And now she’s gone and I will never hear her voice again.
As I blink away the memory of the phone call my thoughts turn to Hannah. I wonder where she is. If only she would get in touch. She needs to know about her gran and now her aunt Kate. Why does she have to be so stubborn? And then I hear her voice in my head. Just let me go, Mum. I’m pulling at her wrist, begging her to get back in the house. And then it all goes black and I will myself to remember what happened next but I can’t. I just can’t.
‘Sally.’
I look up. He’s standing at the door in his dressing gown.
‘Come on, love, it’s gone midnight,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you come up to bed?’
‘I’m not tired,’ I say.
‘You’ve been in that chair all day,’ he says. He steps into the room and goes to turn the lamp on.
‘Leave it,’ I shout, anger and grief and resentment rising up my gullet. ‘Just bloody leave it, will you?’
He pauses with the cord from the lamp in his hand.
‘Sitting here like this, not moving, not speaking, is not going to bring Kate back,’ he says, letting the cord drop. ‘If you shut me out it’s only going to make things worse. We can talk about it. I’m here for you, Sally. I’m here to listen.’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ I reply.
His voice is setting my nerves right on edge. I need to be alone with my memories of Kate. I need to make sense of all of this but him coming in all the time just distracts me and makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
‘You’ll regret it in the morning,’ he says. ‘If you sleep in that chair you’ll be stiff all over.’
‘Well, that’s up to me, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Now, please just go to bed and leave me be.’
As he closes the door, my skin prickles. I need another drink. I wait for a few minutes then get up out of the chair and creep through the living room and into the hallway. I pause by the cupboard underneath the stairs. There’s no sound of Paul; he must be in bed. I carefully open the cupboard door and reach my hand inside. The bottles are still there where I left them a few days ago. My secret stash. It’s the perfect hiding place. Paul never goes near this cupboard. He thinks it’s full of junk and old clothes. I carefully close the door and slip back into the conservatory.
I sink into the chair clutching the bottle to my chest. Just one glass, I tell myself, one glass to calm my nerves. But as I unscrew the lid I know that will never be enough.
29
I wake up in an empty bed. My back is aching and I pull the bedclothes round my shoulders but sleep won’t come. I open my eyes and lie still for a moment. The air feels different. Something happened before I went to sleep, something horrible. And then I remember. The news. Paul’s face. It is real. I am alive and my sister is dead.
‘Paul!’ I shout. ‘Paul, are you there?’
There is no reply and I climb out of the bed. The clothes I was wearing yesterday are neatly folded across the back of the chair by the window. Paul must have carried me upstairs in the middle of the night and got me into my pyjamas but I can’t remember any of it.
‘Paul!’ I shout again, but there is still no answer.
I put on my dressing gown and go downstairs to find him.
He’s left a note on the kitchen table saying that he’s been called into work but will be back as soon as he can.
I put the note in the bin and walk out of the kitchen feeling a little clearer. When Paul is here I feel suffocated and my brain won’t function. At least with him out of the house I can think straight.
I go straight to the cupboard under the stairs and open the door. I need a drink, just one, to ease the aching in my chest. I put my hand inside. There’s nothing but old coats and boxes. Turning on the light, I push aside the junk and feel around for the bottles. But there is nothing. I step further inside and get down on my hands and knees. Where the hell are they? I put six bottles in here two days ago. There should be four left. Where have they gone? My mouth goes dry and my heart starts to pound as I search frantically through old shoeboxes and moth-eaten jackets. Then I see it, a yellow Post-it note stuck to the floor where the bottles had been.
I rip it off, my hands shaking with anger.
‘It’s not worth it, Sally,’ he has written. ‘We can get through this together . . . without the booze. I love you xxx.’
The fucking idiot. He’s got rid of my wine. I run back into the kitchen and start pulling open cupboards and drawers. Where’s he hidden it? I can’t deal with this without a drink. It’s too much; too huge.