Chapter 20
The next two days were hell. Up until that point, SJ hadn’t seriously considered she might have a drink problem.
She certainly hadn’t expected going without alcohol for a couple of days would present any difficulties.
But suddenly her mind, which was normally in a fairly scatty but comfortable and familiar place, no longer felt as if it belonged to her.
For a start she couldn’t sleep – it wouldn’t let her – it raced with unpleasant thoughts and emotions, all sorts of crawling little demons that wouldn’t be quietened.
For some reason Tom featured in many of these thoughts.
Tossing and turning, she lay beside his quietly snoring body, hoping against hope he wouldn’t wake up and want to make love.
She didn’t know why, because Tom was a skilled and considerate lover.
He did all the right things. His idea of foreplay wasn’t just a quick poke in the back with his erection which, according to the problem pages she’d read in magazines, happened to a lot of ‘happily marrieds’ and would definitely have been cause for complaint.
SJ sat up in bed, wondering why on earth she was thinking about fairground rides.
Scared she would wake Tom with her restlessness, she went on a sleeping pill foray to the bathroom cabinet.
She’d bought some at the pharmacy for her last bout of insomnia which, oddly enough, had happened when she’d been prescribed antibiotics for toothache.
The bottle had said ‘Strictly No Alcohol’.
After two awful drink-free nights, she’d abandoned the antibiotics and had the offending tooth removed instead, which had been a huge relief – in more ways than one.
This time there was no such respite. Although the sleeping pills knocked her out there was no escape from the demons, who crawled into her dreams instead. So when she woke up she was more tired than when she’d fallen asleep.
By late Sunday afternoon, two more endless days until her next appointment with Kit, her hands were so shaky she could hardly type out her notes for her Poetry and a Pint class.
By early evening she was ready to crack. She abandoned her notes and googled alcohol withdrawal symptoms.
Mild shakiness
Inability to concentrate
Insomnia
A feeling of dread
Restlessness
Mood changes
As she scanned the list, SJ felt an increasing sense of panic.
She had every symptom. The shakiness wasn’t particularly mild either.
It wasn’t just in her hands; it was in her stomach and her legs too.
However she sat at her laptop in the spare room office, she couldn’t get comfortable.
She was also besieged with mood swings like the kind she had before her period, when she usually stepped up her alcohol levels to compensate – for medicinal purposes, obviously.
Her period. Of course – that was it. It was due in three days. So this was what Tanya was talking about when she said she had bad PMT. It was such a relief to discover she only had PMT that she leapt out of her chair and charged down to the kitchen for two Nurofen.
It would have been nice to wash them down with a glass of white wine but, apart from the fact she’d given up, it was only just gone five.
She had water instead, went back upstairs, but still felt too restless to work.
Perhaps she’d picked up the 200mg strength tablet instead of the 400mg.
They must have changed the packet colour.
Twenty agonisingly long minutes later she still felt exactly the same.
She got some more pills and, on autopilot, she opened a bottle of white wine and poured a large glass to wash them down with.
The relief was instantaneous. She could feel the pills being washed to the furthest corners of her body.
Her hands stopped shaking. Her legs took a little longer to feel normal.
But amazingly, wondrously, her mind came back online.
It was such a good feeling she had another glass of wine.
Then another. Now her fingers were flying across the keys.
Thank goodness she’d discovered she had PMT and not withdrawal symptoms. She was about to pour a fourth glass of wine when she noticed the bottle was empty.
They must be making wine bottles smaller too. Oh well, she’d stop there.
Humming to herself, she went downstairs.
On second thoughts, Tom would probably appreciate a nice unwinding glass of red when he got in.
She could put a bottle on the side to breathe.
Pleased with herself for being such a considerate wife, she opened one of his special bottles.
Fourteen per cent – oo-er, better be careful with this one.
A quick sip revealed that it tasted like blackberries and she was also getting notes of chocolate and wood – just as the label promised.
It didn’t taste that alcoholic either – certainly not 14 per cent.
It was more like upmarket Ribena. Very easy drinking.
Too easy. She really should take the bottle into the kitchen to breathe.
Or there wouldn’t be any left for Tom. He’d be in soon. It was just after six.
The landline rang and she danced across the room to answer it.
