Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

‘So now what?’ Sukhi asks. We’re in front of the television and the wine bottle is empty. Outside it is dark. Noah would usually be home by now, even if he had a late meeting. My brain already hurts, my eyes are blurred. I hate feeling I’m not in control of my own body. My reaction times are slow as I try to make sense of the scene we’re watching.

I didn’t ever drink as a teenager. Mornings spent holding back Mother’s hair while she expelled bile into our toilet were more than enough to put me off bingeing. I would hold her hair for her, watching as she wiped her lipstick-smeared chin with her arm, spittle and vomit leaving a glistening snail trail across them. Eventually she would bat me away, and I would leave her to hobble into her darkened room from which she would not emerge until the afternoon.

On days like this she would waltz out as though the morning had never happened, exclaiming how well rested she felt and how desperately she had needed that luxurious lie-in. Most of the time, she’d end up going out again in the evening, and the cycle would repeat itself three or four days in a row until she would do a complete one-eighty, spending two weeks drinking nothing but overpriced diet juices and flirting with personal trainers at the gym. I only really drank water for most of my youth. ‘Fizzies rot your teeth,’ Mother would say disapprovingly whenever someone passed us, slurping out of a can.

‘Full of sugar,’ I’d agree, while wondering what that bubbly candy-drink in a shiny red can might taste of.

Sukhi has put on some reality TV show. Despite staring at the screen, I haven’t been watching it. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that she’s sitting in Noah’s usual spot, that it’s her body in place of his in my home. I shift uncomfortably, my eyes darting to the TV, and sigh.

‘Still no response?’ she asks, even though she knows he hasn’t responded because my phone is on loud and has been lying between us, face-up, this entire night.

‘No.’

‘Right.’

‘What would you do? If this were you?’ I ask. I hear the slurring in my voice.

‘Rip his balls off,’ she says with a small smile.

‘What if he didn’t turn up for you to rip his balls off?’

‘Then I guess I’d probably go crazy trying to track him down,’ she admits.

‘Sukhi! You’re a genius.’ I scramble off the sofa and grab the laptop, returning to slump beside her with it balanced on my knees as I begin typing into Google.

Noah Coors, Alliance me sipping my wine slowly, trying not to jump in shock every time the room erupted into sudden roars and chants. I had never been interested in football, and only really went along to spend more time with Noah. I had loved watching him, so animated and passionate, eyes glued to the screen. Now I roll my eyes and close the window in frustration.

‘What if we try calling him from your phone?’ I ask, sitting up suddenly. ‘Maybe he’ll pick up if the number isn’t mine?’

‘Oh! Good idea. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that,’ Sukhi admits.

I read out Noah’s number and she types it in, setting it to loudspeaker mode.

I hold my breath as it rings and rings and rings.

‘Noah Coors,’ comes his voice, short and abrupt.

Sukhi and I exchange glances, and I’m jumping up and down on the spot urging her to speak with manic silent encouragement.

‘Er, yes, hello, Noah, my name is Sukhi—’

‘How can I help you, Sukhi?’ he cuts her off quickly, and I frown. It’s unusual for him to be so blunt. This is a version of him that I don’t recognise.

‘I work with your fiancée, Claire.’

There’s a half-second pause before a dial tone kicks in. He’s hung up.

We stare at each other for a moment in silent disbelief.

‘He fucking hung up?’ she says, her voice rising in anger.

I shrink back as she hits redial. It goes straight to voicemail.

‘Bastard,’ she says.

‘He’s probably turned his phone off,’ I say quietly, stating the obvious to avoid having to address my emotions.

‘God, Claire, I’m sorry but your fiancé is a dick. Who the fuck does he think he is, disappearing into his lies and then hanging up on us?’

‘And why won’t he take my calls. And why hasn’t he come home tonight?’ I add, taking another long sip from my tea.

‘Or told you where he’s staying,’ she mutters.

‘Or who with,’ I say, my voice breaking.

There’s a short pause while my last comment sinks in.

‘Right, here’s what’s going to happen,’ Sukhi announces, rushing over to my kitchen cabinet and revealing an old box of chocolate biscuits I forgot I had. ‘We are going to put on The Other Woman and have our sleepy tea and biscuits in the company of Cameron Diaz at her man-hating best. Then you are going to pass out from tiredness in your bed so you don’t have to stay up all night worrying about whether your shitty boyfriend turns up tonight or not. Tomorrow you will have such a terrible hangover that your physical health will override all your emotional distress and mentally you will be better equipped to handle the situation. Though hopefully the biscuits will help with any future hangovers. Ready?’ she says, standing over me and brandishing the television remote and the packet of chocolate digestives with an authority I can’t dispute.

‘Ready, I suppose,’ I agree.

I don’t know when I fall asleep, but it comes quickly and painlessly. I awake in the middle of the night to find that Sukhi has draped a blanket over me before leaving. I stumble into the bedroom where I pass out once more.