Summer Secrets (11 page)

I have had moments of not feeling quite so alone, and those always happen with men. At university I met my first love. Dave Reynolds. We were together most of the freshman year, and I remember sitting with him in pubs and thinking, oh! This is what it feels like! To be normal!

I feel that way now. With Jason. Even though, obviously, I don’t actually know him, but there is, I am sure, a connection. There is something about him, and he would never have asked me to have lunch if he wasn’t interested. In fact, he didn’t actually ask, he just seemed to assume, which is absolutely fine with me.

“So what did you think?”

“I’m fascinated by Grant!” I say. “What a story! I would never have believed it from looking at him!”

“I know! We’re not really supposed to talk about what people share in meetings or who we saw. But I won’t tell anyone.” He grins. “Did you hear anything you related to?”

“Absolutely!” I nod my head vigorously, lying. “So much.”

“So, do you think you’re interested in getting sober?”

“Absolutely!”

“You need to get a sponsor,” he says. “And the best way of doing it, the way I did it after rehab, is to do ninety in ninety. That’s ninety meetings in ninety days. It will change your life.”

“Okay.” I’m not quite sure how that would possibly work in my life, but I don’t need to say that out loud. “So, a sponsor. Would you be my sponsor?” I’m slightly embarrassed asking him that, but who else am I supposed to ask, given that I don’t know anyone else there.

“I can’t.” He frowns. “Two reasons. First, they recommend you have a sponsor of the same sex. Otherwise it can get complicated.” I hope to God he doesn’t see my face fall. What does that mean? That it would be complicated if we got involved with each other? That he’s not interested in me? I feel a wave of disappointment, which will undoubtedly turn into depression, wash over me, followed by a wave of disgust with myself: Why did I create this fantasy of a perfect life with this perfect man? What the hell was I thinking?

“Secondly,” he says, “I want us to be friends, and I can’t be your friend if I sponsor you.”

Great. Friends. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Actually”—he leans forward sheepishly—“I’d much rather be more than friends. But if you’re going to get sober, they recommend no new relationships for the first year.”

A year? I can wait a year! My heart is soaring so high, I don’t even realize I have a huge, soppy grin on my face.

“Friends?” I say, reaching out my hand, and he takes it, as I wonder just how long it will take me to persuade him otherwise.

*   *   *

We leave Raoul’s and walk along the canal and into Regent’s Park. Neither of us can stop talking, and I’m aware both of us have been smiling all day. Nothing has happened, and clearly, if I’m to get sober, which I now have to do, nothing will happen, but still, it feels like the most perfect romantic day imaginable, like something out of a Richard Curtis film, like the kind of day that only happens on a big screen or to other people.

It is such a perfect day, the earth-shattering news that my father is not my father doesn’t even feel quite so important. I tell Jason all about it, because it is one of those days where the laughter and fun devolve into something deeper, more meaningful, and I realize I want him to know everything about me.

“That’s pretty big stuff,” he says, when I have finished and we are sitting on the grass by the bandstand. “You’re going to get in touch with him, presumably?”

“Yes. My mum wanted to write and let him know, and hopefully he’ll write back. I suppose I have this fantasy of going over there and finding out I have this amazing family who all welcome me with open arms. It probably wouldn’t be like that, but I have to believe I’d have more in common with him than I did with the man I always thought was my father.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“I don’t know. It’s a lot to process.” I turn to him. “My whole entire life I wanted brothers and sisters and I can’t quite get my head round the fact that I may have them, that I may finally have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“It sounds like this could make an amazing book. Depending on what happens, of course, but I could see you writing a memoir.”

I sit back, a light going on in my head. I have never thought of writing a book, but isn’t that every journalist’s dream? Gina ghostwrote a book for a pop star a couple of years back, although I’m not sure that counts, and Jackie has cowritten a couple of self-help books, but I never really thought about it.

I
could
see myself writing a book, though. And I could write a memoir, now that my father is no longer. I drift off into a fantasy of Nantucket, of finding the perfect family who welcome me into their heart, of writing about the hell of my childhood, and the joy of finding this new, improved family.

