Chapter 6 Charlie
NOW
COTSWOLDS
CHARLIE
“Hello, my name’s Charlie and I’m…”
He sucks the words back in before they have a chance to be heard, sure that no good can come of this.
There’s an expectant hush, the group surrounding him no doubt disappointed by his reticence to be open.
But if he was going to be honest, he would have done it months ago, instead of the truth now sitting like jagged shards of glass at the back of his throat.
It’s only as he swallows them away, knowing that he has to do this if he has any chance of moving forward, that he feels able to press on.
“And I’m here…,” he says, unable to look anyone in the eye, “because alcohol has destroyed my life.”
“Welcome, Charlie,” those around him chime in unison.
He offers a weak smile as he looks around the village hall, trying to drum up sympathy for the pitying faces that are desperate to convince him that they’re all in the same boat.
The partners and family members who are sitting next to their loved ones, claiming to understand what they’re going through and that they’re here to support them in any way they can.
Momentarily pretending to put aside the shame and embarrassment that comes with loving someone with an alcohol problem.
But Charlie doesn’t imagine any of them know what it’s like to wake up every day, frantic from the nightmares that have left him drenched in sweat as he chased his demons in his sleep.
Terrified that every time there’s a knock at the door, it will be the police, demanding he tell them what really happened that night.
“Would you like to tell us a bit about yourself?” asks Carol, the chairperson, in a simpering voice.
Charlie snorts derisorily—not at her, but at the surreality of the movie set he feels he’s on.
He’s watched hundreds of films where the group leader pulls that face and his fellow members grow restless as they wait, optimistic that his story will somehow assuage the guilt of their own.
That his story will make theirs pale into insignificance—and in that sense, if Charlie was brave enough to tell it, he doesn’t doubt that it would.
Daisy’s debauched threesome with strangers, which she had no recollection of until a newly set up WhatsApp group had asked for a repeat performance, would surely be put into perspective.
And Kieran’s penchant for drug-fueled oblivion would no longer feel like the ball and chain around his neck once Charlie shares his “rock bottom.”
After hearing how alcohol has run roughshod over his life—about the utter devastation and destruction it has caused—they might all leave here feeling that the problems they’d walked in with weren’t so insurmountable after all.
But does he really want the horror of his life to be the excuse for ten strangers to give themselves a break?
“We’re all your friends here,” says Carol, encouragingly.
Charlie knows that’s not true. Even if they pretend to be now, they won’t be able to hide their contempt when he tells them about the sacrifice he made in a misjudged attempt to bury the truth where no one could possibly find it.
Beneath the layers of denial. Beneath the lies that he tells himself every night, in the vain hope that some otherworldly being will hear him and see their way to forgiving what he’s done.
But perhaps he has to say it out loud in order to purge himself of the wretchedness that has found its way into the deepest, darkest corners of his soul. Perhaps an admission will be his savior.
“Giving up alcohol is akin to a bereavement,” says Carol, as if it will spur him on to reveal more of himself. “You go through all the emotions that someone grieving a loved one would go through: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.”
The irony burns at Charlie’s core, as he wonders how it can possibly compare.
Knowing that out there is a family who’s having to live with the consequences of a loved one’s life hanging in the balance while he’s sitting here, in a village hall, bemoaning how difficult it’s been for him. He hates himself for it.
“This is a safe place,” prompts Carol, as if able to read his mind.
Charlie balks, knowing it’s probably not a promise she should make.
Although he’s ten miles away from the hamlet he now calls home, there’s no guarantee that someone here won’t know someone there, where the supposed sacred confidence of the twelve-step program might be compromised in exchange for some juicy gossip over the garden fence.
What would the tight community he’d worked so hard to become a part of make of his dark secret?
How quickly would the restaurant he’d so proudly opened just three months ago become ostracized, proving what the difficult-to-win-over villagers had known all along: that out-of-towners should never be trusted?
Freya squeezes his hand as if she knows the tortuous thoughts that are ravaging his brain—as if she’s able to tell how close he is to telling the truth. She grips even harder, to warn him not to.
