Another Love (9 page)

‘Yes, so you’ve mentioned. But every woman wants to be sexy, scientist or not! Now, let’s get this party started!’ Sara leaned across again and opened the glove box, from where she produced two mini bottles of Möet et Chandon. They were pretty little things, with pale pink labels and pale pink foil.

‘Ooh, fancy!’ Romilly chuckled.

‘Get them open!’ Sara banged the steering wheel dramatically.

Romilly did as she was bid and popped the corks. Sara didn’t seem to mind that the spray from the bottles shot out over the pale grey leather interior of her Mercedes. Romilly placed the foaming lip of the bottle to her mouth and savoured the sweet bubbles that burst on her tongue. As with any first sip, it was as if a beautiful note played in her head, a note that she knew would become a full symphony the more she drank. It was the music of distraction, playing a tune that took her to a different place, where she could be anyone and anything she wanted to be.

They parked the car at a meter just up from the Bristol Royal Infirmary and made their way to Zero Degrees. They linked arms like they were old, old friends.

‘Hey, Sara! How lovely to see you!’ A pretty waitress with a white pinny tied high under her bust greeted her friend. Romilly had to admit to a frisson of excitement that her companion was known. It was a little bit of celebrity that seemed to elevate her by association. ‘Come on, let’s get you a good spot near the bar.’ The waitress took Sara’s hand and led her through the tables, past groups and couples enjoying after-work beers and intimate suppers.

‘Cocktail?’ The waitress smiled, her hands on her hips.

‘Ooh, go on then. Surprise us!’ Sara flashed her best smile.

The waitress clicked her fingers. ‘Leave it to me!’ she said, and skipped off.

Sara opened another button of her shirt and adjusted her hair around her collar before folding her manicured hands together on the tabletop. ‘And by the way, who exactly was it that told you that?’

‘Who told me what?’

‘That you weren’t
that
type? That you had to be a bit mousey, hide your fabulousness!’

Her voice was loud and Romilly wished she were a little quieter.

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think I do—’

‘You do!’ Sara interrupted her. ‘You hide away behind your specs. God, you have this inner sparkle, this glow about you…’ She waved her hand in an arc and Romilly could almost see the fairy dust falling down in a glittery shimmer. ‘But when David walks into the room, or when you were leaving work just now, it’s like you’re stooped, apologising for something, God knows what. And it’s sad to see, because you are amazing!’

‘I don’t always feel amazing. I often feel a bit…’ She hesitated, not sure how much she should share, if at all.

‘A bit what?’ This, Sara whispered.

Romilly looked up at her new friend, who she had to admit was very easy to talk to. ‘A bit invisible. And a bit nervous that everything I have might be taken away from me.’

‘Why do you feel like that?’ Sara tilted her head, earnestly.

‘I don’t know. But I always have, like nothing is permanent and so I have to tread carefully, to make it last, eek it out before it all disappears. A bit like a mayfly.’

‘A what? Is this your three-headed chicken-feed stuff again?’ Sara gripped her boobs in mock horror and was back to screeching.

Romilly shook her head in faux disapproval just as the waitress reappeared carrying a round tray bearing two tall cocktail glasses. The drinks were a vivid shade of orange that faded to amber at the base and each had a wedge of pineapple stuck on the side and a neon-pink straw with a parasol poking out of the top.

‘Good grief!’ Romilly giggled, glad of the change of atmosphere. ‘What on earth…?’

The waitress bobbed and placed one in front of each of them. ‘Ladies, I give you our finest, strongest Mai Tai. Double shots for good measure!’ She winked and squeezed Sara’s shoulder as she passed.

Sara raised her glass. ‘Here’s to our new friendship, many moments of laughter and releasing your inner siren! Cheers!’

Romilly picked up the cool glass and clinked it against her friend’s. ‘Cheers!’ she echoed, drawing on the straw and letting the cold, ice-filled booze slip down her throat. Before she’d even swallowed that first sip, she was already looking over Sara’s head to see about ordering a couple more.

Two hours later and the party for two was in full swing.

‘This is your one! This is your one!’ Sara banged the table and laughed.

‘Issit?’ Romilly had lost track.

