Who Did You Tell? Page 4

  David smiles. ‘Thank you for sharing that with us, Astrid.’ For a second, he looks as though he might offer me some words of comfort. I can tell he wants to, but he’s sticking to the rules. People like him always do.

  ‘Does anyone else want to speak?’ he says.

  The tearful woman with the red shoes from last time – only tonight she’s wearing boots – folds her arms then unfolds them and clasps her hands in her lap. Will she pass again? It’s her prerogative; of course it is. No one’s forcing her to share – there are more than enough people at these things who enjoy the sound of their own voices almost as much as they used to enjoy a drink or twenty – but at some point she’ll have to, or why come at all?

  I try to send her a telepathic message. For Christ’s sake, just get it over with.

  ‘My name is Helen,’ she says.

  Damn, I’m good.

  Her voice is stilted, robotic. There are big red blotches on her neck. Come on, love. Can’t you feel the waves of goodwill radiating towards you?

  ‘And I’m an alcoholic.’

  The words tumble out in a rush. We all exhale in unison, or maybe it’s just my own breath I hear. ‘Hello, Helen,’ we all chant back. One or two heads make those encouraging nodding movements. The woman with eyes like marbles (sixty-three days sober, had a ‘major setback after losing her son, but back on course now, God-willing’), makes a self-conscious little clapping gesture. Thank God we’re not in America or we’d all be whooping. As it is, that woman from the charity shop is smiling her stupid fucking smile. Rosie. The name doesn’t suit her. Too sweet and girlyish for a sixty-something alcoholic.

  I cross my ankles and focus on my Doc Martens.

  ‘Alcohol has stolen everything from me,’ Helen says. More nodding. I know what’s coming next. It’s the same old story. The blackouts. The hangovers from hell. The revolving-door cycle of A&E visits. We’re all just variations on a theme.

  She’s crossed her arms again and is rocking backwards and forwards in her chair. I want to tell her that sharing gets easier the more times you do it, but we’re not allowed to interrupt or give advice or talk over people. Discussions so easily veer out of control, turn into disagreements, arguments. AA isn’t the place for all that. It’s a place to share, to listen.

  ‘I’ve lost my home,’ she says. ‘My career.’ The rocking stops. ‘And the only man I’ve ever loved.’

  I squeeze the ball in my right pocket so hard I think it might split.

  It happened again, on the way here. The smell of his aftershave in the air. More subtle this time – the merest trace – but it was there just the same. I’m losing it, I must be. How would he know where I am? I never brought him here. Not once.

  I try to focus on Helen’s share, tell myself it’s just my subconscious warning me not to get involved with Josh and his dad, reminding me that I’m damaged goods, that I don’t do normal. Certainly not ‘middle class, posh house, one room as a fucking art installation’ normal.

  ‘He was everything to me,’ Helen says. ‘I loved him so much.’

  My throat burns. That’s what Simon used to say, in the beginning, that I was everything to him. ‘I love you heart, body and soul, Astrid Phelps,’ he’d say, and then he’d grin and follow it up with: ‘Your body, especially.’

  How could I ever have thought I could leave him behind? He’ll never let me go. Never. Wherever I go from now on, whatever I do, he’ll follow me. I know he will.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.’ There’s a catch in Helen’s voice and for a second I think she might start crying, but she doesn’t. She’s found her voice at last. Except it’s my voice too. It’s as if she’s tapped into my brain and downloaded all my demons.

  ‘I can’t function without alcohol. Not properly. I don’t know what to say, what to do.’ She twists her fingers in her lap. ‘It’s like I’m endlessly treading water, wearing myself out just trying to stay afloat while everyone else is effortlessly swimming length after length after length.’

  I stare at her. That’s it. That’s exactly how it is.

  ‘I don’t like the person I become when I’m drinking,’ she says. ‘But at least that person doesn’t have to think, or feel.’

  She looks up then and I nod, my lips clamped together. If I open my mouth, I’m scared I’ll make some kind of noise.

  ‘At least I don’t have to face the fact that I’m a complete and utter failure, that I’ve ruined every good thing that’s ever happened, every chance I’ve ever had of leading a normal, happy life.’

