This Charming Man (52 page)

She heard the front door slam shut and the sound of the car start up, and she settled herself into her pillows. She was sleepy now. But as she hovered on the brink, Grace’s words replayed themselves. ‘You were lying alone on a roadside, injured, poisoned with alcohol, in a part of London you didn’t know, with no memory of how you’d got there or what you’d been doing there.’

Oh.

A tiny chink opened, giving a glimpse of the vast cavern of horror beyond. Seized with terror, Marnie scrambled to sit up, gasping for breath, her heart pounding. She was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.

Lying alone on a roadside, with three broken ribs, at five in the morning.

She was that person.

She had always liked a drink – she never made any bones about that – but the truth was that she was a moderate drinker. When she’d been a full-time mum, she never drank during the day. She didn’t approve of it. The rule was, no alcohol until 6 p.m. She’d spend the day taking care of the two babies, but once the hands of the kitchen clock aligned themselves into a straight black line, she poured herself a vodka and tonic. She looked forward to it, she wasn’t going to deny it, but since when was that a crime?

Perhaps she could have started earlier – there were probably other mothers who did – but rules were rules. No drinks until 6 p.m.

Except for the day two Octobers ago – or was it three? – after the clocks had gone back and five o’clock felt like six o’clock. It was dark outside and the day had gone on for long enough and it seemed unnecessary to wait, particularly because Nick hadn’t changed the clock. The hands actually pointed to six and if it had still been yesterday, it would already
be
six. So on that particular day, she was comfortable with five o’clock. And – perhaps because the world didn’t end when she broke the 6 p.m. rule – a few days later 4.30 seemed fine. Later that month, so did 2.15. Then 1 p.m. The first time she had a drink in the morning, she felt giddy with freedom; astonished that she’d spent so many years hidebound by artificial barricades. Time was only a concept – what did it matter when she had a drink, as long as she did her job as a mother properly?

And she did do her job properly. The girls were her life and it was her purpose to feed, clothe, entertain, cosset and comfort them. They came first, before all else. That was the bargain she’d made with herself.

The 6 p.m. rule was broken only in extremis: she had to feel particularly black or bleak or bored or lonely in order to justify flouting it.

But then again, who was she hurting by drinking before six? Nobody. In fact, everyone benefited, because when a few drinks took her away from her life and into a happier place inside her head, she got great relief. She was doing exactly what she wanted, the only time she was being true to herself. Being personally fulfilled made her a better mother; it must do.

Nevertheless, she had a suspicion that Nick wouldn’t see daytime drinking as the life-enhancing asset that she did. After he began wondering out loud why their vodka was disappearing so quickly, she began to buy her own special bottles and keep them in her own special secret places. She had never intended to have a stash of alcohol in her wardrobe but she needed to be able to drink without restraints.

She took care never to slip into slurred incapability around Daisy and Verity. But sometimes the effort became too much and she began giving them their dinner at 4.30 and putting them to bed while it was still daylight, turning a deaf ear to their startled complaints.

By the time Nick got home from work, it had become her usual
practice to have a bottle of wine opened and to be sipping demurely at the first glass. It had a two-fold benefit: it explained any smell of alcohol on her breath; and she could relax into her drunkenness because, after all, she was drinking.

At times he was surprised at how drunk she seemed to get, and how quickly. ‘You’ve only had two glasses,’ he used to say. ‘Your tolerance has gone.’

‘Cheap date,’ she’d quip, pleased that her subterfuge was working.

But what she longed for, lived for, were the evenings when the girls were in bed and Nick was out late at work parties. Only then could she really surrender, pounding the drinks, one after the other, in glorious abandon, until her bed tilted and the room swirled around her, whirling her away to oblivion.

Sometimes – usually in the dead of night, when everyone was sleeping – she saw the full, fractured kaleidoscope of her secret life, saw it as others might see it, and it froze her with fear.

What does it mean? What will I have to do
?

But I am a good mother
.

I am a good wife
.

I am a good person
.

Everyone finds it hard to cope, we all do what we have to
.

Good mother, good wife, good person: these are the important things
.

Good mother, good wife, good person: I have the basics in place
.

She kept worrying at the information, twisting and turning her badness into goodness, until the broken pictures rearranged themselves into something less ugly and she was able to fall into a light, anxious sleep.