‘Yesyes yes! You have to mime it, come on!’ she shouted.

The intro finished and the lilting tones of Coldplay’s ‘Every Teardrop is a Waterfall’ filtered through the sound system. Romilly stood. In her mind, she was centre stage, confident that the group of suited blokes on the next table were nodding in time to the music as she held the floor. She sang along with gusto, swinging her red hair and winking at the handsome bartender. Sara gazed at her, wide-eyed and clearly proud of her performance. Romilly could feel the spotlight on her as she let the adoration pour over in waves. She felt like a star, someone who knew more about pop culture than germ culture, someone who was more comfortable in a fur coat and sunglasses than a white coat and lab goggles. And it felt good!

The reality was a little different. The men on the next table snickered behind their hands and winced as they listened to her drunken warble. One leant over to his mate and whispered, ‘Some poor sod’s at home waiting for that!’ His mate shook his head in commiseration as they both shielded their eyes.

Romilly didn’t know the words but compensated by making a low-level humming noise, with her mouth open, and repeating the odd word that became clear after it had been sung. ‘Fall… waterfall… everyone… dance!’ she shouted, loudly and off-key. Her eyes were half closed, her head tilted back so she could see her audience. Her hair hung forward, partially obscuring her face. Her feet were firmly planted on the spot while she twisted and swayed the top half of her body, half in time to the music. Her blouse gaped open to reveal her flesh-coloured bra. She stopped singing at one point to strum an invisible guitar. This sent many of the diners and drinkers into hysterics, laughing hard at her. Laughing at the woman who prided herself on being a professional, on her cleverness. Sara’s contribution was to take out her phone and snap her buddy, mid performance, while occasionally singing along, her fingers tapping the sticky tabletop in a space between the mass of empty cocktail glasses and beer bottles.

Romilly had no memory of leaving the bar or climbing into the taxi that took them across the Downs and out towards Stoke Bishop. She let her head loll on Sara’s shoulder as they rolled closer to home. She swayed on the doorstep and waved to her friend, who was carrying her heels in her hand as she tiptoed into her empty house. Romilly watched her disappear and remembered for the first time that David would be waiting for her and that he wouldn’t be best pleased.

Leaning on the front door, she pulled back her shoulders and smiled, removed her phone and widened her eyes, trying to see the exact number of missed calls and unread texts. She couldn’t make out the digits, but knew it was a lot.

‘Shiiiiiiit!’ She giggled.

Pressing the little phone icon, she slid down the door until her bottom rested on the front step.

‘Where are you?’ This was how he answered the phone. He sounded angry, his breath coming in short bursts.

She couldn’t help the laughter that escaped her mouth, because despite his tone and the fact that she knew she was in trouble, he was asking where she was and she was in fact on the other side of the door, and that was funny! She lifted her loosely bunched fist and tapped on the door.

David, with the phone still in his hand, opened the door rather quickly, causing her to fall backwards. She lay with her back on the doormat, staring at her upside-down husband.

‘AreyouinAustralia?’ she garbled.

‘For God’s sake, get up!’ he growled, looking out into the cul-de-sac before reaching down to pull her by the shoulders all the way into the hall.

‘I’ve been worried sick! Your text said you were working late, I called the office, they said you’d left at the normal time. I’ve been imagining all sorts. I’ve phoned everyone I could think off. I even put Celeste in the back of the car in her pyjamas, trying to make it an adventure, and we drove around looking for you.’ He pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve had the worst night you can imagine and look at you! Look at the bloody state of you! Who were you with?’ He clenched his jaw.

‘My friend!’ she slurred.

‘Which friend? Who?’

‘Swara.’ She giggled from the floor.

David nodded as if this only confirmed his suspicions. ‘Stand up. Get yourself upstairs, clean up and go to bed. I swear to God, I can’t stand to look at you!’

Romilly clung to the wall as she manoeuvred herself into a standing position. ‘S’proper love, David. It is. Properlove.’ She reached a hand out to him.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then her knees buckled and she leant on the wall for support. Without warning, her head span and the sickly sweet contents of her stomach rose up in her throat.

