He was coming into focus for me now, as if my head was pushing up from underwater. My eyes were clearing, the sickness lessening. He was handsome. ‘Can you follow my finger?’ His wedding ring hovered above my head – he was left-handed. Creative, thoughtful, but still clever enough to ace the sciences. The metal was battered and tarnished, but that was probably a sign of commitment, not carelessness. He looked like he was only a little bit older than me, thirty-five or so. He’d probably met her at medical school, nailed his colours to the mast early. ‘That’s good, Rachel. Do you know where you are?’ How had I done this? Sunk this low? I turned the shame inside out, smiled up at him. ‘Judging by your nice white coat, I’m guessing a hospital.’ I looked down at myself. Some kind of weird cotton sack clung to me like a shroud. A monitor was emitting an insistent be ep that acted like a screwdriver on my eardrum. I sat up abruptly, grabbing at the plastic beaker of water on the bedside table, dizzy suddenly. Thank God it was only the one bed in this room. But then – I knew what that meant. If I was in a private room, she must already know. ‘That’s right. You’re in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Do you remember why you’re here?’ I lay back down, retreating from him. A starburst of memory, a hot flash of shame. A tight cubicle, smelling as rank as they always do when it’s long past the witching hour. Mopping the cistern with a damp piece of loo paper, leaning low over it as Rob’s hand covered my bum so tightly it felt like suction. And then? ‘It was a bit of a late one, wasn’t it?’ The doctor looked down at the manila cardboard folder he was holding. He took a theatrical pause to read the notes. ‘You could say that, Rachel. Sounds like having a bit of a late one is something of a pattern. Am I right?’ ‘It was my best friend’s birthday. It got out of hand. I mean... it’s not a regular occurrence and I’m not going to get in this state again.’ I sat up, pointed to my no-doubt ravaged face, regretting immediately making him study it. ‘This kind of hangover is definitely not a lifestyle choice.’ His frustration was visible. ‘This is more than a hangover, Rachel. We had to pump your stomach. You tested positively for cocaine. It’s no exaggeration to say you could have died.’ You can make words into other words in the space between a person’s lips and your own ears. They hang between you for a few precious milliseconds, open to reinterpretation. I vaporized these ones before they had any meaning. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, deliberately plaintive. If I could make him feel sorry for me, or attracted to me – if I could make him feel anything – I’d know I was in charge. ‘I just really wanted to honour my friend, and it went too far. She’s like a sister to me.’ Let God forgive me: no one was like a sister to me, apart from my beloved Sophie. ‘You were lying on the pavement. You were covered in vomit. You’re lucky a cab driver stopped and called 999. If that’s your idea of fun...’ His words were getting harder to pulverize. So Rob hadn’t even brought me here. Did we say goodbye in the club, or could he just not be bothered to make sure I got home in one piece? I groped for more facts, but none came. ‘Okay, I get it. I’ll do a detox. Dry October. It could catch on.’ His gaze was cold. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant. I’m just trying to process what happened.’ I let my voice drop. ‘It’s a shock.’ I felt a tiny softening. I threw a smile at him, took another sip of my water. ‘There’s plenty of help available, Rachel. Twelve-st ep programmes, counselling...’ Twelve st eps? It took everything I had not to throw that back in his face, but before he could even finish his laundry list, Mum had appeared at the
