Chapter 21
‘My counsellor thinks it might help if I go to an AA meeting.’ SJ told Tom this with a little shake in her voice.
Sometimes she felt as though this part of her life was happening to someone else.
It was someone else, not her, who joked her way through the Tuesday lunchtime appointments at SAADD; someone else who had agreed to venture into the shadowy underworld of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Tom asked. He’d taken to coming home earlier, bringing his laptop with him and finishing work on the kitchen table.
SJ shook her head. ‘Thanks, but no, it’s okay. I phoned the helpline and they’ve arranged for me to meet someone outside so I know where to go.’
‘Don’t they tell you that then?’
‘They tell you the name of the building, but not which part of it. I guess they can’t tape a big sign on the door, can they? Alcoholics Anonymous meets here.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘It wouldn’t be very anonymous if they did.’
Tom put his arm around her and she tried not to flinch away from him.
Why did she find it so difficult to accept comfort from her own husband?
When Kit had given her the list of meetings, his arm had rested casually against hers and she’d wanted to lean against the warm broad warmth of him, hear him tell her, as he so often had, that she was doing really well, that she didn’t have to cope on her own.
Shrugging away such uncomfortable thoughts, she got up. ‘I’m going to a meeting in Bermondsey.’ That should be far enough away for her not to meet anyone she knew.
‘I could always give you a lift and…’
‘Go for a drink while I’m in there? No, thanks.’
‘I was going to say I’d wait in the car park.’
She glanced at him, saw the flash of pain in his eyes and knew he was doing his best to support her – now he’d finally acknowledged she had a problem. She felt a wave of guilt. Why did she never say the right thing?
‘Honestly, Tom, I appreciate it, really, but there’s no need. This is something I need to do for myself.’
* * *
Anxious not to be late, SJ arrived at the community centre in Bermondsey ten minutes before the agreed time.
She and the woman she’d arranged to meet outside hadn’t exchanged descriptions – not even of their cars, let alone themselves – and she wondered how she’d recognise her.
To her surprise, there were already quite a few people hanging around the entrance of the centre, both men and women, puffing furiously on vapes and cigarettes.
She could hardly wander up to one of them and say, ‘Hi, are you here for AA? Oh, sorry, you’re here for the line dancing, are you? Yeah, me too.’
So she stayed in her car and spent the first five minutes trying to guess what her companion would look like.
She’d sounded quite posh on the phone – she’d reminded SJ of a schoolteacher she once had.
Oh, God, what if it was her old schoolteacher?
Her heart started pounding and she had to take several deep breaths to calm down.
If it was her schoolteacher then she was obviously going to recognise her as soon as she saw her and she’d simply say she’d made a mistake and leave. Easy.
Working on the assumption it wasn’t her schoolteacher, SJ went back to conjuring up a mental image to fit the voice on the phone.
She’d probably be wearing a tweed suit: brown, with sensible brown brogues, brown perm and bifocals.
Or possibly she’d have her hair tied back in a bun and her face scrubbed clean of make-up in honour of her new sober lifestyle and she’d be wearing an A-line dress to cover her ample curves.
Yes, she’d had a plump kind of voice so it followed she’d have matching curves.
SJ fidgeted and bit her nails while she waited and wondered if her own black jeans, pale blouse and dark jacket – even though it was far too hot for jackets – looked demure enough.
She had on a trace of make-up, but not much: foundation, mascara, a stroke of blusher and a conservative peach lipstick that had come free with a Woman and Home magazine.
She wanted to give the right impression – middle class, but not as if she’d never had a good night out in her life.
Not that she was expecting she could compete with proper alcoholics – ones who downed two litres of whisky a day without a whisper of a hangover.
But she didn’t want them to think she was here under false pretences either, in case they thought she’d just come along for a laugh at their expense.
The last thing she wanted was a bunch of snubbed, demented, raging alcoholics chasing her out to her car with machetes.
God, she was paranoid. Why on earth would they have machetes?
It was too hot in the car for a jacket – which seemed to be tighter now she was sitting down. It must have shrunk at the dry cleaners. She shrugged it off and noticed her blouse was tighter than usual too. The buttons across her breasts were under a lot of strain and the top one kept popping open.
Wanton hussy was definitely not the right look.
She’d have to wear the jacket, and then she could hold the edges together and avoid any embarrassing button-popping moments.
It would be even better if she could stand up all evening – preferably at the back of the room behind a cupboard. In a cupboard would be better still.
Perhaps her companion was already here. She wished they’d agreed to carry something so they’d recognise each other. Something appropriate – like an empty wine bottle, although a full one would have been better.
One thing was certain; she couldn’t stay in her car.
It was too hot. Maybe if she wandered across to the entrance she’d be spotted and rescued.
It was like walking the plank. SJ was afraid her knees would give out halfway.
At the entrance, aware of one or two curious glances, she got out her mobile and pretended to check her WhatsApp.
