Adele is different. I’m only trying this shit for her. The dreams don’t really bother me, I like them sometimes in a twisted way. They make me feel more alive than I do in my real life. Sometimes that feels like walking through water. Everyone’s dull. Everyone’s predictable. Everyone’s out for themselves. Me included, but then what do people expect? Have they seen where I fucking live? People are inevitably shit and deserve to be treated as such. Not Adele though. Adele is properly beautiful inside and out. Of course now I’ve written that she can never see this book. I don’t want her laughing at me. I may be funny and clever but I know I’m also skinny and spotty and have these stupid braces on my teeth. She wouldn’t get it. She’d think I wanted to fuck her (which I really don’t). I guess I just don’t like most people. Most people don’t even exist to me, not in any real way, but I like Adele. I like being around her. I’m happy around her and my skin doesn’t itch to get high so much when I’m with her. We’re friends. I reckon we’re probably best friends. I can’t remember the last time I had a best friend. Adele Rutherford-Campbell is my first best friend. It’s actually – weirdly – a pretty good feeling.
When the doorbell goes, I get up so fast I nearly knock over whatever’s left in the bottle of wine by my feet. The notebook is instantly forgotten as I race out of the sitting room. It’s Adam, it’s got to be. He’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want to go away for a month after all, and, crying and kicking, he’s demanded Ian bring him home. To me. His mother. Mummy. The centre of his universe. Despite the over-excited squeals he was making when he left at five thirty, Paddington clutched under his arm, I’ve so convinced my tipsy brain that it’s going to be him coming home that when I open the door, all I can do is stare, confused.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘It’s you.’
‘Hey.’
It’s not Adam. It’s David. David is at my front door, leaning against the frame as if it’s holding him up. My eyes are seeing him, but my brain is struggling to believe it. David is here.
‘You called in sick. I thought I’d check on you.’ He looks awkward, but that somehow makes him better looking, and I’m suddenly very very aware of the glass of wine in my hand. What the hell is he doing here? Why would he come here? Why haven’t I got make-up on? Why is my hair a mess? And why, like an idiot, do I care?
‘It was a headache. I’m feeling better now.’
‘Can I come in?’
My heart races and I’m blushing. I look like shit. Not that it should matter. It doesn’t matter. I also feel like I’ve been caught out with my lie to work, and under all of that is the stupid secret I’ve got myself trapped in. Hey, I’m friends with your wife!
‘Sure.’ I step aside, and only then do I realise that he’s not exactly sober himself. He’s not steaming drunk, but there’s a vagueness in his eyes, and he’s not as sure on his feet as he should be. He loiters in the kitchen and I send him through to the sitting room while I get another glass and a fresh bottle from the fridge and then join him. The notebook Adele gave me yesterday is on the side table by the sofa, and as I sit down I quickly slip it onto the floor where he can’t see it. I feel a bit sick. What the hell is he doing here anyway? Am I getting fired? What mood is he in?
He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, out of place in the mess of my life, and I remember the space and neatness of his home, and shrivel a bit. There’s dust on the TV where I haven’t wiped it down in for ever, and the constant whirlwind of Adam is still evident in the abandoned toys and tangled games console in one corner. I hand him the glass and fresh bottle while filling up my glass with the dregs of the one I’ve already nearly finished. I’m going to have a hangover at work tomorrow, but I suspect I’m not going to be the only one. And it will be Friday and at least I don’t have to worry about getting Adam up for school. That makes me feel empty, and I drink some more.
‘How did you know where I lived?’ It feels weird sitting next to him like this. My whole body feels electrified, betraying me even as I try to stay cool.
‘I was worried it was my fault that you didn’t come in.’ He doesn’t look at me. ‘You know, because I was so shitty to you. They said you never take sick days.’
That part’s true. It’s a good job, and close to home. I’d rather drag myself in with flu than risk losing it, and it’s a wonderful break from school mums and children. Adult company three days a week. I feel guilty for pulling a sickie. I should have been honest, but Adele made it seem so reasonable, and to be fair it’s not like everyone else in the country doesn’t do it sometimes.
‘I got your address and phone number from your file, but I thought if I called you’d hang up.’ He looks at me sideways; defensive, sad and drunk. Gorgeous. The kind of man you want to heal. The kind of man you want to heal you. Who is he anyway? Why does he even care about my day off? And why would I hang up on my boss? I think of the pill cupboard and the phone calls and Adele’s sweet smile. Is he trying to control me too? Or is that just my mind seeing suspicious behaviour in all men because I’m angry with Ian for being happy with someone else? Ugh, I hate my over-thinking.
‘You should probably go home,’ I say.
He frowns and looks around, as if he’s suddenly noticed something missing. ‘Is your son in bed?’
‘No. He’s away with his father for a month. They left today.’ I take another long swallow of wine even though my head is already swimming slightly, in spite of the surge of adrenaline at David’s arrival.
‘Ah,’ he says. He might be a bit drunk but he’s not stupid, and I can see the penny of my sick day dropping. Still, not much he can really do about it now, unless he wants to tell Dr Sykes that he was in my flat and drinking, and that would definitely sound odd.