I remember waking up in what seemed like the middle of the night. It was dark outside and I heard a strange sound, as if someone was throwing buckets of water at the window or cracking the vacuum-cleaner flex on the tiled hall floor, the way Dad did sometimes to make me laugh. He used to make a kind of lasso and snap it down against the floor, shouting ‘Yeeeeehaaaa!’ in an exaggerated American accent. I was going through my
Toy Story
phase and was quite in love with Jessie the cowgirl and it used to make me laugh, partly because this wasn’t like my dad at all! He was normally serious and busy, preoccupied with his computer screen or his newspaper, so the few occasions when he went all silly were precious. Very special indeed.

I was curious and a little bit afraid, as if I could sense that all was not quite right. I pulled back the sheets and crept from my bed, across the landing and quietly down the top few stairs until I had a view of the hallway below. I sat on the top step, nestled against the bannister, hidden, watching.

Mum was bent over with one hand on the wall, her hair hanging forward over her face; I thought that was odd as it was usually tied up. Her silky blouse gaped open and I could see the lace of her bra. She groaned and mumbled something, and then a blast of watery vomit shot out of her mouth and landed on the tiled floor with a really loud splat. The smell was absolutely disgusting. It made
my
mouth fill with water, as though
I
was going to be sick. I cupped my hand and put it over my nose and mouth. Then I noticed that the floor was wet, covered in watery puke and little pieces of carrot and shredded chicken. My mum had no shoes on and her bare feet were covered in sick. Her toenails were painted red and they glowed like embers through the vomit. It was horrible.

She stood upright as Dad came from the kitchen. He was angry, I could tell by his straightened back. His arms were locked around a bowl full of soapy bubbles and there was a sponge floating on top.

‘I’m sorry…’ Mum slurred. Everything about her looked blurry, like she was smudged. Her red lipstick was messy, her eyes were pink and there was black mascara running down her face. She was like a sad, scary clown.

‘Stand still!’ Dad was whispering, but it was like he was shouting. It made me nervous and my tummy shrank.

Mum was crying again, saying ‘I’m sorry’ a lot. Then she stepped forward and slipped in the goop, only just managing to stay upright by grabbing onto Dad’s shirt. The water in the bowl sloshed over them both and a large puff of foamy suds landed on the side of her hair.

This time Dad shouted. ‘For fuck’s sake, stand still!’ And then it was as if he remembered why he mustn’t shout because he jerked his head towards the top of the stairs. Our eyes locked. And he had this expression I’d never seen before. I’ve never forgotten it. He looked sad, but it was more than that. He looked ashamed. Really ashamed.

Romilly placed the dishwasher tablet in the little trap and shut the door. The machine gave off its satisfying beep, meaning that the dishes were being taken care of.

‘Celeste, come on, your porridge is ready!’ she called up the stairs.

Her little girl skipped down the stairs in her school uniform and took her place at the kitchen table. ‘Can I have honey on it?’

‘Of course! A super swirl for my super girl!’ She winked as she flipped the lid and let the golden goo twist in a perfect loop, lying like a thick river on top of the creamy oats.

Celeste smiled. The neater her honey, the more she liked it, having inherited her mother’s desire for things to be exact, ordered.

‘Morning, morning!’ David sang as he flicked the kettle.

‘You sit down, I’ll get your toast.’ She hummed.

‘Goodness me! It’s not my birthday, is it?’ He smiled, taking a chair opposite his daughter, giving her a quick wink before opening
The
Telegraph
to catch up on the headlines.

‘No, thank goodness, because if you’re a year older, it means that I’m not far behind! And ageing is not something I want to rush. But I’m not working today, so I’ve got time to spoil you both.’

Romilly pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose, feeling a twinge of guilt that she had phoned in sick that morning. She noted the twist in her gut as her thoughts turned to the last few weeks. The pressure had been building for a while now and she was certain that her job was in jeopardy. It felt easier not to go in, to blot out the fear, just for one glorious day.

She smiled at David. ‘You will start with breakfast and fresh coffee, and I should think the day will end with a nice homemade supper, maybe even a pie.’

‘Wow! You won’t hear any complaints from me.’ He beamed.