Chapter 36
Damien had kept the faith. Nine months clean. No drink, no drugs, day at a time. He avoided tipsy lunches and the cocktail crowd.
Stayed home most of the day. Save for his morning glory. Up at seven, shorts on, ready to run along the river path.
Out of body, out of mind, flying high, into the Zen zone, where there were no words to disturb his peaceful, painless journey. He wasn’t lonely.
Writing in the Sand was a big hit. Top of the bestseller list and a critical success. Added to which, the film was in production.
Damien was ready to move on.
He looked at his face in the mirror and ran a hand across the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Shave, Damien , said the Voice.
‘On reflection, I think you’re right.’
Damien enjoyed the ritual of a traditional shave. He whistled as he dipped the badger brush into the basin of warm water and swished it in a dish of rose geranium soap. Next, he swirled the suds round and round along his jawline, after which he slid the cut-throat razor in gentle upward strokes through the bristly stubble. Finally, he splashed his face with Creed Vétiver, his favourite aftershave.
He brushed his hand across his smooth skin.
Better, much better. You’re getting there. Well done, Damien, well done , said the Voice.
A white shirt, navy Armani trousers and Lobb shoes. He was good to go.
Lunch today with Justin Baird at Scott’s Mayfair restaurant. Excellent fish and seafood. Very sparkly, classy and a great place for gossip with the literati.
When Damien arrived, Justin was already at the desk.
‘No tables outside, but anyway I’m sure you don’t want the paps on your tail.’
‘Why not?’ Damien said. ‘Come on, Justin. Nobody who’s somebody comes here to dine incognito.’
‘Oh well, it’s cooler inside and no car fumes,’ Justin said.
Damien’s eyes swept across the room, clocking the clientele, as the ma?tre d’ showed them to their tables.
Who’s Who artsies, money merchants, Ascot hats eating oysters and Dover sole, washed down with vintage whites and fine champagne.
The looks and whispers thrilled him.
Yes, here I am. Back after my sabbatical. Risen out of the ashes.
You show ’em , the Voice said.
‘Glad you’re here,’ he muttered.
‘What did you say?’ Justin said.
‘Nothing much, just talking to myself.’
The sommelier arrived.
‘No wine, just tap water for me,’ Damien said.
‘Well, I’ll be drinking for both of us, then,’ said Justin. ‘A glass of Dom Perignon, please.’
He smiled at Damien and opened his arms as if he were about to hug him.
‘I’m so glad you’re back on form again,’ he said, ‘but I have to admit your bullish behaviour at our wedding was terrific entertainment… I also want to say… and I really mean this…’ he grabbed Damien’s arm and looked into his eyes with shining sincerity, ‘… it was so nice of you to introduce me to my wonderful Anna. Thank you.’
‘Why?’ Damien said.
‘Why what?’ Justin replied.
‘Why did you use the word nice ?’
‘Why not?’ Justin said.
‘Because nice is a dull middle-class word that I find really offensive.’ He winced and pressed his forehead with the back of his palm as if he were in extreme pain. ‘It’s a terrible word.’
Damien, what’s wrong with you? He was only being nice. Why can’t you be nice? said the Voice.
‘Sorry, Justin. It’s one of my pet hates. Words can drive me crazy.’
‘You’re a very difficult man,’ Justin said quietly. ‘Always picking away at other people’s grammar. Any tiny word that doesn’t match up to your high literary vocabulary you consider an insult.’
Let it go, Damien , said the Voice. Okay. Now follow up with something friendly.
‘Do you believe there’s no free will, Justin?’
That’s it, Damien. Change the subject to something wanky and meaningful , said the Voice. Not a good idea for Justin to get really rumbled and walk out .
The waiter arrived with a plate of oysters and lobster bisque in a silver tureen.
‘Look at those beauties.’ Justin sighed. He picked up a shell and slurped down the oyster, chewing it twice before he swallowed it.
‘Well?’ Damien asked. ‘What do you think?’
‘No free will? You mean someone up there charting the moves?’
‘Destiny, karma, kismet. Checkmate before the game’s started. Winners and losers already decided.’
‘It’s not a question I can answer right now.’ Justin swallowed his last oyster.
Damien took a spoon of soup.
‘Good?’ Justin asked.
‘Good,’ Damien replied. He ate rapidly. ‘Mmmm, I didn’t realise how hungry I was.’ He took a slice of bread and dipped it in the bowl.
Justin looked at his friend and for a fleeting second saw the young student that he’d shared a flat with at Oxford. He remembered him eating a whole loaf of bread with cream of tomato soup. Full of hope and besotted with Laura.
‘How’s the love life?’ Justin asked.