Then she got caught, drunk and messy. She couldn’t understand how she’d let it happen. Nick was due home from work at 6.30, it wasn’t one of the nights where she could let her guard down, and although she’d had her first drink at one minute past eleven, she’d kept an eye on things all day. She’d certainly been sober enough at 4 p.m. to drive to playgroup to collect the girls. Then they’d settled down on the squashy couch, all three of them, to watch a DVD. She’d been sipping from a glass, pacing herself, with plenty of time to clear away all evidence long before Nick got in.

But she must have fallen asleep and when she jerked awake, her heart
pounding hard enough to jump out of her cottonwool mouth, Nick was leaning over her, his features blurred. Chaos; a bad smell; a horrible screeching noise; black smoke billowing from the kitchen. Even in her confusion, she knew she’d better start thinking fast.

‘What’s wrong? Are you ill?’

She nodded.

‘What is it?’

She tried to speak but her words came thick and slow.

His face changed. ‘Marnie, you’re pissed!’

‘No, I’m –’

‘You are, you’re drunk.’ He was obviously alarmed and confused. ‘Were you out for lunch?’

But she knew that he knew she hadn’t been; he’d spoken to her at home in the middle of the day. And when did she ever get to go out for lunch anyway?

He disappeared into the hall and after a few moments the screeching noise ceased abruptly. The smoke alarm; he must have taken the batteries out.

Then he was back. With a finger, he pointed in outrage towards the kitchen. ‘They were standing on chairs at the stove, making spaghetti hoops in a frying pan.’

So that accounted for the smoke.

‘How did they turn the gas on?’ he demanded. ‘What’s going on, Marnie? You’ve been drinking?’

There seemed little point in denying it.

‘On your own! Why?’

Why? Because she liked it. That was all she could think of but she knew that that wouldn’t do.

‘I… I was upset.’

She watched him soften. ‘About what, Sweets?’

‘I was thinking about your dad.’ He’d been diagnosed with prostate cancer some months earlier. A slow-metastasizing strain. He was expected to live for years.

Nick gaped. ‘But we’ve known for ages.’

‘I think it’s just hit me now.’ Tears came from nowhere and suddenly she was sobbing, ‘Your poor dad. The poor man, it’s just so sad.’

‘But he’s fine about it now, Mum’s fine, we’re all fine.’

Nick stroked her hair and treated her gently for the rest of the evening. But she knew her excuse hadn’t worked. She’d woken something in Nick, a suspicion, an alertness.

Only days later came the ‘Fiona Fife incident.’

Daisy and Verity were on a playdate with Alannah Fife and Marnie had the afternoon to herself. The price was that at some stage in the not too distant, she’d get lumbered with four-year-old Alannah for several hours. But she wasn’t thinking about that. She was having a nice time, thinking dreamy thoughts in her own head; and when the phone rang she decided to let the machine pick up.

‘Marnie?’ It was Fiona, mother of Alannah, leaving a message. ‘Are you there?’

She grabbed the phone. ‘Sorry, I’m here.’

‘Bad news. My car won’t start.’

‘That’s a bummer.’

‘So…’

‘So…?’

‘… I can’t drive Daisy and Verity home. Can you come and fetch them? It’s too far for them to walk.’

‘Oh God, yes, sorry! Just being a bit thick. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Marnie scrambled around in her handbag for her car keys and had a moment when she wondered if she shouldn’t be driving. She hadn’t had much and her judgement wasn’t in any way impaired, but she was probably over the limit.

She would drive extra carefully.

But outside the Fifes’ house, she somehow overshot the parking space she’d been aiming for. She hit the brakes and, in protest, they gave a tight, bat-like screech. Two seconds later, Fiona’s white, wooden-spoon face popped up at the window, then disappeared almost immediately – but it was still long enough for Marnie to register Fiona’s anxiety.

Almost immediately the front door opened and Fiona stood on the step, watching as Marnie slid out of the car and walked towards the door. Fiona’s manifest shock told Marnie that she wasn’t as sober as she’d thought.

‘Marnie, are you okay?’

‘Fine!’ No, too loud. ‘Fine.’ Better this time.

