Chapter 23
Perhaps it was because the anniversary party, which had been looming like a thunderstorm on the horizon, was now just over a month away.
Her mother had been on the phone twice this week, ostensibly to confirm they were still bringing the wine, and had they done anything about glass hire?
But really to check they were still definitely coming.
SJ had assured her they wouldn’t miss it for anything.
But the thought of seeing Alison again, of having to introduce her stunning and manipulative sister to Tom, made her shake more than giving up the booze had done.
Knowing she couldn’t even have a nerve-calming drink to take the edge off the experience made the whole thing worse.
She glanced at her watch. Despite what she’d told Tanya – because she hadn’t wanted to overstay her welcome – Tom wasn’t going to be home for another couple of hours.
Suddenly, the thought of going back to an empty house filled her with dread.
Tom might have moved the wine into the shed. But SJ was still scared of its pull.
Perhaps she should take Ash for a walk while it was a bit cooler. He was one of the reasons she’d driven to Tanya’s. He liked to stroll around a nice park, but he wasn’t so keen on hard pavements these days, so she tended to drive him somewhere. Maybe they could go somewhere different for a change.
Instead of turning for home, she headed out of London.
The one thing she really missed about Bournemouth was the seaside: the flat blue infinity of the sea; the cries of the gulls; the sharp tang of ozone and seaweed.
Suddenly she knew where she wanted to go and, glad at least to have a purpose, she drove through the Rotherhithe tunnel, picked up the A13 and headed for the coast. She’d had a friend who lived in Westcliff-on-Sea once, near Southend, and while she didn’t remember the beach being all that big, at least she would be able to smell the sea and the place was familiar to her, which felt comforting – and Ash would love the feel of the sand on his paws.
Forty-five minutes later, she was on the coast road. When she’d been here with her friend, Carol, they’d always walked, and parking was obviously at a bit of a premium. But even looking for a parking space was a hundred times better than sitting at home being tempted to open a bottle of wine.
Oh, why had she thought about wine? For a few moments the idea of an ice-cold glass of Chenin Blanc hovered in her mind, calling to her like a lighthouse beacon to a sailor on stormy seas.
She could taste its dryness on her tongue and feel the coolness slipping down her throat, and then the delicious soporific effects of the alcohol easing its way around her body.
Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Shit, shit, shit. Get rid of that thought. Get rid of that thought now!
Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’ blasted out of the radio.
It was amazing how many songs had lyrics that pertained to alcohol – not that they were meant to be about alcohol, of course; they were meant to be about love.
But it was uncanny how well they fitted what she was feeling now. SJ sang along in time with Gloria.
The song faded. The craving didn’t. The DJ started wittering on about how much he was looking forward to getting home for a cold beer in his garden.
SJ spotted a parking space. Thank God. She pulled into it and turned off the ignition and the radio along with it.
Somewhere in her head the voice of Alco was taunting her – how had she ever thought she could do this?
Even with Kit’s support and encouragement, even with Dorothy’s kindness, she must have been mad to think she was strong enough to beat alcohol.
It was all around her – she would never be able to escape its seductive siren call.
Alco’s voice hammered away in her head like some evil troll with a pickaxe.
Tap, tap, tap against the rock face of her mind.
How could she be a real alcoholic anyway?
Real alcoholics didn’t have jobs and decent husbands.
They had ravaged faces and great big bellies and yellow skin and raincoats.
Oh, God, she was slipping into stereotype land.
For some reason she thought of Dorothy, with her clear blue eyes and serene smile. ‘If ever you want any help with anything, hen…’
SJ slid her wet hands off the steering wheel, shakily got out of her car and liberated an interested Ash from the back.
He pricked up his grey ears and sniffed the fresh salty air.
It was a lot cooler here than it had been on Tanya’s sheltered decking.
SJ stared out at the choppy water. The power station chimney was silhouetted against a sunlit horizon and there was a brisk breeze coming off the sea.
It whipped her hair around her face and smashed a little common sense into her mind.
She was not going to listen to Alco. It was tempting to put her hands over her ears – to block him out. Tempting, but probably pointless, as his voice was coming from inside her own mind. Her addict’s mind, she thought bleakly, as she took Ash down on to the shoreline and set him free.
One day at a time, that was all she had to do.
Her feet sank into the damp shingle. One step at a time if that was easier.
She struggled to get back the positive thoughts she’d had all week – the thoughts going to AA had put there.
