Date Sunday 25 June Time 11.30pm
My thoughts and reflections:
I made it downstairs for painkillers sometime this morning but after nearly throwing up in the kitchen sink, was deemed more hindrance than help in terms of party preparation, and was sent back upstairs with instructions to stay there – along with admonitions about wasting such a stunning day, and unfavourable comparisons to Drunk Stephen who’d been up since the crack of dawn, like Arrie.
(More like Drunk Stephen had come in at the crack of dawn after shagging Fit Barman all night.) Despite the incessant noise of everyone crashing about and party prepping, the sun aggressively poking through the curtains, and Mum shouting because someone had spilled Earl Grey all over the counter and left the back door wide open all night and the neighbour’s cat had come in and sprayed on the door mat, I slept again, fitfully, dreaming of the christening and the past and woke up late afternoon, dehydrated, overheated and miserable, with the kind of dull, persistent hangover that only a shag or more alcohol can cure.
After showering on the coldest setting, dressing and going heavy on the make-up, I made it downstairs for the second time that day, and walked straight into Mum who said, ‘Alice, you look horrific. At your age you need concealer.’
‘I’m wearing concealer,’ I said flatly.
‘Oh dear. Well, put some lipstick on and smile, darling. It will detract from the puffy eyes.’
‘I don’t feel like smiling.’
‘That’s precisely when you need to,’ said Mum briskly. ‘Now pull yourself together, grab those bottles and load up Roger’s car.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘Drunk Stephen’s been at the paddock for the last hour with Dad, getting it ready.
He’s a treasure. Worked like a Trojan all day.
Unlike you, Alice. Arrie’s fed the boys and they’ve just set off on foot with Astrid and Aziz.
So, all we need to do is load up the last few things and drive down with Roger. ’
‘I need water.’ I went over to the sink. As soon as my back was safely turned towards her I asked, ‘What about Matthew?’
‘I don’t know if Astrid’s managed to persuade him to come. We’ve barely seen him recently.’
I closed my eyes, and tried to block out the dull pain.
‘Right,’ said Roger, ‘the Landy’s nearly full. How much more, Nell?’
‘Just these bottles, Roger darling,’ said Mum. ‘And the pink napkins. And ice! We need more ice. Thank goodness we went for an early evening party – hottest day of the year so far. Did you know that, Alice?’
‘ I suspected,’ I said, sweat blooming already.
We’d just pulled out of the driveway when Mum remembered her mobile phone. ‘It’s charging in the sitting room. On the bureau. I left it when I picked up the cards.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I said, climbing out the back, ‘and catch you up.’
‘Be quick,’ said Mum. ‘The other guests are coming from six.’
And it was only when I was reaching behind the bureau to retrieve Mum’s phone, which had fallen behind, that I started remembering little snippets from the night before…
Last night, whilst everyone was sleeping (not Drunk Stephen) I’d crept down and sat at the bureau, swaying slightly from my cocktails, and hunted through the cubbyholes for paper.
I was set on cream paper. Because The Guide told me it was best. I couldn’t find cream paper – only white A4.
Oh god, with the bent genius of the thoroughly inebriated, I’d decided to craft cream paper myself: I’d gone to the kitchen, brewed some Earl Grey and daubed the paper like I did at school for my pirate project in Year 5.
And then I’d had to dry the paper so I’d put it in the oven.
I put my hands to my eyes in shame. Me in the state I was, dicking around with combustibles; it was like the start of a What’s Your Emergency ?
Then what did I do? I looked at my hands; there were blotches of purple on the palms. Purple ink.
I used purple ink because that was all we had although I wanted blue to symbolise the ‘endless bounty of the Universe’.
I’d wanted cream paper and ink because I was totally and utterly set on writing a letter.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Suddenly I remembered everything with horrific clarity: I was totally and utterly set on writing an entire letter. To Matthew Lloyd.
And then, once I’d written it, I let myself out the back door.
Oh shit on a brick. I’d folded the letter and stuffed it into an envelope out on the lawn, trying to stare up at the moon, which was weirdly big and pink and because The Guide said to.
I was so pissed I’d fallen over and then I’d lain there, on the grass, trying to focus on the moon and talking to it about Matthew until the dew had chilled me, and then I’d finally stumbled indoors, not shutting the door behind me and put the letter back in the bureau, ready to give to him.
. . . I opened the bureau, my heart tripping over itself in panic.
There was the bottle of ink and the ink pen.
And envelopes. I sifted through them frantically.