‘Are you…?’ Fiona asked. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘ME? Joking? I never drink before six o’clock.’ She hadn’t intended to sound so belligerent – and she shouldn’t have lied; she realized that afterwards. She should have pretended she’d been out for lunch, she should have giggled and used words like ‘tiddly’ and ‘squiffy’ and it would have been fine.

Fiona left the step and walked with purpose at Marnie, straight into her space, almost colliding with her, and even though vodka wasn’t supposed to smell, Fiona began fanning her hand in front of her nose like she was being attacked by fumes. She said accusingly, ‘I thought you sounded strange on the phone.’

‘Hi, Mum.’ Daisy and Verity tumbled out of the house, pulling on coats and trailing backpacks.

‘This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed,’ Fiona said quietly.

Marnie turned away. ‘Come on, girls.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Got all your stuff?’

‘Should I be letting you drive?’ Fiona asked.

Marnie couldn’t find the words. Should she be defensive? Apologetic?

‘Say goodbye to Alannah.’ She pulled Daisy and Verity towards the car.

That night she woke in the early hours, cold and sober and terrified, reliving the episode. Hearing her own voice, thick and drunk, insisting, ‘I never drink before six o’clock.’

I never drink before six o’clock
.

What a stupid thing to say when it was obvious Fiona knew she was drunk.

And the guilt about the girls! They were so precious and she had endangered their safety by driving them around while she was… not drunk… it wasn’t that bad, but not sober either. If anything had happened…

Although it wasn’tasifshe’d planned it. If she’d known she was going to be driving, she wouldn’t have had anything to drink – not much anyway. Guilt slid into self-pity: why did it have to be that particular day that Fiona’s car had refused to start? Normally she’dbe sober mid-afternoon.

It’s been weeks since I’ve waited until 6 p.m
.

Weeks and weeks
.

For a moment her heart felt as if it had given up beating, and that was the first time she thought, I’ve got to stop.

‘Why would Fiona Fife ask me if everything was okay with you?’ Nick asked.

Fuck
.

She stared him dead in the eye. ‘I have no idea.’

‘What happened?’

‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

Not for a moment had she expected that Fiona would rat on her.

‘Marnie, please tell me,’ Nick said. ‘Trust me, we can try to fix things…’

‘Nothing to fix,’ she said sincerely.

She’d got good at lying. But this time she didn’t pull it off. Nick was obviously beginning to make connections, to join up the dots. She watched as he took an overview of their recent past and saw how the landscape undulated and shimmeyed for him, rearranging and repositioning itself into the truth.

He knew.

She knew that he knew.

And he knew that she knew.

He said nothing.

But he began to watch her all the time.

‘What about your job?’ Grace asked.

‘Exactly. How could I go to rehab? I’ve got a job. Income that we need.’

‘I mean, don’t they mind you missing all this time?’

‘It’s not “all this time” –’

‘Oh shut up, it is. Why haven’t you been sacked?’

‘My boss –’

‘Guy?’

‘Yes, Guy, I think he… likes me.’

‘What do you mean, likes you? You mean fancies you?’

‘No. More like a… brother.’

‘Brother,’ Grace snorted.

∗

This time last year, she’d been so excited at returning to work. Nick hadn’t got his bonus and it should have been regarded as a disaster but, at the time, she saw it as the saving of her. Suddenly she had a purpose; she would no longer feel the need to drink – at least not in the way she used to, lonely and alone. Her job was highly sociable, she was out and about meeting potential clients, having boozy business lunches and post-work debriefs in the pub with the lads. For the first time in a long time she was having fun.

But the days passed without her bringing in any new business. The days became weeks and the sparkle of her new life began to dim. Then there was a lunch, with a potential client, and she thought they’d been getting on great; there were gin and tonics and wine, then port, then grappa, and they’d been matching each other drink for drink and she didn’t understand how she was so drunk and helpless, while he remained capable enough to laugh at her. The mâıtre d’ was sharp-eyed enough to ring for a taxi for her and the following day she was grateful for the incessant vomiting that prevented her from going to work and facing her shame. She got Nick to ring and tell Guy she had a gastric bug; Guy replied that the mâıtre d’ had phoned to remind her that she hadn’t been able to remember her pin number yesterday and she still owed for the lunch.