“I can sense that you don’t want to be here,” Carol goes on. “That perhaps you don’t really believe that you need to be here—but something brought you to us, like it did for everybody else in this room, and if you’d like to share what this is, you might find it will help you on your journey.”
“My wife…,” Charlie starts, forcing a smile as he looks at Freya. “I’m here because I love my wife.”
Carol’s therapist expression visibly relaxes. “Do you want to talk about why your relationship is so important to you?”
Charlie sighs, feeling compelled to give something, if not everything. “She’s my world,” he says. “I fell in love the moment I saw her.”
“Can you define what it was that captivated you?” asks Carol, smiling. “What made you fall in love in that instant?”
Charlie turns to look at Freya. “She was hard to read, mysterious—which intrigued me. We met at a work event, so she was the ultimate professional—completely in control of everything going on around her—but it was as if she was being held on a leash. Her words and body language weren’t in sync with what I could see in her eyes, and I was fascinated by her.
She had this underlying energy about her that was infectious.
I couldn’t get enough, and I became obsessed with her. ”
“So she became an addiction of sorts?” muses Carol, almost to herself.
Charlie hadn’t ever thought of it like that. “I guess…,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
“There is much talk about someone having an addictive personality,” says Carol.
“That one person is more prone to developing an addiction than another. But addiction comes in many guises and there isn’t one single trait that defines an addict; it’s just a collection of characteristics and, sometimes, external influences that lead to someone being an addict.
But make no mistake … addiction is a disease that we all have the potential to succumb to. …”
Charlie smiles, feeling oddly validated. “Well maybe my wife goes to prove that not all addictions are bad for you,” he says. “Because she’s not one I’m prepared to give up.”
Freya chokes back an involuntary sob and he squeezes her hand.
“The first step is acceptance,” says Carol. “You have to accept that the addiction is destructive and beyond normal societal constraints. It’s only once you’ve acknowledged that, that you can begin to move forward.…”
“But surely accepting is the most difficult part,” says Freya, taking Charlie by surprise.
“That’s what I’m struggling with. I’m having trouble understanding how I’ve found myself in this position.
How we’ve found ourselves in this position.
” She turns to Charlie. “One minute, we were a couple with everything to live for—and now, it feels like everything has been broken.” She pulls her hand away from Charlie, as if acknowledging their problem out loud makes her feel dirty and ashamed.
A lump of regret lodges in the back of Charlie’s throat as all the things he could have done to stop it, before it was too late, rush at him.
“Can I say something…?” asks a woman who up until now hadn’t even registered on Charlie’s radar. She sits up, straight-backed in the unforgiving plastic chair, and pushes her shoulders back, as if bolstering up the nerve to make her point.
Carol gives her an almost imperceptible nod to let her know the floor is hers.
Charlie eyes her with fascination as she tucks her short brown hair behind her ear, only for it to immediately fall forward again.
Her eyes dart from one side to another as she clears her throat, and Charlie imagines her mouth drying up as she prepares to speak her truth, if she’s brave enough.
There doesn’t appear to be anyone with her, so he can only assume that her story is going to be hers to tell, and not that of a partner she’s here to support, or a family member she’s concerned for.
She doesn’t look much like an alcoholic, Charlie reasons, but then, who does?
He knows, firsthand, that it’s the least likely looking who has the biggest problem.
“Er, hello, I’m Tess…,” she starts, daring to raise her eyes to meet the pitying gaze of the group. “And I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
“Welcome, Tess,” they all chime in unison.
“I’ve been sober for nine months and twenty-one days.”
Charlie doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for her, or jealous, knowing that she’s surely through the worst of it.
“The biggest lesson I’ve learned,” she goes on, “is that it’s all about the maintenance. No matter how long I’ve been without a drink, I still feel the need to be held accountable, and being here today is my way of doing that.…”
She plucks at imaginary fluff on her black trousers.
“You have to do whatever it is that helps keep you on track,” says Carol.