Chapter 7 #2
SJ giggled. She’d seen Dorothy in a whole different light since she’d read her novels. Romantic they might be. Danielle Steel they were certainly not.
People were endlessly fascinating, SJ decided, as she set up the tables and chairs in her room. All authors could be glimpsed through their writing, but poetry tended to unveil people completely.
She’d once had a teenage student, who’d shared a poem about the death of her dad. Towards the end of it her voice had begun to shake and by the time she’d stopped reading the entire class had been in tears.
SJ had abandoned her desk and given her a hug. There had really been nothing else to do, and the class had talked about heartbreak and life for the rest of the session.
Afterwards, Dorothy had stayed behind to chat.
‘Well done,’ she’d said, her soft Scottish accent colouring her words. ‘You were very good with that wee girl.’
‘I think she just needed to get it out of her system.’
She was well aware of the cathartic effects of poetry – she’d written a whole heap of angry poetry as a teenager, and more when she’d split up with Jacob. Not that she was ever planning on sharing those!
Her students began to arrive. She heard voices and the clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairs as they collected their pints from the bar en route, as was the tradition.
SJ got herself a pint of Diet Coke, despite having to put up with a flurry of teasing comments ranging from, ‘Are you ill, Teach?’ from Matt to, ‘Blimey, the girl’s on Coke – what is the world coming to? I thought this was Poetry and a Pint!’ from one of the women.
She ignored their good-natured jibes and was pleased to reach the end of the session stone-cold sober.
This was easy – she’d certainly achieve her target tonight.
By the time she’d got in and they’d eaten and cleared up, it would be time for bed.
And as they’d made love last night, Tom wouldn’t be expecting to do it again.
So they could have an early night and she’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow.
Alcoholic – pah! She was beginning to feel something bordering on smugness as she said her goodbyes and headed for home.
The table was already laid when she got in.
Tom had recently invested in a pasta maker, declaring that nothing beat fresh pasta – a sentiment SJ wholeheartedly agreed with.
She hoped they were having pasta tonight.
An open bottle of Merlot stood warming on the back of the oven.
She glanced at it, suppressed the urge to pour herself a large glass and fetched a Diet Coke from the fridge instead.
While she was sipping it, SJ caught herself wondering if Kit was sitting in some pub somewhere, knocking back pints.
Bound to be, whispered a little voice in her head – all that stuff about her giving up when he probably drank bucket-loads.
He had that kind of face, weary-worn and crinkled around the edges.
He obviously hadn’t spent his youth drinking orange juice.
Tanya had mentioned yesterday that Kit might be a recovering alcoholic, as people who worked in addiction places often were.
SJ wasn’t so sure. Surely if you were one you’d want to get as far away as possible from your past, not hang around to see what the next generation was like.
You’d probably turn into a born-again Christian or something.
Not that she had anything against born-again Christians – they had as much right to their opinion as anyone else.
But she was a born-again heathen and it was the mention of God that had put her off the AA meeting she’d once attended.
She hadn’t told Kit or Tanya about that. It hadn’t seemed relevant, but she’d gone to a meeting a couple of years ago after another particularly heavy session when she’d been paranoid about her drinking. She’d rung the AA helpline that time.
A pleasant, very sober-sounding woman had asked her if she’d had a drink today, and she’d said no, she certainly hadn’t, it was only four thirty in the afternoon – what did they take her for? – before lapsing into an awkward silence. It was obvious what they’d taken her for.
Anyway, the upshot was that she’d gone along to a meeting and had established very quickly that she was in the wrong place.
The whole lot of them might be sober now, but they’d obviously been raging drunks once.
Not that this had put her off particularly – drunks were quite interesting.
No, the main thing had been when she found out the cliché was true.
You were expected to say, ‘My name’s SJ and I’m an alcoholic,’ before you could so much as ask where the loo was.
Telling all and sundry you were an alcoholic surely couldn’t be good. It was the equivalent of standing up in the slimming club and saying, ‘Hi, my name’s SJ and I’m a big fatty.’
It was buying into negativity. Everyone knew that if you wanted to be something other than what you were, you simply had to use positive affirmations.
I’m thin, or I’m rich, or I’m a teetotaller.
It was basic psychology. If you went around telling everyone you were a big fatty, or an alcoholic, or a pauper, then it would very quickly become true.
And then where would you be? Fat, pissed and broke, as far as SJ could see.
‘Hi, sweetie.’
SJ jumped as Tom appeared behind her. He’d just had a shave and smelled of Santal 33. Maybe he did want to make love again. The promotion must have gone to his head. Feeling guilty for such disloyal thoughts, she smiled at him.
‘You’ve obviously been busy. What’s on the menu?’
‘Spag bol. I haven’t been in long. Thought I’d better put in some overtime to show willing. How was Poetry and a Pint?’
‘It was great – we did Walter de la Mare. On a Coke.’
‘Is he one of the druggie ones?’
‘What? Oh – no, I meant me. I had a Coke instead of a pint.’
‘I’d better pour you a nice glass of wine then. You must be gasping!’
Now he came to mention it… Not that she was buying into that, though, obviously. If she’d been gasping, she definitely would have had a drink problem.
‘Just a small one, then.’
She waited until they’d finished their first course before she told him about going to SAADD.
‘Oh? What did they say?’ He’d been about to refill her glass. That was bad timing – she should have waited another four seconds in case he decided to help her in her quest.
‘Not much. Just that I ought to cut down.’
‘Are you saying you’ve got a drink problem, sweetie?’ Tom stared at her, dark eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead.
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ She laughed brightly. ‘I don’t think I drink any more than anyone else we know, do I?’
‘No – I don’t think so,’ Tom said hesitantly.
SJ frowned – so that had been a damp squib then.
She’d just told her husband she might be an alcoholic and he’d blithely ignored her.
Everyone knew that real alcoholics lost their jobs, alienated their families, and became a useless waste of space to society.
Whereas she, obviously, was far from that – even her husband hadn’t noticed anything amiss.
She refilled her glass with red wine once more, as Tom hadn’t got any white out tonight – and settled back in her chair to enjoy it.
‘You – an alcoholic? That’s ridiculous,’ Tom muttered, reaching for the bottle and looking slightly surprised to find there was none left.
SJ smiled sagely. She knew exactly what she would say to Tanya next time they spoke.
‘If you’re an alcoholic, you’re supposed to be in denial, aren’t you? But I’m not. I confessed all to Tom and he thinks I’m fine – so if anyone is in denial, it’s him. Not me.’