door. She was pale that day, the thinness she prized so much making her look unexpectedly fragile. It punctured me. ‘Rachel.’ I could hear it, that familiar cocktail. Anger and relief, each fighting for supremacy. She hurried across the room to my bed, touched my face. ‘You’re awake.’ ‘Hi, Mum,’ I said. My voice had a crack in it. It was for real this time, and I wondered if the doctor could tell the difference. Men rarely could in my experience. ‘Darling...’ she said, voice thick with worry. She found steel. ‘You cannot ke ep doing this. You cannot.’ The good looking doctor’s eyes ping-ponged between us. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said with a hint of noblesse oblige. ‘Let’s talk outside in a few minutes.’ Once he’d gone, she sunk into the armchair underneath the window. I looked past her, my eyes fixing on the naked, wintry branches of a tall tree outside. ‘It was Lou’s thirtieth. You know what she’s like.’ Mum held up a manicured hand, eyes closing in disgust. ‘No. I know what you’re like. I don’t want to hear it. None of us do. You were meant to be a godmother next week. I’m not sure Josh will even allow it now. Aunt is quite enough for that little girl to handle.’ Some part of my brother would be loving this. I pushed the thought away. My thoughts still felt so muddled. But perhaps they always did back then, even without a gram of coke and a bottle of vodka to contend with. Clarity was dangerous. ‘Mum, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’ A sob choked its way out of me and I twisted up a corner of the sheet to dry my eyes, leaving a smudgy black mark on the pure white cotton. ‘We can’t carry on like this. I barely sle
Ep I’m just waiting for the call.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘That call. What’s wrong with you, Rachel? Why are you destroying yourself?’ ‘I...’ My heart beat an insistent tattoo in my chest. I wanted to wrap words around it all – the cre eping feeling of being not quite good enough that ran for cover when I drank myself happy. The other pieces, the shadows from long ago that k ept me permanently wrapped in darkness. But we both knew she didn’t want to hear too much truth, so I swallowed it down, bitter medicine. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, pathetically. Mum sank into the chair, let her head drop forward. Her blonde shoulder- length hair, highlighted by a salon so expert that their clients could go to the grave without ever experiencing a whisper of grey, framed the smooth planes of her face. It was hard to believe she was a grandmother. I don’t remember a time when people didn’t tell me how beautiful my mother was. Even at nursery school, I doubted I’d ever measure up. There’s pretty and there’s beautiful – I’m still not sure which one serves us best. ‘Sometimes when I’m lying there, waiting for the phone to ring, I wonder if it’s me. If it’s something I did – it’s always supposed to be the mother, isn’t it? But then I look at your brother and sister...’ I heard my cue, clear as a bell. ‘Of course it’s not you,’ I interrupted. ‘You’re an amazing mum. I’m just... you and Dad, you taught us to be the life and soul.’ She smiled: she couldn’t help but be flattered by that. ‘I know I’ve been behaving like I’m still in my twenties, and I know it’s time to grow up.’ ‘When I was thirty-two, I’d had you and Josh, the business was taking off—’ ‘I know,’ I said, interrupting again. ‘I know I haven’t ticked the boxes, okay? But I really want to change. I want to feel like a grown-up.’ It was true: every wedding invitation made me feel like even more of a loser, even though the feminist in me knew that was pathetic. ‘And it’s over now, I promise. This was the wake-up call I had to get, Mum.’
The words felt dry, lines from a play that I’d performed a hundred times, but they somehow had the desired effect. Mum abruptly stood up and leant over me, enveloping me in a hug so tight that I could only breathe in that familiar mix of Coco and expensive shampoo. I let myself sink into her, melding my body against hers. Perhaps some cellular part of us never forgets what it was like to be a single entity, nestled inside our mother’s body, their gentle cage our only hope for survival. ‘We’re going to get you proper help,’ she said, the words whispered into my smoke-stink hair. ‘I’ve had her number in my phone for months now, but I was too frightened to call. To make all of this real.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Her name’s Amber. She’s got... – well, apparently she’s a miracle worker. She’s an angel for addicts. All the people I’ve talked to can’t stop raving about how she changed their children’s lives.’ She manoeuvred my tear-stained face upwards with a light touch of her hand, looking into my swollen eyes. ‘What we need right now is some divine intervention.’ Addict. I couldn’t quite screen out those two harsh syllables, but nor was I ready to acc ept them. I knew better than to challenge her, however. Divine intervention. That was one phrase for what was coming.