Chapter 34
C ome on, Damien, go for it. Tell them your story. Everyone here is in the same boat , the Voice said.
No, we’re not , thought Damien. The difference is, I have you yammering on at me all the time.
He looked up and cleared his throat. ‘I’m Damien and I’m an alcoholic and I’m addicted to sex and drugs.’
‘Hi, Damien,’ the group responded.
He paused.
Go on, Damien, imagine you’re on the couch , the Voice said.
‘Okay, here goes. I’ve been going on benders for the last twenty years, but I’ve always managed to keep my work separate from my leisure habits. I could drink a bottle of whisky a night chased down with half a dozen lines of coke and still get up in the morning and write. I’ve slept with hundreds of women and sometimes had a turnover of two a day, when I wasn’t busy.
‘I more or less kept things under control because of my work, until six months ago when I met a lady who played me at my own game. And the cooler she became the more I fell for her, and the more intoxicated and needy I became, the more she detested me.’
Stop. You sound like a pathetic masochist , the Voice said. It’s all so over the top.
Damien wasn’t sure what to say next. His eyes focused on the young woman who led the meeting. She had a lovely face. Wide, soft eyes and one of those mouths that turned up at the edges even when she wasn’t smiling. He looked at her hand: no wedding band.
‘One minute left,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ Her voice brought him back on track.
‘Well, I certainly kept my dealer happy. I could call him any time day or night and he would supply me with coke, MDMA – and sometimes even buy me a bottle of whisky on the way to my house, if I didn’t want to go out. And then, one night, I was out of my head and went to this wedding and there she was, dancing the paso doble with another man.
‘I went crazy. It was a red rag to a bull. I charged him… made such a fool of myself. So finally,’ Damien paused to catch his breath, ‘the groom put me in a cab, and I was on my way home when I decided to take a detour. Told the cabbie to take me to the River Thames… and I jumped.
‘And here’s the thing: I’m only here to tell the tale because the taxi driver rescued me. He went off for a coffee but came back. I think he knew what I was going to do.
‘When he pulled me out of the water, for a moment I thought he was an angel. Maybe he was. He took me, covered in mud, to the hospital, and in a strange way I felt as if I was being reborn. That was my wake-up call. So here I am. Anyway, I just want to say that I’m so happy to be alive and I really want to recover.’
He wanted them to believe him, but he wasn’t sure he believed himself.
Quite good , the Voice said, but next time inject a bit of wit.
He held hands with the people in the circle, and prayed that he could find a way to move on.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
It wasn’t easy. Twice a week, he saw a therapist who helped him stay on course. For months he kept close to home and avoided socialising, especially parties.
His day started with a meditation, then breakfast and afterwards he went back to the screenplay of Writing in the Sand , which was well on the way to being signed off.
Every evening he went to his AA meeting.
To his surprise, life flowed.
***
Not so with Nicholas and Kate. It was hellish in the Morley household. The kids had both gone to stay with friends in Southgate for the half-term October break, leaving Nicholas and Kate to stare at each other over takeaways and ready meals.
Yes, no, hello, goodbye, TV shows and long solo walks with the dogs seemed to work for a few days until… that Sunday night.
It started well enough. Kate was out having a drink with her best friends, Sara and Mandy, at the Bunch of Grapes.
It was her birthday. She’d said that she’d be home at 8 p.m. , but Nicholas had waited until 9 p.m . and there was still no sign of her.
Not that it mattered. He was happy to be alone in the kitchen. It was his favourite place. He loved the old farmhouse table and chairs bought from a dealer in Broadstairs; the Dutch wooden dresser inherited from his beloved mother, filled with cookbooks that no one used; pretty bone china cups and saucers decorated with butterflies; the porcelain teapot, a wedding present from his Aunty Tina, that Kate had managed to crack while she was cleaning.
So there he sat with a glass of wine, munching a slice of pepperoni pizza and reading his book of haiku poems, while the dogs lay calm at his feet. Very Zen.
Moment gone. Wife home.
River stops, mind-flow shattered
The house weeps again.
‘Hello, Kate,’ Nicholas said when she swaggered in. His face betrayed nothing. Blank eyes and a slip of a smile.
She was drunk. Not funny drunk, but a morose, vindictive drunk.
‘Come on, Nicholas, do your angry emoji,’ she goaded.
‘I’m not angry. Actually, I was having a very nice time.’
‘Well, I’ll make it even better. I want a divorce,’ she snarled like a rabid dog. ‘It’s my birthday, in case you forgot. And that’s what I want.’
‘I know it’s your birthday,’ Nicholas said calmly. ‘Don’t you remember I offered to take you out this evening? You were meant to be home at eight o’clock. It’s hardly my fault you’ve come home at eleven, sloshed.’
‘Look at us.’ She swayed her way to the fridge. ‘Hopeless. Now then, I want to say hello to my Pinot Grigio. At least it gives me pleasure. Not like you, with your fancy-schmancy talk. I don’t understand a word of it. So why would I want to listen to you rambling on at a restaurant?’
‘Respect…’ he said quietly. ‘You don’t respect me. But do you hate me?’
‘Oh, there you go again. Poor Nick. Of course I don’t hate you… You just make me sick.’ She opened the fridge door. ‘What the hell? There’s nothing left.’ She swung the bottle in the air. ‘Who puts an empty bottle back in the fridge? I want to know, who’s been at my Pinot Grigio?’
‘Probably you, last night,’ Nicholas replied. ‘When I came home from poker, you were well and truly pissed.’
‘Better than having to listen to your mumbo jumbo – the meaning of this and the meaning of that. Why don’t you save it for bloody Sophie? You usually just come home for a change of clothes and off you go again. Well, soon you can have your London luvvie twenty-four seven.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Nicholas dunked a slice of pizza in his glass of Merlot and popped it in his mouth. ‘It’s all over with Sophie. I haven’t seen her for months.’
‘Only because she gave you the push,’ Kate said with a spiteful smile. ‘Anyway, it’s too late. I don’t give a shit who you sleep with, as long as it’s not me.’
‘That’s enough.’ Nicholas stood up from the table and took his plate over to the sink. ‘It’s midnight and I’ve got to be in London by 9 a.m. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
He’d finish with Kate. Nothing left, no sweet smiles – just a pile of bitter memories. He’d try again with Sophie.
But Sophie didn’t answer when he rang. Nicholas couldn’t sleep. Why should she trust him? Back and forth, back and forth, wife to lover, lover to wife.
Perhaps she’d found another man. And, if she had, it wasn’t right for him to interfere. No, he must let her go…
And yet…