  Our eyes meet. She might be older than me and dress like a librarian, but for those few seconds we’re exactly the same.

  This time, I stay on for a coffee. The little ‘after-the-meeting meeting’. The silver-haired man in the charcoal suit – Jeremy, fifteen years sober, Christ, that sounds like a life sentence – hands me a carton of semi-skimmed milk. I shake my head, so he passes it to Helen instead. Her hand trembles as she pours it into her cup. I can’t be the only one who’s noticed.

  Jeremy turns to face me. ‘Are you new to the area, Astrid?’ I know he’s just being friendly, but there’s something about him that gives me the creeps. He’s too charming. Too nice.

  ‘Yes. I used to live in London.’

  Rosie materializes at his side. She does one of those slow nods, as if she already knows this about me, as if I’ve got the word ‘Londoner’ engraved on my forehead.

  ‘Me too,’ she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and hoisting an overstuffed patchwork bag further up her shoulder. ‘I moved here when my mother died.’

  She looks like the sort of person who might be expecting me to respond with something sympathetic, but I’ve never been much good at platitudes, so I tend not to bother. It’s either that or say the wrong thing.

  Jeremy clears his throat. The silence between us lengthens.

  ‘Flinstead’s a funny old place, isn’t it?’ he says.

  My neck feels all hot and sticky. This is turning into a dry version of a cocktail party. I blink away the image of a classic daiquiri, a wheel of lime clinging to a salt-rimmed glass. I should never have stayed on. What was I thinking?

  ‘It is, yes.’

  A strange expression flickers over his face, as if he wants to say more but can’t find the words. I look away in case he does, and the woman with funny eyes who tried to start a round of applause earlier gives me a sly glance from across the room. She’s been doing it all evening.

  ‘Your hair looks lovely,’ Rosie says. ‘Not that it didn’t look good before, but …’ She makes a nervous clicking noise at the back of her throat.

  I touch my head. I feel naked without my braids. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So whereabouts in Flinstead do you live?’ she says.

  ‘With my mother.’

  It’s an instinctive, passive-aggressive response, I know it is, but I don’t elaborate. For some reason, Rosie grates on me. She blinks, slowly and lazily, like a cat.

  Jeremy hands her a mug of coffee. ‘Did you manage to find somewhere to stay?’ he asks.

  Rosie shakes her head. ‘Still looking, I’m afraid. But I’ve found somewhere temporary.’

  Just as I’m heading for the door, she puts her arm out to stop me. Her fingers settle on my shoulder like a little bird. ‘You don’t happen to know of any flatshares in the area, do you, Astrid? Or anyone who might need a lodger?’

  ‘Er, no. Sorry.’

  My hand is on the door handle.

  ‘Astrid?’

  I turn round.

  ‘Keep coming back,’ she says. ‘It works if you work it.’

  I’m standing in the alleyway by the side of the church, trying to light a cigarette in the wind, when Helen comes out. She cups her hands round my lighter to shield the flame.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say at last.

  I offer her a smoke, but she declines. ‘That’s the one vice I have managed to resist. Although sometimes I’m sorely tempted to take it
up. There’s only so much coffee you can drink.’

  ‘The stuff in there’s revolting,’ I say.

  Helen nods. ‘The coffee’s shit too.’

  We both laugh, just as the young man with acne appears at the top of the alleyway. He stops, momentarily startled, then hurries on past, eyes down, collar up.

  Helen’s forehead puckers into a worried frown as we watch him disappear into the darkness. ‘I hope he doesn’t think we were laughing at him.’

  ‘Well, if he does, I’m sure he’ll soon get over it.’

  ‘By the way,’ she says, ‘what did Rosie say to you when you were leaving?’

  I tilt my head to one side and look at her from under my eyebrows. ‘Keep coming back. It works if you work it.’ Helen widens her eyes. ‘Some people add another bit on the end: So work it, you’re worth it. It’s an AA slogan,’ I say. ‘There are loads of them out there.’

  We’re walking away from the church now. Apart from the click of Helen’s heels on the pavement and the faint roar of the wind coming off the sea, it’s eerily quiet. No revellers shouting. No music spilling from bars. No cars whooshing by. I miss the noise and bustle of London. The way it barely takes a nap. Not like Flinstead, with its slippers on and cocoa warming, its curtains drawn against the dark.