It’s a brilliant idea, and soon Jason and I are planning the logistics of my new, improved life.

*   *   *

I am dropped home just after nine. We spent the afternoon in Regent’s Park, before walking down to Baker Street to watch a film. Everything about the day had been perfect, and after the film, Jason phoned a friend “from program” and asked her to sponsor me.

Not that I need it, but I will do it for Jason. He’s already said that although he won’t sponsor me, he will be my “friend,” and that the primary purpose of anyone in AA is to stay sober and help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety.

I’m not an alcoholic, but I do believe that today may mark the beginning of a whole new world.

For starters, not for one second today did I think about alcohol. We went to All Bar One before the film to grab something to eat, and not only did I order a ginger ale, I didn’t then spend the rest of the evening looking around me at others drinking and wishing I could do that too.

When I got home I went to the fridge and pulled out the bottles of wine and beer and did the unthinkable. Opened them and poured the contents down the sink.

I may not be an alcoholic, but if I stand any shot at all with Jason, I have to get sober. I’m not doing this for myself, I’m doing this for him, but the end result is the same, and taking a quick bath, still smiling the whole time, I replay every moment of the day, astounded at how life can change so quickly, how I have met someone who feels like he’s going to be significant, and how I am absolutely certain that from here on in, things are only going to get better.

*   *   *

I can’t sleep. I think it’s the excitement of the day, until I realize that I have not climbed into bed without some kind of alcohol for … well … I don’t actually remember the last time I did that.

And I am slightly shocked at the realization. I have no idea how people sleep. I open a book and read, thinking that at some point I’m going to get sleepy, and I watch the clock move through midnight, and then the early hours. If this were a weekday, I would probably be so stressed I would go and get a drink, except I no longer have a drink in the house, and actually, every time I think about that, I then picture Jason, and I know I won’t be doing that anymore.

So it’s a very long night. But sometime after four, with a smile on my face, I finally fall asleep.

Nine

There was once a freelancer at work who used to sit on the desk and fill all her spare time with personal phone calls. It never particularly bothered me, but Jackie used to go nuts, eventually getting rid of her rather than tell her to stop making the calls. We all learned a valuable lesson, which was, essentially, do not take personal calls unless it is absolutely necessary.

The truth is, outside of family, very few people call me at work. I love the phone, could sit on the phone for hours and hours, and on the weekends usually do. I make myself coffee, sometimes—well, often—with a splash of Baileys to soothe the headache, then sit on the sofa, feet curled under a cushion, talking about everything under the sun. More often than not, it’s Poppy on the phone, or Gina, so at work we don’t have to worry about taking precious work time to talk on the phone. If anyone needs something we just wander down to the cafeteria for a coffee, or the bar for a drink.

Years ago, when I first started here, I couldn’t believe the freedom we had, until I realized that when we work, we work hard. Why shouldn’t we be allowed free time too?

Today I’m working on deadline. One of the magazines printed a photo of Kylie Minogue with an ankle bracelet, and now the editor of the paper wants a thousand words on how trendy ankle bracelets are, with Kylie, naturally, as the inspiration. I have to find other celebrities wearing ankle bracelets, and we all put our heads together, Poppy, thankfully, remembering seeing Madonna in one, and Jackie sending me down to Roy at the picture desk, convinced both Cameron Diaz and Julia Roberts have been wearing them of late.

I find enough pictures, then sit, tuning out the buzz all around me, scribbling notes on ankle bracelets. God only knows how I’m supposed to spin a thousand words out of ankle bracelets, but I start by naming the celebrities spotted wearing them, making my descriptions of their outfits as lengthy as possible.

Ankle bracelets, I say, are the hottest thing to have hit town, and all the beautiful people are showing off their delicate ankles with thin strands of gold. The more creative the artist, the more unusual the design, Madonna with her beaded black leather band.