Where was my letter? I checked again and then through all the little cubbyholes, pulling everything out and searching.
I checked behind the actual bureau. And under it.
And under the sofas and the sofa cushions and in the drawers and under the drawers.
I yanked everything out and checked everywhere.
Then, I stood, staring at the bureau, amidst the chaos I’d created, a cold trickle of realisation running down through my spine.
The letter was no longer here. If it was no longer here, logically it must be somewhere else.
What if, though, it was with some one else?
Mum said she picked up the cards from the bureau; what if my envelope had been taken to the paddock by accident?
What if Mum was there, right now, handing my drunken, desperate letter to Matthew?
I’ve not really run full speed since Year 11 and the 200 metre on sports day, but despite a horrific hangover and the searingly hot June temperature, I got to the paddock in under seven minutes.
It was a cavalcade of sprinting, limping and weeping, a distillation of sports relief.
I nearly collapsed before the paddock gate but managed to collapse onto it, feeling the relief as it took my weight for a moment, whilst I tried to catch my breath.
In between rasps, I noticed the bunting strung between tree branches and the trestle table, slightly bowed under the weight of pitchers and bottles and glasses, the hay bales, the floral cushions, jam jars with tea lights.
The hedgerows were verdant; cornflowers joined the poppies and clouds of cow parsley, gently rolling hills of yellow and green beyond the paddock giving way to clear blue sky.
There was a hive of activity and they were all there, Dad and Mum, Roger and Arrie and the twins, Astrid, Aziz, Drunk Stephen and… oh.
Matthew Lloyd.
My breathing hitched up a notch again.
Ernie saw me first. ‘She’s here, Aunty Alice is here.’
‘Get a wriggle on,’ shouted Arrie, from by the table. ‘As soon as Matthew and Aziz have done the last lanterns we’re having a family toast before all the guests arrive.’
I tried to speak but it came out as a wheeze, and then I got an excruciating pain in my side. So I held up an arm and stayed there, bent double.
Dad came over to me, full of concern. ‘What’s wrong, darling? You look dreadful. Astrid! Is Alice having a heart attack? Darling?’
Astrid took one look at me. ‘Did you run, Alice?’
I managed to nod through the agony.
‘Stitch?’
I nodded again.
‘Yeah,’ said Astrid. ‘She’s just incredibly unfit, Dad. And hungover. You could do with some make-up, Alice.’
‘Grandpa! Aunty Astrid!’ called Edwin. ‘Mummy needs help.’
Astrid went off again to help Arrie who was laying out blankets near the hay bales and after patting me gently on the back, Dad followed.
Twenty metres or so away, I saw Mum reach into a bag underneath the table and pull out a bunch of envelopes which she started arranging, before moving to stir the punch.
You know how mothers have lifted trucks when their babies have been trapped beneath?
Well, somehow, I found the strength to get across that paddock, despite the agonising stabbing in my side.
‘Mum,’ I wheezed, grabbing her arm.
‘Christ,’ said Mum. ‘You look even worse that you did before. Where’s my phone?’
‘Mum, are these the cards?’
‘What cards?’
‘The ones from the bureau. I need them. Now!’
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘you’re gripping my arm like Granny Carver did when she was dying. It’s quite unpleasant.’
‘Mum, the cards!’
‘They’re just there, darling, next to the lemonade.’
I dragged myself along the table and with sweating, trembling hands fumbled through them. There was no envelope addressed to Matthew. No envelope.
‘Have you seen an envelope with my handwriting on it?’ I said, still catching my breath.
‘What does it say on it?’
‘Matthew.’
‘Matthew?’ said Mum. ‘Why would I bring an envelope for Matthew to Astrid and Aziz’s leaving party?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ I said, feeling a little of my panic evaporate. Then I panicked again. ‘Unless you already gave it to him?’
‘Try and make sense, darling,’ said Mum. ‘You’re sounding manic.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, the tension in my body subsiding. ‘I’m a bit all over the place.’
‘ So am I. Astrid and Aziz off. Hottest day of the year. And, I haven’t paused.’ Mum stopped for a second and took a deep breath. ‘Doesn’t the old house look magnificent in the evening sun, Alice? I still miss it.’
‘Me too, Mum.’
In a rare moment, she rested her head against mine and we both looked over to the far end of the paddock where the arched wrought iron gates offered a perfect vista of the avenue beyond, which led through the gardens before giving way to the star of the show: the old house itself.
Sunlight honeyed its grey stone facade and roses clambered every which way, immodest in their luxurious, heavy beauty.
