Chapter Thirty-Six
Nelly
Frank has form when it comes to going on benders, of course. Back in the nineties, giddily riding a crest of fame, he’d taken to partying with some of the Britpop bands who were enjoying a similarly heady period of notoriety. A large amount of coke went up his nose during this decade, gallons of booze down his throat too, and there were days when he would simply vanish from sight because he’d got caught up in a session at some celebrity or other’s luxury Primrose Hill mansion that could last the better part of a week. The number of times Nelly’s hand had hovered over the telephone, wondering if it was too soon to call the emergency services, uncertain how long you should leave it before you put in a missing person report. But up he’d bob eventually, baggy around the eyes, skin pallid, voice hoarse because he’d been shouting over loud music for hours on end. And somehow, even though she’d been by turns frightened, worried and pissed off the whole time he’d been AWOL, he would always manage to sweet-talk her into forgiveness, laying it on good and thick that this was definitely the last time, he knew he was a dreadful husband, he was absolutely going to make it up to her, don’t you worry.
He was good at the latter, at least, lavishing her with jewellery so expensive she was scared to wear it, armfuls of flowers, and extravagant trips to New York, Tokyo, Puglia. Nonetheless, such largesse was never enough to completely seal up the fissures his disappearances created between them, fractures that left the surface of their relationship feeling eggshell-thin, liable to disintegrate under the slightest force.
Then everything changed. It was his fortieth birthday and the party Nelly threw for him degenerated into chaos just after midnight when he suffered a minor heart attack, caused, she later discovered, by the vast amount of stimulants he’d hoovered up his nostrils. ‘This has got to stop,’ she’d told him the next day when he was discharged from the hospital with the worst hangover of his life, their ears still ringing with the doctors’ stern-faced warnings. ‘Do you hear me? This ends now– for me, for the kids, for your career. We need you to stay alive, Frank. And that means getting a grip on the partying.’
To everyone’s surprise, Frank had cleaned up in rehab, having frightened himself with the episode, and turned the ship round. No more drink, no more drugs. Clean, sober Frank went on to garner a second Michelin star, successfully pitched and presented a new Channel 4 cookery show, and had another number one bestselling cookery book the following Christmas. Their lives were back on track and he’d never vanished on her again. Until now, it seems. Because however spotless a person’s new start, it’s hard to completely eradicate all the temptations of the past. And so, when Nelly arrives back at the hotel and finds their room deserted, with no note regarding his whereabouts, the old dread rushes right back in there. Hello darkness, my old friend.
Yes, she had taken off herself that day, but she’d made sure to keep Frank updated about her return journey, texting him the time of the ferry she was catching, messaging again when she was in a taxi back to the hotel. She tries calling him but there’s no answer. She leaves voicemails asking him to get in touch– still nothing. It’s unnerving. Has he relapsed, unable to cope any more following the media storm? Or is this a petty way to punish her for leaving him alone this morning? It’s working, if so. The tranquillity she felt on Ithaca, gazing out to sea, has evaporated. Is he alive? Dead? Drunk? High? With another woman? There are so many siren calls out there in the world for a man with an addictive personality. Which one in particular might have enticed him this time?
Don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Dad, have you? she writes in a message to the boys, before immediately deleting it. No need to panic them before she’s looked for him down at the pool or at the beach, she reasons. Or at the bar, for that matter. Maybe he’s gone for a walk and mislaid his phone, or the battery’s dead. Maybe he’s fallen asleep on a sunbed, lost track of time.
She writes him a quick note– Hi! I’m back– gone looking for you! N x – then exits the room once more, trudging back down the stairs on tired legs. She’d been looking forward to a cool drink, maybe sitting out on the balcony with her feet up after her long day, but she won’t be able to relax until she’s found him.
The pool, when she gets there, is half empty, only the last few sunbathers still out enjoying the early evening sun. She wanders round to the bar, braced for the unpleasant sight of her husband half-cut and falling off a bar stool, but– thank goodness– he’s nowhere to be seen. The beach, then, she decides with a little sigh, and retraces her steps back through the main hotel building and out onto the street. But when she eventually reaches the stretch of golden sand, she can’t see him either on a lounger or in the sea, despite walking quite far in both directions. By now the drumbeat of worry is starting to thud to a crescendo, dread curdling her stomach. Don’t do this to me, Frank, she thinks with a sigh of both concern and exasperation.
