Chapter 14
Princes Street. Now that Matthew’s shorn of the opportunity to rise above street level, sit in those exclusive windows above him, gin in hand as he watches the hoi polloi trek past, the grime of it strikes him hard.
The shop full of polyester knickers, endless stores selling tat to tourists, American candy outlets that can only be a cover for organised crime.
Shitty venue. Shitty club. Matthew’s always hated that kind of pretentious bullshit anyway.
He resists the temptation to spit on the doorway, strides away, his mouth sour.
Dominic must be really fucked off with him to have cancelled his spot on the dinner.
Perhaps he should call . . . maybe there’s been a mistake?
Matthew pulls his phone out of his pocket, switches it on. Switches it off again.
He doesn’t know what to think. It feels menacing, though.
They’re out to get him, his bosses so unhappy with his absence that they’ve stopped him from attending this.
But it’s illegal for the hospital to sack him for doing jury duty.
Besides, he’s one of their most experienced surgeons.
Angry as they might be, they’ll have to lump it.
What if they don’t, though? Matthew knows how unforgiving hospitals can be.
An image of the blonde comes back into his mind, sitting in court with a notebook.
Could she have been sent to check up on him?
His mood darkens further. Maybe he’s being paranoid, but he’d put nothing past management. Not even that.
He’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, the evening stretches out in front of him.
He could go home, hang out with Rosalind.
But Rosalind’ll be fucked off, and Daisy’s off at uni.
Olivia crosses his mind, immediately dismissed.
He doesn’t feel up to her inane babble right now.
He could call a friend, but his mind goes blank as he tries to run through the possibilities.
Too many of them have given up drinking in the last years, taken up Ironman challenges.
His best friend divorced, married a younger woman and is now wrangling a second family, newborn twins in his early fifties – however miserable Matthew might feel right now, at least he hasn’t got that shit to deal with.
Another reason not to get too involved with the younger woman in his life.
Never mind. He’ll drink alone. It’s never stopped him in the past. This is actually quite liberating, a whole night stretching in front of him unexpectedly, no one to please, to placate, no need to worry about not drinking so much that his hands might shake in the morning.
Not what you need with a scalpel floating round the left coronary artery.
By now he’s walked along Princes Street to the turning with Frederick Street.
He doesn’t want one of the George Street bars – too corporate – so he heads further down the hill into Stockbridge.
He’ll walk off his bad mood at being barred – fuck ’em, it would be a shit night.
It’s much better this way. And thank God he’s talked himself out of the nonsense of applying for membership.
Of course Dominic’s a member, he’s exactly the kind of wanker who’s into exclusivity and selection committees (the words hiss in his brain), but Matthew doesn’t need any of that validation.
Down in St Stephen Street now, place of basement bars and many a drunken night out as a student. He’s more relaxed, his top button undone, his tie in his pocket. This is freedom. Hours to drink and nothing to lose. He walks into the basement of the Antiquary.
‘Laphroaig, please. Double.’
Might as well start as he means to go on.
Later, much later, when he’s seeing double and the doubles aren’t slipping down as easy, that’s when he knows it’s time to go home.
Sure, it doesn’t matter if he has the shakes in the morning, hardly a matter of life and death if his notes on evidence are less legible than they could be, but he’s going to carry the stench of it, a miasma of single malt seeping from his pores.
Not that anyone’ll appreciate his discernment. They’ll just smell booze.
He stops for a pizza on the way home, refusing to worry about what the deep-fried offering will do to his arteries.
The alcohol will cut through all that. Ramming the last piece in his mouth, he snorts.
Who’s he trying to kid? It’s not like he does it all the time.
Matthew’s all over the gut bacteria, the intermittent fasting, running up and down hills.
All that shit. He’s owed a blowout every now and again.
Fuck it, they can say what they like about setting a good example – no one wants a heart surgeon who looks like he’s on the brink of a cardiac arrest, after all – but who’s to see what he’s up to now?
He stuffs the pizza box into a bin at the turn near the Botanics before turning left to his house.
The sight of it, the light still shining for him in the hall, brings him up short.
Rosalind, that’s who’s going to see. She’ll smell the grease on him, the deep-fat-fried aroma.
She’ll waft her hand round to get rid of the booze smell, tell him to shower. Maybe even sleep in the spare room.
She did that once, the cow. When they were at uni. He’d had a kebab and she barely opened the door of her room before telling him to fuck off and wash, clean his teeth before he dared to come back. Well, she can’t do that this time. It’s his house too. He’s got the key right here in his hand.
He strides up the front path, decision in every step. Straight line. He’s totally sober now – he could walk any line put in front of him. She can fuck off if she thinks she’s going to have anything to say to him about this, about jury service, about any of it.
He puts the key in the lock, turns. Pushes it.
It opens a couple of inches, no more. Then it sticks.
There must be something caught under the door. Post, maybe. Or the doormat. He pulls it to, pushes it again, harder this time.
It stays stuck. Total resistance however hard he pushes. What the fuck? He peers at the door, pulls it in, out again. Maybe he’s got something wrong with how he’s opening it. He’ll admit he’s not totally sober. He’s confused himself somehow, that’s all. Not totally sober, OK. But not bad.
And again. Again it hits a barrier.
Seriously, what the fuck? He stands back, looks at the door.
Peers round the side of it. The chain. She’s put the chain on.
That’s what it is. He’s not going mad. Christ, she must be livid with him.
He takes another step back and rings the doorbell, trying not to lean too heavily on it.
A misunderstanding, that’s all this is. He should have listened to the voice messages he’s sure she’s left him.
No reply. He rings on the bell again. She’s there, she must be, the light’s on, the shutters are all shut. It’s not that late, only just past midnight. She won’t be caught in the deepest of sleeps, not yet.
He rings the bell a third time. This is the charm. Footsteps down the stairs, slow, reluctant, but at least someone’s there.
‘Go away,’ the voice says. Rosalind. She’s not sounding shrill, not now. Deep and resolute.
‘I’m home,’ Matthew says. ‘I want to go to bed.’
‘I messaged you,’ Rosalind says. ‘I said if you were drinking, not to come home.’
‘Open the door. Please. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s late and you’re drunk. I’m not letting you in.’
He’s trying not to shout, reining it in, but he knows it’s there, ready to burst out.
‘Go to the flat.’
‘Fuck you,’ he says. The control’s slipping.
‘That’s enough, Matthew.’ The footsteps retreat. The light’s turned off.
Matthew looks up at his own front door, the one he pays for, the one he painted himself one summer’s day a few years ago, dark green in accordance with the restrictions of the Edinburgh heritage requirements. The shiny brass letterbox, the doorknob. The door that doesn’t fucking open.
The face of the house is shut against him, sullen as Rosalind’s must be inside. This is pointless. Fuck her. Fuck them all.