‘Hi, SJ, it’s Michael. I was wondering if Tom still fancied squash tomorrow night. I’ve just booked a court. Can you get him to give me a ring, please?’
‘Sure,’ SJ murmured, as a sudden picture of Michael playing squash in a summer dress, his hairy legs pounding the floor, sprang into her mind. Perhaps he shaved them. She giggled, tried to stop herself, and snorted loudly instead, which struck her as incredibly funny.
‘SJ – are you still there?’
‘Mmm.’ It was incredibly difficult to keep it together for some reason. Far away in her mind the voice of sanity urged her not to laugh.
‘Do you want to speak to Tanya while I’m on? She’s right here.’
‘Er, no – bit busy,’ SJ mumbled. ‘Lesson plan to do for my poetry class. You know…’ She waved a careless hand and then remembered he couldn’t see her. ‘Bye, Tom. I mean Michael. Cheers.’
She’d nearly called him Liz. Who on earth was Liz? Remembering his alter ego and feeling sweaty with panic because she wasn’t supposed to know about it, let alone start discussing it with him, she disconnected and sank onto the sofa, which wasn’t where she anticipated it would be.
She found herself on the floor instead – well, half on the floor, half on the coffee table, which was exceptionally hard. Bloody coffee table. Bloody floor. Cursing softly, she rolled completely onto the floor and sat up.
She’d been going to do something. Ah, yes, she had to open a bottle of wine for Tom.
Stumbling to her feet and swaying across to the bar she looked at the rack.
Now what day was it? He didn’t like her to open expensive wine unless it was the weekend.
Was it the weekend? It had been Sunday yesterday, or was it Sunday today?
Best be on the safe side and open a cheap bottle.
The corkscrew wasn’t in its usual place.
Not that they didn’t have plenty of others – but most of Tom’s collection were in locked glass display cases and she didn’t know where the key was.
When she finally found the functional corkscrew she discovered two empty bottles beside it.
Ah, it must be Sunday then. They’d have had these with their tea.
The phone was ringing again, but she ignored it and opened another bottle.
* * *
‘SJ… SJ, wake up. Wake up, will you? SJ, for God’s sake, please wake up…’
Fragments of voices swam through the confused blackness.
They sounded urgent. They sounded cross.
With an immense effort SJ opened her eyes and wished she hadn’t.
Tom’s face loomed in and out of focus. He wasn’t happy.
She felt like someone had given her a good kicking.
Why would anyone do that? She groaned. Something bad had obviously happened.
Her body felt bruised and sore and her head was so fuzzy she didn’t know what day it was – or what time.
Squinting at her watch, she saw it was seven thirty, which didn’t help, was it a.m. or p.m.?
‘Get her some coffee or something, can you, Tom.’
That sounded like Tanya’s voice. What was Tanya doing here?
Suddenly remembering Michael’s phone call, SJ hauled herself into a sitting position.
She seemed to be on the floor in the dining room.
Glancing around her frantically for the phone and then remembering it was in the lounge, she tried to collect her fragmented thoughts. What had she said to Michael?
‘It’s okay, I’m fine. What’s happening?’
Tanya, who was now crouching beside her, was wearing a pale blue T-shirt and jeans and leather flip-flops with sparkly stones set in them. As always, she looked both cool and stunning. How lucky was she to have ended up with such a gorgeous best friend?
SJ tried a gorgeous smile of her own.
Tanya didn’t smile back. Her green eyes were narrowed and angry, but her voice, when she spoke, was surprisingly soft. ‘How are you feeling? Pretty crap, I guess?’
‘Very crap. Very very very crap. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse in my whole life.’ At least she didn’t feel sick. ‘What are you doing here? Did Tom ask you to come?’
‘It was me who phoned Tom. I was worried. Michael said you’d called and sounded odd. I guessed you might have been drinking.’
Hang on – hadn’t he called her? Something about a squash game. Oh, well, it was an easy mistake to make.
‘I haven’t drunk much – I’ve been cutting down.
Honest.’ SJ swung out an arm and hit what turned out to be a half-empty bottle of red, which would have fallen over if Tanya hadn’t caught it deftly and transferred it to the dining-room table.
‘See…’ she announced triumphantly. ‘…I’m on half bottles now. ’
‘You didn’t get in this state by drinking half a bottle of wine. We found two other empty bottles. Do you remember anything at all?’