The house tugged something deep inside me like it always did, but even that was nothing compared to the way I was drawn towards the foreground and the old apple trees flanking the gates, where Matthew was stretching up to fix a lantern in the gnarled bough.
His T-shirt was damp and sticking to the muscles of his back and the indent of his spine.
His triceps were flexing as he reached above and that tattoo was snaking out the sleeve.
He made the roses look chaste. If I was still lusting after the house that hadn’t been mine for over a decade, I had no chance of getting over Matthew Lloyd.
‘Darling, you’re unpleasantly clammy,’ said Mum. ‘Ironic given you’ve done nothing to help apart from get embarrassingly drunk. Probably a good job that chap of yours didn’t make it yesterday. What’s his name?’
‘Guy,’ said Arrie, coming over. ‘With the hairy back.’
‘He’s not mine,’ I said.
‘Good grief.’ Arrie took one look at me and baulked. ‘Honestly, Alice, the least you could have done after sleeping all day is make an effort. You look like you’ve been let loose on the bad orange squash.’
‘I ran here,’ I said defensively. ‘I’ll cool down.’
‘Why?’ said Arrie. ‘You never run anywhere.’
‘I thought I’d lost something.’
‘What? Besides a sense of pride in your appearance.’
‘She’s looking for an envelope,’ said Mum.
‘I’m not,’ I replied.
‘For Matthew,’ said Mum.
‘What’s that?’ said Dad, joining us.
‘Nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘Is it time for that toast yet?’
‘Alice has lost an envelope addressed to Matthew,’ said Arrie. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘No,’ said Dad, ‘maybe Aziz has. Aziz?’ he called. ‘Aziz, have you—’
‘Dad! Dad!’ I grabbed his arm, my heart racing with panic. ‘It’s fine. I haven’t lost it. It’s fine. Please.’
‘What?’ shouted Aziz.
‘So you haven’t lost it?’ said Arrie.
‘But you kept asking me where it was,’ said Mum. ‘You’re making no sense today, Alice.’
‘Yes,’ said Dad, looking puzzled, ‘why are you writing to Matthew? He’s just over there if you want to speak to him. I can call him if you want. Matthew?’ he shouted.
‘Dad!’ I nearly cried. ‘Please! Leave it.’
‘No problem, darling. They’re coming over now,’ said Dad, looking pleased. ‘We can have that toast to Astrid and Aziz before the other guests arrive.’
I looked over and there they were, Aziz, Drunk Stephen and Matthew Lloyd, coming across the grass towards us.
‘I’ve got to say,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve only ever been attracted to women myself, primarily your mother of course, but Matthew really is an extraordinarily attractive young man. Remarkable. I mean it almost jolts to look at him really.’
If I thought I was sweating before, that was nothing compared to now.
Obviously part of it was the treacherous bodily response to Matthew that most other humans clearly shared, including Dad.
But the bulk of it was down to the fact that I potentially had about ten seconds of life remaining.
I mean, it didn’t seem like Mum or Dad had given Matthew the letter, but the fact remained that it hadn’t been in the bureau, where I left it, and until that letter was back in my possession, I was in danger.
Dad pressed a bottle of champagne into my hands and busied himself getting glasses.
‘Jesus, Alice,’ said Astrid, who’d just wandered over, settling herself on a hay bale. ‘You still look rough. Is something wrong?’
Eight seconds.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, removing the foil and untwisting the metal.
Seven.
‘You don’t look fine,’ said Edwin, running up.
Six.
‘You look like Mrs Hutchinson did after she told Verity to piss off. Did you know teachers aren’t allowed to tell children to piss off?’
Five.
‘She’s fretting because she lost an envelope,’ said Dad. ‘Open the bottle, please, Alice. You’re the expert.’
Four.
‘What envelope?’ said Roger, lugging over a final crate of beer.
Three.
‘How about not sweating all over the beer, Roger?’ snapped Arrie. ‘Rather than fussing about Alice’s envelope for Matthew.’
Two.
‘Oh that,’ said Astrid. ‘Don’t worry, Alice. I found it on the bureau this morning.’
One.
‘I dropped it off for him after my run.’
The champagne cork popped and arced into the air, making everyone jump.
‘Woah!’ said Edwin. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Build-up of pressure,’ said Roger. ‘Could have taken an eye out.’
‘You did what?’ I said, staring at Astrid in total horror.
Time froze. Or stopped. There was no time anymore. What was time?
‘I delivered it for you. Why, has he not got it?’
A trickle of icy champagne ran down my hand.