to put my best foot forward, not to embarrass myself again with my family.

I can do this. I can absolutely do this. I can be the sister, the daughter, the friend they need me to be.

*   *   *

The days pass in a haze of sunshine, boats, walks, and great food thanks to Julia and Aidan, who seem to spend most of their time at home in the kitchen.

I manage to stay away from the booze. Mostly. A few drinks here and there but nothing unmanageable. Nothing drunken. No blackouts and no hangovers. Hey! Maybe I can do this after all. Maybe I don’t have the problem I thought I had.

Julia is the unexpected delight. I came here to get to know my father, and while Brooks is warm and kind, and exactly the sort of father I always wanted, it is Julia I find myself gravitating toward.

I’m in the kitchen when Julia comes downstairs, two rolled-up towels under her arms and a straw bag over her shoulder.

“I’m taking you to the beach.” She opens a drawer and takes out a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic. “It’s a beautiful day, and you and I need to get tanned.”

“You’re already tanned.” I point out her dark skin.

“Never tan enough,” she says. “And as my sister, you should really be doing the same thing, in solidarity.”

“What about Ellie?” I ask dubiously, for Ellie’s skin is lighter, Ellie goes nowhere without a hat, and does not, as far as I know, sit on the beach unless covered by an umbrella.

“That’s the point. She’s freaked out about the sun aging her skin, I need someone like you to live on the wild side with me. You ready? Let’s get moving!”

We climb on bikes and cycle down to the beach, a boom box stuffed in Julia’s straw basket, Julia chattering away, shouting back over her shoulder as I laugh, unable to hear half of what she says. I love this girl’s energy. I love her enthusiasm and warmth, and that it feels as if I have known her forever.

“Tell me more about you.” She stretches out her arms and sighs with pleasure at the warmth of the sun hitting her oiled-up skin. “Boyfriend? Dating? What’s the story?”

I tell her about my disastrous love life, and then mention Jason, my un-boyfriend, my hopefully future boyfriend, Julia hooting with laughter when I recount the story of how we met.

“You actually don’t remember how you got there?” In anyone else I would expect to see shock, because God knows waking up in a stranger’s bed is not exactly something I’m proud of, but Julia thinks it’s hysterical. “That’s wild!” she says. “Imagine if he’s the guy you end up marrying! What a great story to tell your kids!” And she goes off into peals of laughter while I smile.

Imagine.

We talk, and laugh, and giggle, and confide secrets. I don’t remember the last time I did this with anyone; I had forgotten just how much fun girlfriends can be. I have had it at work, with Poppy, with Jackie, but they’re all so busy now with their boyfriends, husbands, other couples, I had forgotten how great it is to just hang out with someone just like you.

*   *   *

“It’s just a weak Bloody Mary, for God’s sake,” says Aidan, sliding it off the tray and putting it on the table. “I promise you I’m not going to get you drunk again. And I’m really sorry for that, by the way. But I can tell by looking at you that you need a drink. Hell, everyone needs a drink. Isn’t life just more fun with a drink under your belt?”

He’s right. Life is more fun with a drink under your belt. I’ve managed not to drink anything for ten days now. Surely I deserve one small drink as a reward?

“I’m just going to have the one,” I say, first to him, then to Julia, who is reaching out for a Bloody Mary of her own.

“Whatever.” She grins. “Cheers!” And we clink glasses and my God, but it feels good. Who would give this up by choice?

One leads to another, to another, and soon whatever mortification I felt the other day is forgotten, and whatever shame I felt has disappeared, and life is not only good again but huge amounts of fun, and Aidan is working, and Julia and I sit together and laugh and share stories, as Aidan brings us drinks, and food, and I love life again, and most of all, I love that I have finally found the one thing I always wanted: a sister.

*   *   *

The restaurant has closed; the staff is sitting around, all of them drinking, smoking, telling funny stories. It is late, and I am drinking, and thinking I should stop, although I’m not sure why, when the peal of the restaurant phone interrupts the raucous telling of stories, and Julia is called to the phone.

