Chapter 2 #2
The fact he’d used her alias reminded her that whatever she told him would be attributed to someone else and, feeling a strange sense of liberation, she confessed she drank gin and tonic, too – not much – a couple of bottles a month.
She knew this because she put at least one empty bottle in the green recycling bin every fortnight.
Never more than two. She was quite proud of that, although occasionally she put the recycling bin that contained innocuous plastic shampoo bottles and milk containers over the one that contained glass – in case the neighbours took more than a passing interest.
‘So you’re mixing your drinks?’ he asked unexpectedly, and she stared at him.
‘Is that bad?’
He paused, and suddenly she’d had enough.
In the cold light of day listing all her drinks like this sounded a lot worse than it felt.
It wasn’t as though she ever got drunk – well, very occasionally she did, but hardly ever.
Not one of her friends had ever commented on how much she drank, although, come to think of it, she’d had an awful lot of jokey drink-related birthday cards this year.
Not even Tom had commented. Mind you, he didn’t comment on much she did; he was too tied up with his job to notice.
She wanted to get out of here – she’d only come to reassure herself her drinking habits were normal.
For heaven’s sake, if you were French you drank gallons of wine.
The French had the stuff with every meal.
A ten-year-old French child probably drank more than she did.
But before she left she really needed to establish she was fine and didn’t have a problem.
Otherwise the whole embarrassing experience would be a waste of time.
‘Am I drinking too much?’ she asked, glad her voice sounded perfectly calm. ‘I mean, I know I’m not teetotal, but I’m not too OTT, am I?’
‘Do you know what the recommended amount of alcohol units for women is?’ Kit smiled, as if they were about to share some private joke.
Reassured, she smiled back. ‘Yes, it’s something absurd like twenty-one units a week.’
‘A bit less than that – it’s fourteen units.’
She waved a hand, feeling in control again.
‘Everyone knows that’s ridiculous. It’s like the government recommendation for eating five portions of fruit and veg a day – a nice idea, but utterly unrealistic.
I mean, no one lives like that.’ Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food.
She’d been too anxious to eat breakfast. At least she didn’t feel sick any more.
She glanced at the clock – soon this would be over and she could escape and get something to eat.
‘Sarah. From what you’ve told me, you’re drinking at least fourteen units a day. So in a week you’d be drinking – what – almost seven times the recommended limit?’ His voice was soft, completely non-judgemental, but the words hit her like a bucket of ice.
For a few seconds she was too shocked to speak. The little room felt oppressive and her head was spinning. No longer caring about body language, she hugged her arms around her and closed her eyes for good measure so she didn’t have to look at him.
‘Shit, am I?’ she whispered.
‘According to what you’ve told me, yes. I could list all the damaging effects of alcohol – what it’s doing to your body – but you don’t need me to do that, do you? You’re obviously bright. You can work it out for yourself.’
When she forced herself to return his gaze, his eyes were gentle, but he was no longer smiling.
She nodded, wondering if she looked as shaken as she felt. ‘Yeah, I can work it out. But just because I drink a lot, it doesn’t mean I’m an – alcoholic.’ She had to force the word out. ‘I mean I can still do my job fine. I’m good at it.’
‘I can’t tell you what you are or what you aren’t. You came here because you were worried. All I can tell you are the facts. It’s up to you to decide what you want to do from here.’
He let that sink in and she chewed the inside of her mouth, longing for a cigarette and trying to get her head back into some kind of normal thinking pattern.
Everything seemed distant now. The sound of the drill, the drone of traffic, all muted.
As if she was in a little bubble of unreality while the real world went on outside the window, unconcerned.
‘We can help you if you want some help. It’s up to you.’
‘What do I need to do?’
In answer, he got up and came across the small space between them. He had some papers in his hand. Where had those come from? He crouched beside her chair and showed her the forms.
‘This one’s a confidentiality agreement. We’ll need you to sign it. This one tells you what we’re about and gives you information about our appointments system, our aims and objectives and our mission statement.’
‘Everyone has a mission statement these days, don’t they?’
He rocked back on his heels and smiled at her. ‘Yeah, I guess they do.’
She was relieved she could still joke about things like mission statements. Paperwork, she was familiar with. The A-Level English course she taught at Hackney College was riddled with admin. They were on the same side. They could laugh at mission statements together.
‘This other form’s self-explanatory. But I would like to go through it before you go.
You don’t have to put anything personal on it.
But you will need to fill it in. Then you bring it back next week so we can discuss it.
If you’re coming back next week. Are you?
Would you like me to make another appointment? ’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I think maybe I would.’