Four hundred words. Bugger. Now what. I take my fingers off the keyboard and sit back, desperately trying to think of what else to write. History! I get on a computer and quickly look up the history, discovering the ancient Sumerians in the Mesopotamian region wore ankle bracelets, possibly to signify the wealth of their husbands. It doesn’t really matter whether it’s true or not, it’s going in, padding out the story and making it seem substantial.

Egyptian royalty wore anklets made of precious stone and metals! I ring down to the picture desk to call up a file on ancient Egyptian royalty. Thank God, the story’s now coming together. Only a couple of hundred words left to go.

Everything we write, however flimsy, has to be padded to make the
Daily Gazette
reader feel intelligent. We can spin an article out of an opinion, but we have to get an expert to back it up, to authenticate it, to leave the reader feeling she’s learned something new.

My go-to girl for pretty much all my articles is the psychologist Robyn McBride. She wrote a couple of books on couples and how they communicate, which got her on all the talk shows, with a reputation for being an excellent talking head. Which is what I love about Robyn. Despite her degrees and the letters after her name, she is nothing if not populist. I can ring her up about anything, even something as seemingly prosaic as ankle bracelets, and she’ll not only have an expert psychological opionion about them, she’ll make it sound brilliant.

“Robyn? It’s Cat here. From the
Gazette.
”

“How are you, Cat?” We have never met, but from the warmth in her voice, you would think we were old friends. I do, in fact, feel that she is almost a friend, at the very least someone I would absolutely talk to if ever I felt I had a problem and needed some help.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Writing about ankle bracelets today! Can you give me a quote, maybe about women using jewelry to attract the opposite sex, and maybe something about the ankles being a long-forgotten erogenous zone?” I am quite impressed with myself, having just come up with the idea about ankles, and Robyn laughs.

“Absolutely,” she says. “But let me just check in with you. Usually you say you’re great, and today you just said you’re okay. Are you okay? Anything you want to talk about?”

And this is why she feels like my friend. Or perhaps my unofficial therapist. Because who else would be able to ascertain, from two words, that I am completely preoccupied with the changes in my life?

Not that they’re bad. For the last few weeks my life has, in many ways, been better than it has been in years. I’m seeing Jason pretty much every evening at an AA meeting, and afterward, we’ll go out and grab something to eat, or see a movie. Often there will be others with us, and it’s the first time in my life I haven’t actually felt like I’m standing on the outside; it’s the first time in my life I feel like I fully belong.

Although it’s not all perfect. Technically I do have a sponsor, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with her. She said I had to call her every day, but I don’t call
anyone
every day. Not even my mother. What am I supposed to say to her? What if she tells me I have to
do
something?

I’m definitely drinking less. I tell them I’m counting days, but I’ve had a couple of … slips. A few. But I’m not drinking every day, and that’s definitely progress.

It’s not the drinking stuff that keeps me coming back, though. It’s the camaraderie. And if I’m honest, it’s wanting to see Jason, and of course keep him happy. He seems so proud of me not drinking, I’m trying to do it for him, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

I had no idea how lonely I was before I met Jason and started coming to these meetings. Not at work, I was never lonely at work, and after work I tried to fill every evening with launches and parties. When we were all single, it was a blast. I wouldn’t change a thing about my early twenties, but even I know that to expect to live the same life, do the same thing, as you approach your thirties is just a little bit sad.

The girls are all with their boyfriends or husbands, and I’m still going to the parties, still drinking, only now I think I really do want to stop. These past few weeks I’ve had a glimpse into a different way of life, and I’m beginning to think it looks better.

Given what I now know about myself, that I am not the woman I always thought I was, that I have this other family, I am even more amazed I’m not getting blasted every night.

Because I’m scared.

I know my mum has written to him, but what if he doesn’t write back? What if he wants nothing to do with me? What if I’m left completely fatherless? Even though, clearly, up until a few weeks ago I thought I had already been left fatherless. Could I go through that sort of rejection again? After the way the man I thought was my father rejected me his entire life by withholding affection, support, love?