“Shit. My dad just passed out at the bar. I have to go and get him.” I realize Julia, standing at the table, who I thought had drunk just as much as I have, is actually completely sober, and I have no idea how she did that.

“We’ll come,” says Aidan, who is definitely not sober.

Julia shakes her head. “It’s fine. You guys stay. I’ll go and drop him home, then come back and get you.”

“Don’t be silly,” says Aidan. “We’ll get a ride home. Are you sure you don’t want us to come?”

“Absolutely sure,” says Julia, leaning down and giving him a lingering kiss. “I’ll see you at home. Bye, Cat!” She blows me a kiss and is gone.

*   *   *

More wine. Vodka. The night has got away from me, and I am back to exactly where I have always been, unable to stop, uncaring that I’m unable to stop, and I don’t give a shit. Nothing matters anymore except that I am young, I have no responsibilities, and I am happy to party the night away. Now that Ellie has gone, and Brooks is off doing his own drinking, who is there to judge me? Who is there to point out the error of my ways? Who is there to tell me that this isn’t what I wanted for myself, that I am not just letting myself down but all the people in my life: my mother, my friends at work, my friends at the AA meetings, Jason.

Fuck it. I’m young, free, and single, much as I would like it to be otherwise, and I have found my family, and nothing is as perfect as it first appeared, and that’s okay because me and my friend vodka have been reunited, and just as it always does, it eases the pain, rubs out the disappointment, makes everything in my life good.

At some point, I am aware that Aidan, who is in similar shape to me, ushers me to a parked car, someone else driving, and we squeeze into the backseat with three other people, staff from the restaurant, and I have to sit on Aidan’s lap, which would be massively awkward if I were sober, but as it is, I fold into him and am delighted that he runs lazy circles on my back with his big hands.

I don’t say anything the whole way home, just sinking into a warm body feeling the circles, and when we both get out of the car, we both stumble up the path, giggling, and he’s holding me up, although I think I’m holding him up, and we get to the door of the cottage, and I turn to say good night, and I have absolutely no idea how this happens, but suddenly we are kissing, and my insides have turned to mush, and I don’t remember anything that happens next.

Except when I wake up the next morning to a scream, to Julia standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, and to me and Aidan, both naked, both in my bed.

Fifteen

London, 2014

My fingers fly across the keyboard as I cradle the phone between my neck and my shoulder, tap-tap-tapping everything the woman on the end of the phone is saying, trying to ignore the creeping pain in my back, which always happens when an interview goes on a bit longer than I expect.

The door slams, and damn, Annie is home, which means I have to get off the phone, have to hang up my journalist coat and go back to being Mum. I can’t interrupt her, though, my interviewee, not yet, not until there’s a natural break, but I’m willing her to hurry up, so I can go and catch up with Annie on the events of the day.

Since my divorce, and to try to make up for the kind of mother I was for most of my marriage, I have tried to be present for her when she comes home. I’ll never be the kind of mother who sets out elaborate teas, an assortment of cakes, biscuits, sandwiches—trust me, there are plenty of mothers around here who do actually do that—but I try to have something nice for her to eat, a hot chocolate in winter or lemon squash in summer. Even if I don’t often have something homemade, I will at least get the biscuits that she likes.

“Mum!” she yells through the flat, even though she knows I’m where I always am if not in the kitchen: in the tiny cupboardlike office at the end of the corridor.

“Coming!” I say, finally telling the woman on the phone I have to go, saving my document, tidying the papers on my desk that manage to spread over every available surface, every day, and joining my delicious daughter in the kitchen to finally be the mother I always hoped I would be.

*   *   *

Every day, after school, I sit at the kitchen table and marvel at the child I have created, this person who is, in looks, a combination of both me and my ex-husband, but in personality is all her own.

I would like to tell you I knew what her personality was from the beginning, but the truth is, for a very long time I never bothered to stop and look. For a very long time, the only thing I cared about was numbing everything in my life with alcohol, and as ashamed as I am to admit it, it wasn’t until I got divorced that I finally woke up and realized the mess my life had become.

