Thursday 14th September
J o squinted at the lock screen of her phone. It was fuzzy and blurred, much like she was feeling. But not so much that she couldn’t make out two messages. One from her mother and one from Rees. Neither of which was she sufficiently sober to answer. No point thinking now that she should have stopped drinking after dinner. No point acknowledging that she should have stayed at the table in the courtyard where she could still hear voices. Sipping tea, instead of creeping away to down more wine from the secret supply she’d bought from the taverna after her swim.
God, this needed to stop.
This morning she’d barely been able to engage with the group through the crippling fug of her hangover. “Show not frigging well tell” was hard enough to explain at the best of times, but luckily she’d had plenty of examples in her notes. At one point she’d felt so rough she had almost pleaded a migraine, but Karmela and Iain at least would have known the truth. Karmela, who for a few precious moments had felt like a friend, but who would surely hate her if she knew what she’d done.
It was damned hard work being a secret drinker away from home. She’d used so much mouthwash she’d felt as though her tongue was on fire, so was pretty sure the boozy aura hadn’t followed her into the studio. And she’d flung the windows of her room wide so Zina wouldn’t catch a whiff when she went in to clean.
Drinking was a frigging waste of time too. It didn’t help her to write. Which was another reason she had to stop. Right now. But she’d only just opened a new bottle. Jo stood, shakily, from the sofa and walked back into her bedroom towards the fridge, glass in hand. A slight stagger left her almost sprawling on the bed, but she righted herself, swayed a little, then slumped onto the edge of the mattress.
She had two choices. There were always choices. Life was just one frigging great— What were those weird charts with lozenges and arrows called? Yes, that was it, decision trees. Or something like that, anyway. You stood in the lozenge and decided which arrow to take. Then another, and another, and another. Except one branch was always short and simple, and right now anything convoluted was beyond her.
What the frigging hell are you on about, Jo?
Good point. Very good point.
But choices were important. She was bad at them. Badder than bad. So she could do with a road map. Try– try– to be logical. Choice one: drink, sleep, wake up with hangover, repeat. Easy. Choice two: throw out the rest of the bottle, take painkillers– or just plain suffer and serve her right– not sleep very well– or enough painkillers to knock herself out– wake up, or not wake up… No, that was silly.
Wake up, go to breakfast, do what you’re being paid to do.
Outside in the courtyard she could hear voices. Diana, Susan, Ellen… and Zina. Zina must have finished work and joined them. They were asking her about the fireworks tomorrow night. Iain couldn’t go because of the dog. A girls’ trip out. That was it, she’d got it, she’d offer to drive, and then she couldn’t have so much as a glass. Not tomorrow, at least.
Even this drunk, Jo knew what was right. Right was taking the difficult path and pouring the rest of the wine down the sink. It had to be that way because otherwise it would be there, tempting her, even when she inevitably woke at four in the morning. Especially at four in the morning. She set her glass on the desk.
Jo, this has to stop.
Now, before it gets out of hand.
It might numb the pain a little, but it wouldn’t make her problems go away. Even the small ones, like Rees and his sodding remortgage. So if it was small, why was she holding out? Let him do it; get him off her back. But somewhere under the fug, a sober Jo was angry. Angry that every decision in her life came down to his insidious bullying. What had Mum said? He chip, chip, chipped away at her. The trouble was that he could. Because he knew.
Oh, Mum.
She wanted to talk to her mother, but she couldn’t. Not like this. Another reason to sober up. Picking up her phone, she very carefully typed a message, promising to call tomorrow, checking it three or four times before sending it. At least now her mum thought she was OK. She worried about her. Their shared grief over Pam had brought them even closer together, but her mum had never understood why Jo couldn’t bear to talk about Pam now the rawness of loss had passed. Because Mum didn’t know.
Her mother thought it was because Jo had found Pam’s body and she had once or twice suggested counselling to help her process the traumatic event. Or if not counselling, to at least write it out of her system. But it hadn’t been traumatic. It had been a huge shock of course, had felt completely unreal, but Pam had looked so peaceful, and the paramedics had been wonderful.
She remembered it vividly, even holding Pam’s cold hand and talking to her until help arrived, but the next few days had always remained a blur. Pam had no family, so Jo’s parents had arrived and made all the arrangements. Jo’s mum had been Pam’s executor and the main beneficiary of her will, and she’d promised to make the house over to Jo as soon as she could so she didn’t lose her home as well.
It had taken Jo about a month to venture back into Pam’s room, on a Sunday morning when Rees was playing golf. Back then he’d been marvellous, always there when she needed him, and she wondered at it now. Had his love been real at first at least? Maybe. He hadn’t known about the house or the manuscript, so it couldn’t have been money. Not then.
The manuscript had been one of the first things Jo had found when she opened Pam’s laptop and wiped the dust from the keyboard. She’d borrowed it once or twice so she knew the password, and her task for the morning was checking through Pam’s inbox to make sure nothing needed dealing with, and that all Pam’s email contacts knew about her death.
But there on the desktop was a file labelled “Only. Ever. You.” She’d gazed at it for a while. Pam had said the story was personal, so perhaps she should have deleted it, but Jo had wanted to read it first. She’d been missing Pam so desperately that it was impossible to think of destroying this important part of her. This last part of her. Impossible not to crave spending a few hours in her company again.
Jo had taken the laptop downstairs to the lounge, made herself a pot of tea, then opened the document. And there it was, Pam’s secret life laid bare in the most wonderful prose: a forbidden affair with the wife of a high-profile MP spanning two decades. No wonder Pam hadn’t come out at work; pretending to be something she wasn’t had given her and her lover added protection. Especially as the husband in the piece wasn’t the nicest of men. But the women had planned their escape; when the children were grown-up, when Pam could take early retirement.
They’d so very nearly made it too. And somewhere a woman had been grieving more than anyone for Pam, yet couldn’t let it show. Little wonder that when Rees had rung the doorbell some hours later Jo had been in floods of tears, and of course he’d asked her why. And rather than keep Pam’s secret, she’d been in such a mess that she’d told him.
Her first big mistake. The biggest. With a sudden flash of clarity Jo knew this, right now, was not the moment to make another. She couldn’t quite fathom why, but she recognised an important decision when she saw one. She stood, waited until she stopped swaying, and tugged the wine bottle from the fridge. She tipped the contents down the sink, watching until the very last drop had swirled away.
She would not buy another. She would not pop into the taverna on her way back from tomorrow’s swim, “just in case”. But what the hell would she do instead? A voice in her head told her she could solve this problem for once and for all.
Break it down into pieces. Take a first step.
It was her mother’s voice. Or was it Karmela’s?
Karmela who, now her head was clearing just a little, Jo knew would support her. Karmela who knew about her row with Rees. Which meant… which meant… this small part of her problem need not be a secret. But could she trust her? Rees said she couldn’t trust anyone. But why would she believe him anymore?