I go into the conservatory and look behind the sofa, behind the cushions, screaming with frustration as I go. Then as I get to the chair by the window something outside catches my eye. The recycling box, ready for tomorrow morning’s collection, is sitting on the patio with four empty wine bottles in it. He’s poured it down the sink. I don’t believe it.
I slam my fists against the window. The stupid, stupid man. Why would he do that? He’s just making everything worse.
There is no way I can get through this day without a drink so I’ll just have to go and get some more. ‘Didn’t think of that, did he?’ I mutter to myself as I take off my dressing gown and throw it on the floor. What was the point of pouring my wine down the fucking sink when I can just go out and buy more? I’m a grown woman and he treats me like some stupid kid. Sod him.
I find my over-sized green puffa coat hanging on the hook in the hallway and put it on over my pyjamas. Hopefully no one will notice, I think, as I dig out my old trainers from the shoe rack, but as I bend down to put them on I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and it’s been days since I last washed. My hair is limp and greasy; my skin a sickly yellow. Jesus, I think to myself, as I step away from the mirror. What must Kate have thought when she saw me? She was always immaculately turned out. Ever since she was a kid she had been fussy about her appearance. Everything had to be just so. And she was so slim and pretty. I could never compete.
I try not to think about her as I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a pair of sunglasses. It’s an overcast day and I’ll look silly but better that than scaring people to death.
The streets are deserted as I set off. Thankfully. I have no idea what time it is or what day, all I can see in front of me is a bottle of cold white wine and all I can feel, as I cross the road that leads to the shops, is the absence of it in my bloodstream.
I pull the hood of my coat up round my face as I walk up the narrow path to the Spar. I don’t want anyone to see me. I just want to do what I need to do and get back to the house without any hassle.
As I enter the shop I’m relieved to see that it’s the man working today and not his wife. She always looks at me like I’m dirt when I put the wine bottles on the counter. Bitch. But her old man is pleasant enough and he smiles as I pick up a basket and head to the fridges.
The shop radio is playing ‘Hey Jude’ and I feel a crushing sense of sadness. It’s as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. Kate loved this song when we were kids. She used to change the words to ‘Hey You’ and dance with me around the room. But that was when I was very little, before we started hating each other. I try to block out the song as I put three bottles of Pinot Grigio into the basket and make my way to the counter, but it’s already wormed its way into my head and I know that it will stay there for the rest of the day unless I drink it away.
I put the wine on to the counter, making a mental note to myself to find a new hiding place; somewhere Paul will never think to look.
‘Sun come out, has it?’ says the man, noticing my glasses. He scans the bottles and begins to put them into a flimsy carrier bag.
I nod my head, wishing he would just hurry up.
‘Spring is here,’ he says with a smile. ‘Makes it even more poignant, doesn’t it?’ He points in the direction of the newspaper rack by the door. ‘She was from round here, you know.’ I follow his gaze and see a mass of headlines:
WIPED OUT
NO SURVIVORS
BOMBED WHILE THEY SLEPT
‘Syria,’ he says, opening another bag to put the remaining bottles in. ‘Never ends, does it? I mean, how much can one country take? Those poor people and that poor journalist. She was only in her thirties. They say she’s officially missing but no one could survive that. Have you seen the photos? It was carnage. Makes you think, though, doesn’t it? One minute you’re going about your business, the next, whoosh.’
He clicks his fingers and the noise makes me jump.
I leave the counter and walk across to the newspapers. I take a copy of The Times and look at the picture that is splashed across the front page: a pile of body bags lying in a scorched field. My stomach twists and I drop the paper on the floor. I’m going to throw up.
‘That’s ￡27.36 when you’re ready, love,’ says the man as I bend down to pick the paper up. ‘Are you wanting the newspaper too?’
‘No,’ I reply, putting it back on the shelf and returning to the counter. I grab the bags and thrust a wedge of twenty-pound notes into the man’s hands; the entire contents of my purse.
‘Hang on, love, that’s far too much,’ he says. ‘Come back and get your change.’