Of course, I recognize the irony of writing feature after feature about divorce, and feature after feature about being a single mother, and even—yes, I will admit this—a first-person piece in the
Daily Mail
about the shame of being a mother who drank, which, by the way, garnered over a thousand comments online, almost all of them filled with a vitriol and hatred that felt like someone was twisting a knife in my stomach. There I was, trying to be honest, to own my part in it, to admit my sins in the hope that I would emerge renewed, and all those people could see was my deficiencies, what a terrible mother I’d been, what a terrible person I was.

Well, duh. Tell me something else I didn’t know. My sponsor had warned me about writing the piece, but I went ahead and did it anyway. You are only as sick as your secrets, I had heard, over and over in AA meetings, and I knew I could only be properly cleansed if I told my secrets.

I had this grandiose notion of helping people, that if I was honest there would be tons of women reading my story who would realize the mess they were in too, might be inspired to do something about it.

There were a few. But the notes thanking me, sharing their own stories, washed over my head while the criticisms and insults lodged their way into my heart. At least for a week or so. Since then, I’ve learned first of all not to reveal quite so much of myself in my articles, and secondly not to read the bloody comments.

“So how was school?” I ask, sliding gingersnaps onto a plate and watching her devour them as soon as the plate hits the table.

“Do you want an apple?” I slide the fruit bowl over, seeing her grimace. “You’re having dinner with your dad tonight, so don’t fill up now.”

“Oh, yeah. He texted me. He’s picking me up at four thirty. We’re going to Cara’s sister’s for dinner.” She rolls her eyes, and I am secretly glad, although pained as well, at how difficult this new girlfriend of her father’s is for her. And for me.

“How was school?” I change the subject, resisting the temptation to quiz her, as I sometimes do, about Cara, and her family, and the general all-round horribleness of her.

Annie shrugs. “Fine. But Lucy’s being a bitch again.”

“Oh God.” I do wonder if I should berate her for her language, but it’s not like I’m a paragon of virtue in that arena, so I let it slide. “What’s happened now?” Lucy is her best frenemy. They are either as thick as thieves, together all the time, or they hate each other. Lucy is one of the popular girls, so Annie has to vie with others for her attention. I see her open up in the sunshine glow of Lucy’s gaze, shrink with despondency when Lucy chooses to shine her glow elsewhere.

Not that my daughter is entirely innocent. I am quite sure Annie is not the easiest person to be friends with—she is demanding and all-consuming—but Lucy, girls like Lucy, have always scared me a little, and I would so love for Annie to find a different set of friends, girls who are a little less glamorous, a little less compelling, a little more ordinary and stable.

“I went to sit with her and Mary at lunch and they started whispering about me and giggling. I hate her.”

“I’m sorry, darling. Could you sit with Pippa instead? She’s a nice girl.”

Annie shrugs. “Pippa’s really boring. There’s no way I’m sitting with Pippa. She’s still obsessed with One Direction, which is just so
yawn
.”

Annie grimaces with disdain, and I think now is not the time to point out her bedroom wall is littered with posters of Harry Styles.

“Do you have homework?” Some days, Annie comes home filled with chatter, and I delight in listening to her, the two of us able to sit at the kitchen table for hours, but other days, like today, it is like squeezing blood from a stone.

“A bit,” she says.

“Why don’t you get it out? I’m going to start making dinner for tomorrow night.”

“What’s happening tomorrow night?”

“Sam’s coming over. He’s turned pescaterian, so I thought I’d do salmon.”

“Can you do risotto?” The only kind of fish my daughter will eat is the kind that is disguised by carbohydrate.

“Maybe,” I say. “Although I was thinking of doing something simple, then making ice cream for dessert.”

“He’ll definitely eat the ice cream,” Annie says, knowing full well that Sam is always on some kind of ridiculous diet, all of which goes out the window when it comes to dessert.