‘ Nada .’ Damien swiped his finger round the edge of the empty bowl and sucked it.
***
Not that the AA meetings, three times weekly, which had been intrinsic to his recovery, weren’t also a potential source of interesting material… He had seen quite a few attractive women, who like him were there to grasp the handle on their lives.
And then, one Sunday in June, there she was. A wisp of a woman, all legs and arms, short blonde boyish hair, a cherub face with her pillowy Cupid mouth and cooey blue eyes, looking for a spare chair. The Marylebone AA meetings were always packed.
Okay, here we go. Don’t rush it with the new girl , said the Voice.
‘Like mine?’ said Damien.
He stood up and offered her his seat.
She looked in her late twenties and gave him a sweet little smile. ‘Thanks, but I’m happy to stand at the back.’
Maybe she didn’t go for the chivalrous approach? The “new school” guys were far less accommodating, and some women seemed happy not to be given special consideration.
Damien felt old. He’d try a more matey approach after the meeting.
Would she spill the beans to the group? Alcohol? Drugs? Sex?… Maybe all three?
After each share he waited for her to tell her story, but she didn’t.
The last to speak was a well-built man with a smooth tan and good pecs wearing a bright white T-shirt and pale blue jeans. Best attire for a humid day, not like the city boys in their dark suits and drip-dry shirts stealing time for the midweek Marylebone meet.
‘I’m Paul and I’m an alcoholic,’ the man said. ‘I started drinking when I found out that my wife was a gambler… I feel guilty because it was really my fault she started in the first place.’
Here we go… my fault, her fault, our fault. Got a feeling this is going to be boring , said the Voice.
‘A year ago, her mother died of cancer,’ the man continued, ‘and not only that, around the same time, our son had been suspended for smoking weed just when he was taking GCSEs, and our thirteen-year-old daughter was being bullied at school. What with all the domestic drama going on, our sex life had dwindled to nothing. I felt like the invisible man. She hardly said hello when I came home from work.’
Stop bleating and get on with it , said the Voice. It’s all about you, you, you! How you felt, Mr Selfish.
‘Anyway, one day she caught me sending a flirtatious text to a woman I met at the gym. We had an argument… I said that I’d only had a drink with her a couple of times, but she didn’t believe me. She was right… I was having an affair.’
Well, if a healthy man doesn’t get his oats … said the Voice.
‘One night I got plastered and told her the truth. I was fed up with our sexless life. She would make every excuse under the sun not to sleep with me. Headaches, feeling sick… Anyway, I promised not to see the woman again… I would change gyms. But she didn’t trust me anymore.’ He paused and, looking down at his hand, fiddled with his wedding band.
Come on, Mr Pecs. Don’t be shy. What happened next? asked the Voice.
Damien was fidgeting. He glanced behind at Blue Eyes. She looked bored. She caught his look. He winked.
‘That’s when she started gambling, online poker. And I really started drinking. At first, I didn’t worry how much money she was spending from our joint bank account because there were only small amounts going out. Well, if she felt like a bit of a flutter, why not? It wasn’t drugs… But it started to worry me when I came home after work and she’d make me dinner and then go back to her laptop. Didn’t even look at me. Just stared at the screen like a zombie.
‘Then she started going out alone in the evening. Tuesdays and Thursdays… dance classes, she said. But when she started staying out all night and hiding our bank statements, I knew something was up.’
Damien coughed and looked at his watch. One more minute to go.
‘I didn’t do online banking, didn’t trust it, so I phoned the bank. There was a withdrawal for ￡4K. She told me it was to pay for Botox and fillers. We had terrible rows. Shouting and screaming, which only made matters worse for the kids, for everything.
‘She finally admitted that she was going to casinos with friends. Every time she went out, I would get absolutely trolleyed at the thought that she was throwing away my money, bleeding me dry. I drank a bottle of whisky every night. How I managed to function in the day God only knows. But I did.
‘Last week I’d finally had enough. I waited up for her till five o’clock in the morning. I was well and truly pissed and as soon as she walked through the door I hit her. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, and that was my wake-up call. When I sobered up, we made a pact. She would go to Gamblers Anonymous and I would go to AA.’
Well, I must say the last bit was pretty dramatic , said the Voice.
The meeting was over. Damien scouted the room for his new challenge, but she had left .
No point. She’s a no-hoper. Don’t get involved with someone as lost as you are. If I were you, I would steer clear of women till you get yourself sorted out , said the Voice.
‘If you were me? Who else are you if not me? Anyway, probably right not to get involved.’
Ah, that’s a good sign. So we have started to agree on things , the Voice said. A meeting of two minds.