  ‘So what do you really think of AA?’ she says.

  I slide my eyes to the side. I’m pretty sure she’s as cynical about the whole thing as I am, but maybe she’s just testing me out.

  ‘Well, you read all sorts of stuff about it being like a cult, don’t you, and I have to admit, I’m not convinced it’s for me. But I’m giving it a try.’ I don’t tell her that without Mum forcing me to go I probably wouldn’t.

  ‘So are you working your way through the Twelve Steps?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  Should I tell her what I really feel? That I have an issue with just about every single one of those damn steps and that, even if I could get beyond the God thing, which I’m not sure I can, I still don’t buy into the notion that a set of non-medical principles is the only cure for what is meant to be a disease, for Christ’s sake, a neurobiological condition.

  ‘I guess I have a problem with the whole God thing,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Helen says.

  We’re coming up to Mum’s turning in a minute. I could say goodbye and shake her off if I wanted, but something keeps me walking. There’s a connection between us, even if it is just a healthy scepticism about AA.

  ‘You’d better watch out,’ I say. ‘Now that I’ve given Rosie the brush-off, it’ll be your turn next week.’

  ‘If you ask me, she’s already decided you’re her next pet project. Did you see the way she was looking at you when you were talking?’

  ‘No, but then I try not to make eye contact when I’m sharing. It puts me off.’

  ‘God, yeah, I know what you mean.’

  We’ve cut through into Flinstead Road now and are heading towards the sea. A small group of drinkers spills out of the pub ahead of us and, instinctively, we both cross the road and quicken our pace. We don’t say anything. Don’t need to.

  ‘Right, then, this is me.’ Helen stops outside a block of flats near the front. ‘See you next meeting?’

  ‘Try keeping me away.’

  I watch as she taps a security code into a panel and opens the heavy glass door. As soon as it clicks shut behind her my confidence evaporates and all I can think of is Simon creeping up behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. This is ridiculous.

  I set off in the direction of the sea. It’s that same compulsion I had the other night, to push myself out of my comfort zone, refuse to be frightened.

  Down on the beach the moon silvers the sand and I can’t tell whether the tide’s going out or coming in. I shouldn’t have come down here. I should have gone straight home, but that’s part of the attraction. Maybe that’s always been my problem. Doing things other people don’t do. Being fearless.

  I have this fantasy of breaking into a beach hut and setting up camp there. Living like a fugitive, venturing out only at night, when Flinstead sleeps. I could probably get away with it too, for a while. I slept on a beach once, somewhere in Spain. Before things started to go wrong, back in the days when I thought I had a plan. When I was managing my relationship with drink perfectly well, thank you. Simon and me, tanked up on cheap wine. There’d been a barbecue, music, people dancing. I had sand in my hair and filthy feet. We’d just done it under an opened-out sleeping bag, on our sides, thrusting silently against each other. It was the happiest I’ve ever been.

  The thought of Josh’s muscular, tanned limbs splayed out on that big white bed flashes into my mind. I try to block it out, but I can’t. It seems like a betrayal. How stupid is that, after everything that’s happened?

  The creeks will be filled to the brim now, the saltings submerged. And downstairs, on the pine table in that dark, echoey kitchen, an empty bottle of red and the remains of a fish-and-chip supper. Did I even say goodbye?

  The wind is whipping up the waves. The tide’s definitely coming in. It’s creeping further and further up the sand. Fast and stealthy. In another half-hour it’ll be slapping against the sea wall. Inky black against the worn grey stone. I’m aware of its brooding presence, teeming with alien life forms. Nothing between me and the vast expanse of the North Sea but a thin stretch of silvery-grey sand. Nothing between me and the past but a racing heartbeat and a dry mouth.

  The moon disappears behind a cloud and something about the rasping sound of the waves on the sand makes me shiver. What am I doing here? It’s not thrilling any more, it’s frightening. I’m all on my own in the dark and I’m vulnerable. Defenceless. If anything happened to me down here, nobody would hear me scream. I’m not even sure my voice would work.

