I’M LISTENING TO Eddie down the telephone line, trying to piece together the funny, breathless narrative of what he’s been doing today. I can visualize the way he’s sitting on the staircase, one leg draped through the banisters, and balancing the phone awkwardly in the crook of his neck, muffling his words.
‘I miss you,’ I say. His voice is at once distant and near and the scent of the peppermint shampoo I use on his hair is suddenly in my nostrils and I want him here with me.
‘I miss you,’ he parrots back, in his clear, uncomplicated lilt. I clutch the phone to my ear, listening to the sound of his breathing, trying to work out what he is thinking. ‘Are you and Daddy coming back soon?’ he asks.
‘Three days,’ I say. ‘Not long at all.’ This is not how a holiday is meant to be. Living on countdown – ticking off the days until you can return home.
‘Nanny’s got biscuits,’ says Eddie distractedly. ‘They’re chocolate ones. Do you think I should have one? Would you like one, Mummy?’
‘Well, I’d like one,’ I answer, ‘but I can’t really have one, can I, because—’ As I speak, I realize that Eddie has cast the phone away and made off in search of the biscuits. His footsteps echo down the corridor, fading into silence. I hear him laughing, protesting in response to my mother’s half-hearted chastisement. I strain my ears to hear their conversation for a few more moments, then I give up and hang up. A minute or so later, a text comes through. Sorry! Lure of chocolate digestives too strong. Give us another call later, or tomorrow, if you like. All fine. Mum x
I imagine them settling down together in front of the television or a board game, and how it would be if I could step out of this room and into theirs – into the warm, orange light of the living room with my mother and my child, the strong and simple bonds between us. Closing my eyes, I’m almost there. And then I’m thinking about how it would be to walk into my own home … unlocking the front door and entering the hallway and seeing you by the window, turning around to greet me, and moving forward into your arms to be kissed. The feel of your stubble roughly on my face, and the tight grip of your hands around my waist, pulling me smoothly into your body to fit me there like a key clicking into a lock.
The picture jolts and sparks, blacking out. I’ve had these thoughts about you at times over the years – haven’t been able to avoid it, whether or not I wanted them. But I’ve never felt this complex mixture of emotions; desire and fear muddled up together. There’s a part of me which still can’t help but be excited at the idea that you’re back in my life, even in such a bizarre fashion. But another part – a growing part – is telling me that this isn’t the way it should be, and that there’s something wrong, dangerous even, in what’s happening here, something that I still don’t fully understand.
I glance at my phone again. You still haven’t replied to my last message. Yesterday evening when we got home from Brighton I drank too much, setting myself up for a restless night, and at three in the morning I was prowling around this kitchen, sitting at the table in the dark and typing thoughts to you that I never sent.
As I think of it, a horrible doubt grips me and, quickly, I scroll through my emails, exhaling in relief when I see that the message remains in my drafts. I don’t recognize my own words. Why haven’t you replied? Why are you doing it like this? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to write?? You have no idea how much I missed you back then, how much I needed you – I thought it was going to kill me. And now you’re back but I didn’t think it would be like this and I don’t know why
The message ends there, an unspooling thread suddenly and brutally cut. Staring at it in horror, I wince. I must have been drunker than I realized.
I can’t help thinking of what Francis said to me last year, in the early days, when he was just starting to wake up and understand, about how recovery can only be taken day by day. At the time, I found it depressing. But that means I’ll never relax, I remember saying. If every day is the first day for you, then there’s no progression. But now I’m thinking that it’s taken only forty-eight hours for my own addiction to feel like it’s spiralling out of control, taking me with it. And almost two years has counted for nothing at all.
Day one, I think. Start again.
‘You all right?’ The shock of Francis’s voice makes me spin back round. He has appeared in the doorway, scanning me warily. Things have been strained again since the drive back from Brighton, which we made in near-silence, him in the driver’s seat, steering the car calmly and efficiently through the falling dusk, me staring out of the window and watching the scenery flashing by, barely knowing where we were, and too afraid to close my eyes because of what I might see.
Making an effort, I drag myself back. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Have you thought about today?’ he asks. There’s the faintest hint of challenge in his tone. So far this week, he’s been in the driving seat, in more ways than one. Our movements have all been orchestrated by him. He’s called the shots, and now he’s wondering if I’ve got any loaded, and if I care enough to fire them.
I consider throwing out one of the ideas I’ve toyed with: a trip to the Aquarium, an exhibition at the British Museum I thought he might appreciate, a visit to the cinema. I can’t seem to settle on a thought. ‘Well, I was thinking of going to a meeting this morning,’ he says after a pause. ‘There’s a local one at ten.’
‘Here?’ I ask stupidly.
‘Yes,’ he says mildly. ‘Believe it or not, they have addicts in Chiswick, too.’
‘Right. Yes, of course.’ Francis has been attending Narcotics Anonymous with varying degrees of frequency for the past two years, and it shouldn’t surprise me that he wants to go to a meeting. When I think about it, once I get past the unease that he needs this even when we’re supposed to be on holiday, I find it reassuring.
‘We could do something in the afternoon,’ he volunteers. ‘If you want.’
‘Yes,’ I answer quickly. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Would you,’ he says, his green eyes raking me with sudden coolness. There is no questioning lift in his voice. It’s drier than that, a faint echo of scepticism and suspicion.
‘Yes,’ I repeat, softening my voice. I can tell he’s searching for some clue that will tell him if I mean it, but it must be hard to find, because after a few moments he just shrugs and turns away.
After he’s gone, I make myself a coffee and try to relax in front of the television. I can’t concentrate on the unfamiliar daytime soaps and talk shows and, after a while, I switch it off, but when I do I’m unsettled by the silence and the faint noises that break it: the occasional creak of floorboards or the rattling of pipes. It’s as if the house is breathing, shifting minutely around me. I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye, and my whole body tenses before I realize that it’s my own reflection in the mirror across the room. I take in my appearance, hunched in the corner of the armchair, my face pinched with concern. Abruptly, I get up and go to the kitchen, but it’s no better. Everything is too still – the carved, claw-like drawer handles, the open mouth of the sink gaping in a fixed, sightless smile.
The sound of the doorbell shatters the silence, shrilling through the air. It makes me jump and I start to my feet, but I’m grateful. Right now, I don’t want to be alone here.
I push open the front door to see Amber standing on the doorstep. She’s wearing a red cotton shift dress, another deceptively simple outfit which is harder to carry off than she makes it look. Her hair is swept back behind her ears, revealing small diamond studs.