Then she became aware someone had detached themselves from the group and was approaching.
Not a woman, but a man with a cigarette in his hand and a friendly smile.
Definitely not a line dancer – he was wearing jeans and Dr Martens.
She tugged her jacket around her, in case her blouse had done its button-popping trick, and smiled back uncertainly.
‘Are you here to meet someone, love?’
She nodded.
‘What’s her name, she’s probably inside. I’ll nip in and see if you like?’
SJ told him and he hurried away and returned a few moments later with a woman who was tall, slim, and looked as though she might be on her way to a wedding – only she didn’t have a hat. SJ felt woefully underdressed.
‘Come along in,’ her companion ordered kindly. ‘You don’t want to hang around out here with these smokers, do you?’
‘No,’ SJ said bleakly, although there was nothing she’d have liked more than a fag or six to calm her nerves.
‘Come in and have a drink and I’ll introduce you to some of our ladies.’
SJ’s heart leapt at the prospect of a drink until it became evident her companion meant coffee – yuck.
But she sipped it obediently and smiled politely at everyone she was introduced to without trying to remember their names.
There didn’t seem much point as they weren’t likely to meet again.
There was no one in the room she knew. Thank God for small mercies.
Her plan to skulk at the back was thwarted when she was told to, ‘Sit here, love, next to me. It’s best to sit at the front.’
* * *
SJ spent the first half of the meeting wondering how quickly she could excuse herself. She spent the second half in tears.
The tears were completely unexpected. One minute she was tapping her foot and surreptitiously glancing at her watch, and the next she had started to shake.
She rested her head in her hands and then her shoulders joined in on the act and she realised she was no longer just shaking, but sobbing.
Her whole body was shuddering with silent grief.
No one took any notice – perhaps they were used to people going to pieces. Then she felt a hand touch her shoulder. ‘Shall we slip outside for a wee while, hen?’
The voice, with its faint Scottish accent, was horribly familiar. SJ felt an increasing sense of dread as she turned to find herself looking at Dorothy from her Poetry and a Pint class. Dorothy must have been sitting behind her all the time. What on earth was she doing here?
But Dorothy’s blue eyes were kind. And through her distress, SJ noticed her exchanging an it’s-all-right-I-know-her kind of glance with the woman who’d brought her in.
Supremely embarrassed, because now she was bound to be the centre of attention, SJ gulped and nodded, stood up and allowed herself to be led through the swing doors and into the balmy summer evening.
They sat on the low wall outside. ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ SJ gulped, rubbing her face and blowing her nose on a tatty old tissue she’d found in her bag. ‘I don’t know why I’m so upset.’
‘Is this your first meeting?’
SJ nodded. It felt surreal seeing Dorothy out of context. As usual, her face was beautifully made up, her black hair was pinned up in a chignon, and she was wearing the Dior suit she’d once told SJ she’d bought for a wedding and needed to get plenty of use out of to justify the cost.
Images of her favourite student flooded SJ’s mind: Dorothy’s steamy novels with sex scenes that were as tender as they were explicit; Dorothy’s tales of her grandchildren; Dorothy’s passion for Byron and Pam Ayres; Dorothy’s own rather clever poetry, which always bubbled with merriment.
SJ had to admit they were conflicting images, but none of them seemed as wrong as the fact that she was here now.
‘First meetings aren’t easy.’ Dorothy’s voice was gentle and SJ blinked.
‘But you’re not… you can’t be… You’re obviously here in a professional capacity.’ SJ searched wildly for an explanation. ‘You’re doing research for your books, aren’t you?’
‘I’m a recovering alcoholic, pet.’
‘You don’t drink. You always have a Britvic orange.’ SJ had a sudden vivid memory of Dorothy laughing with the boys as they sipped pints of Guinness and she nursed her small glass with its slice of orange floating in the top.
Dorothy gave her a sweet smile. ‘I stopped drinking twenty-five years ago.’
This news was even more shocking. SJ was about to ask her why she still came to meetings if she was cured when Dorothy spoke again.
‘SJ, pet, why do you think you broke down in there just now?’
‘I’ve no idea. Probably because I’m in the wrong place, and when that woman was speaking I just realised it.’ The words sounded hollow, even to her.
‘Or could it be that the opposite is true?’ Dorothy held her gaze. It was impossible to look away. ‘Be honest with yourself. Could it be that on some level you’ve already recognised you’re the same as that woman and it was the shock of that realisation that caused you to break down?’
‘Absolutely not.’ SJ stared back through the window where the circle of people – all kinds of people: men and women, some casually dressed, some scruffy, some smart, some fat, some thin, some tall, some short, some blonde, some dark – sat with serious faces.
But on some level she was no longer sure. On some level Dorothy’s words resonated. Then Dorothy added something that swept away the last of her reservations.
‘SJ, pet. In all the years I’ve been coming here, I’ve never met anyone who walked in through these doors by accident.’