  I hurry to the next set of steps and grab hold of the rail, haul myself up, visions of a fifteen-foot wave crashing over my head and dragging me back down. The steps are slippery with algae and for a second I think my feet are going to disappear from under me. When I reach the safety of the prom, a yelp of relief erupts out of my mouth. When did I become such a scaredy-cat?

  But as I’m heading back towards the cliff path, the unease returns. I have the sense that I’m not alone, that someone or something is watching me. It’s the exact same feeling I had in the Fisherman’s Shack when Josh was at the counter. Goosebumps swarm from my elbows to my shoulders. My breath is like ice at the back of my throat.

  I glance over my shoulder, but the prom behind me is empty, as far as I can make out. I press on towards the path. I won’t run. I won’t. But just as I’m approaching the bottom of the slope, I see the dull orange glow of a cigarette. The nape of my neck shrinks. Someone is leaning against a beach hut about twenty-five yards ahead: a man, barely visible in the darkness.

  He steps out of the shadows and my insides plummet. That same old donkey jacket. That hat. This isn’t some figment of my imagination. He’s there, right in front of me.

  I run, or try to, my legs heavy and cumbersome, each step like running through water. The slope is steeper than I remember. Steeper and longer. My heart knocks against my breastbone. My DMs slip and scuff on the concrete as I lurch and scramble up. For one appalling second I think I’m going to pitch forward face first, but I right myself just in time. I mustn’t fall. If I fall, he’ll catch up with me.

  I’m nearly at the top now. Another few seconds and the ground will even out. I’ll be on the greensward and it’ll be easier. I listen for the sounds of pursuit, but all I hear is the heaving of my lungs, the pounding of blood in my ears. I plunge onwards, my chest ragged with pain.

  Somehow, I make it to the road without stopping. It isn’t till I’ve crossed to the other side that I dare to look back. A man stands, motionless, at the top of the path, staring after me. No donkey jacket. No trapper hat. Just a regular guy in a fleece and beanie. I can’t see his face from here, but something about his posture tells me he�
��s alarmed by my behaviour. He won’t approach me. Not now. He’ll already be feeling guilty. For being a man. A man who’s had the temerity to be having a smoke and watching the sea at night, who’s managed to terrify a woman just by being there.

  I slump against the wall of someone’s front garden. What the hell is wrong with me?

  8

  Overnight, the wind has died down and the skies have cleared. I pull the covers back and swing my legs on to the floor, astounded, as I am every morning, that – physically at least – I feel fine.

  I open my bedroom window and breathe in the fresh morning air. I slept, eventually, but traces of last night’s fear and confusion still linger. I need something to occupy my mind and stop all this weird shit clogging it up. The sooner I start working on ideas for the trompe l’œil, the better. Plus, I can prove to Josh and his dad that I’m not a complete idiot.

  The art shop is closed and, for a minute or so, I’m consumed with rage and resentment. What’s wrong with the shopkeepers round here? They seem to make up their opening hours as they go along. Why is it shut on the one morning I need to buy a decent sketch pad and some pencils? It’s so unfair. Now I’m going to have to make do with a bog-standard one from the newsagent’s, and if it’s that cheap, shiny stuff it’ll be worse than useless.

  I’m aware of the tension in my jaw and that stupidly fast walk I always do when I’m stressed out. I need to calm down. Breathe. It isn’t the end of the world. It’s just a minor setback. I have to get things into perspective. Stop being so uptight all the time. No wonder I keep seeing things that aren’t there. I’m a nervous wreck.

  All these feelings are so destabilizing. For years, I’ve drowned them in alcohol. Now they’re clamouring to the surface and gasping for air. A tsunami of emotions and sensations. This must be what it’s like for a blind person who’s suddenly able to see. I have to separate out the shapes and colours of my changing moods, learn to recognize them for what they are.

  By the time I reach the newsagent’s, I’m breathing normally again and, as luck would have it, their stationery section is better than I thought and I find a pad that’s halfway decent. The woman behind the counter smiles at me and I smile back. It’s easy, really. I just have to practise mindfulness and live in the moment. If I keep on acting as if everything’s fine, then maybe it will be. Maybe it’s as simple as that.