They had suggested coping strategies. Pick up the phone instead of a drink. Eat something sweet. Try a walk.
She definitely wasn’t phoning anyone. She didn’t have anything sweet. And despite the fact she was walking beside the water with her dog strolling peaceably ahead of her and the mournful calls of gulls wheeling above her head, SJ had never wanted a drink so much in her life.
Okay, maybe she would phone someone. She tried Tom, and discovered his mobile was switched off.
Frustrated, and desperate now to talk to someone – anyone – to distract herself from thoughts of drinking, she scrolled through her list of numbers.
Her finger hesitated over her parents’ landline.
Was it too early to say she’d contracted an infectious disease and could see no one for at least a month?
Yes, probably. Thinking about the party wasn’t helping. She stuck that one back in its box.
Dorothy’s mobile was listed below her parents’.
‘Call any time,’ she’d said, her beautifully manicured hand covering SJ’s. ‘Day or night. I’m usually up till the small hours working.’
At the time, SJ had wondered why Dorothy had thought she’d need to call.
It was difficult enough seeing her at Poetry and a Pint.
They were still student and tutor there.
AA would never be mentioned but it felt good to know she had a secret ally when her other students were joshing her about why she was now on orange juice.
Had Dorothy known how hard she’d find this? With a swift glance to check Ash hadn’t wandered too far, she stopped in the shelter of an old wooden sea break and called her.
Dorothy answered on the third ring and SJ took a deep breath. ‘Hi, it’s SJ. I was just – er – wondering how you were doing?’
‘I’m good, thank you, SJ, absolutely fine. How are you doing?’
SJ was tempted to say she was absolutely fine, too, but before she could speak, Dorothy added, ‘Are you finding it tough not drinking?’
‘Yeah – a bit,’ SJ confessed, wondering if she’d always been such a master of understatement. ‘Well, actually, a lot. Actually, ever such a lot. I’m on the beach at Westcliff-on-Sea. I’ve been fantasising about a bottle of Chenin Blanc ever since I got here.’
‘I take it you haven’t got one with you?’
‘No.’ SJ gave a deep sigh, and to her surprise Dorothy laughed. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be sympathetic and tell her the craving would pass. Instead, Dorothy changed the subject. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was on holiday in Dumfries?’
‘No,’ SJ said with another sigh. ‘I don’t think you did.’
Dorothy launched into an account of being stuck in a hotel with nothing to drink and how in the end she’d been so desperate she’d knocked back a whole bottle of perfume.
‘Scent contains alcohol,’ she explained.
‘What did it taste like?’ SJ gasped in fascinated horror.
‘Disgusting. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever poured down my throat – I wasn’t too bad at that stage, you see.’
The fact Dorothy didn’t consider drinking perfume ‘too bad’ put things in perspective a bit. SJ would never consider any such thing.
‘Did it work?’ she asked, breathlessly. ‘Did it take the edge off the craving?’
She glanced at Ash, who was pottering safely on the sand close by.
‘No, it didn’t,’ Dorothy chuckled. ‘When I looked at the bottle properly I realised it was the kind of perfume that doesn’t have any alcohol in it. So I’d just had myself a very expensive drink, pet. And it was all for absolutely nothing.’
‘My God,’ SJ said. ‘That’s terrible.’ She wasn’t sure which was worse – the fact Dorothy hadn’t satisfied her craving, or the fact she’d been desperate enough to drink a bottle of perfume in an attempt to do it.
And in the moments of silence that followed, SJ realised to her horror that she’d already prioritised the two things by the order in which they’d occurred to her. It was far more terrible that Dorothy hadn’t satisfied her craving – God, did that mean she was already thinking like an alcoholic?
The silence went on so long that SJ wondered if Dorothy had hung up. She coughed experimentally.
‘So then, SJ – how are you feeling now? Any better?’
‘Yes, I am. Thank you, Dorothy.’
‘My pleasure. So tell me, hen, what have you been up to today?’
By the time she’d finished talking, twenty minutes later, SJ realised that the terrible tension in her muscles had eased off. The craving had gone.
‘Thank you so much,’ SJ said, rocked with a humbleness that made her want to weep, because she’d just realised that Dorothy had known exactly how she felt, and exactly how long to keep her talking.
And she must have been interrupting her work – Dorothy had often said that evenings were her best time for writing.
She called Ash to her and clipped on his lead. ‘Thank you so, so much, Dorothy.’
‘Any time, pet. You can phone me any time you want to.’