It’s embarrassing to do so but she grits her teeth and asks at reception if, by any chance, they might know where her husband is. Has he booked himself onto a trip, or ordered a taxi, or. . . ? The man on duty is unable to help. ‘Do you want us to contact the police?’ he asks, taking in Nelly’s worried expression. ‘Or the hospital?’
Nelly gulps, hoping it won’t come to either of those options. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up soon,’ she lies. ‘Thanks anyway.’
There follows the most awful evening and then night when Frank still doesn’t reappear or get in touch to let her know where he is. She can’t sleep, instead lying in bed listening out for sounds that might presage his return, trying him periodically on his phone and cursing his name aloud. ‘There had better be a damn good excuse for this, Frank Neale,’ she mutters as she wrangles the pillow into a more comfortable position and tries to block out visions of her husband in various states of disarray. She eventually drifts off around five, only to be woken at seven-thirty by the sound of him crashing in through the door. He stumbles across the room, doesn’t quite make it to the loo before pissing himself, then passes out on the bathroom floor, snoring loudly.
She doesn’t quite know how to respond at first. A whole volcano of emotions is bubbling and spurting inside her. For crying out loud, Frank! Why can’t he do anything by half measures? Why has it always been this way? She actually hates him for doing this to her again. She truly hates him. Where has he been all night, and why did it not occur to him to call her, even once, to let her know what he was doing? There must have come a point as he sank a beer– or whatever else he’s ingested– when he thought, Ishould really let Nelly know where Iam, otherwise she’ll be worrying . It must have occurred to him. But how long did it take him to overrule that thought with a shrug and a decision of Nah, Iwon’t bother– a few seconds? A whole minute? Whatever, he’d clearly carried on with the easier task of hurling himself into oblivion, all the way down into the black hole of unconsciousness. The selfish, stupid, thoughtless bastard.
All the same, she knows, even through the mist of her rage, that of course there’s a whole lot more to the situation than one bad decision. It’s impossible to ignore the groundswell of deep, terrible sadness for him that surges beneath her anger. She’s heartbroken for him, in truth, knowing that his sobriety has been a daily struggle, one he has worked so hard at, with all those AA meetings, week after week, month after month, keeping him on track. Facing down the demons. Later today, when he comes round, he’ll surely have the most almighty reckoning with himself. He’ll be devastated that he’s slipped back down the ladder, he’ll hate himself for it. Oh God, and the boys will be gutted too, she realises in despair.
With some difficulty, she peels his wet trousers and pants off his heavy, unyielding body and dumps them in the bathtub, then gingerly sponges him down. It’s like trying to clean up a great big helpless baby that you love but also detest and feel repulsed by. Tears course down her face as she thinks about their marriage vows: In sickness and in health; how she’d promised to care for him that day in church, their faces shining with joy for one another. Well, he’s cashing that one in this morning, all right.
Having found some clean pants, she wrangles them onto him. ‘Frank,’ she says, shaking him. ‘Get up, Frank. Get in the bed.’ He’s spark out though, completely unresponsive. He isn’t going anywhere. He’ll be stiff as a board when he wakes up, aching all over, after hours spent sleeping on a cold tiled floor, she thinks, pulling a face. But if she can’t physically move him, that’s where he’ll have to stay. She brings a pillow in from the bedroom and makes up a little bed for him with a blanket she locates in the wardrobe.
It’s as she’s kneeling beside him, manoeuvring his head onto the pillow, that she smells it: an unfamiliar woman’s perfume. It stops her short, and her heart knocks a tattoo in her chest. No, Frank. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, she thinks, bending over him to sniff his neck. There’s a sour stench, quite possibly neat alcohol, seeping from his pores– a horrible smell that flashes her right back to the nineties– but along with that there’s also a musky sandalwood scent detectable that definitely isn’t hers. Unless he’s splashed out on some new aftershave in the last twenty-four hours, it’s not his either.
She jerks away from him in disgust. ‘You pig,’ she hisses, tears pricking her eyes. It feels very much like a last straw. However sorry she is for him about his falling off the wagon, however dreadful she knows he’ll be feeling when he comes round later on, this is something she cannot, will not, overlook. Because every woman has their bottom line, and every woman knows when it has been crossed.
She heaves him onto his side so that if he’s sick in his sleep he won’t choke on his own puke. Then she steps away from him, potentially for the final time, contempt, sorrow and hurt all mingling inside her. ‘You blew it,’ she says under her breath, then goes to pack her case.