This idea – this narrative – that I didn’t care, that I humiliated and abandoned Rachel, is patent
nonsense. As I said to Sophie – not that she’ll hear it now – what I was administering that terrible day
was tough love. Love was the point; the toughness was a necessary byproduct. It wasn’t poison; it was
medicine. I did everything I could to take her home with us once we’d finally found a black cab that
would agree to stop. Most of them took one passing glance at her and sailed straight down the Cromwell
Road. No amount of cold water and expensive hand wash could disguise the wildness in her eyes or the
brittle way she held her body, like she was allergic to me. As soon as some poor fool slowed his cab and
the three of us were in the back, the arguing started up again like some kind of Shakespearian howl.
Going home with me was the last thing she wanted; she didn’t even want me to st ep over the threshold
of the flat. She had some drunken fantasy that I’d called her ‘disgusting’, that I’d called her ‘a slut’, and
it was impossible for me to defend myself without the very real danger of our cab driver, already
stealing nosy glances in the rearview mirror, dumping us on the Westway.
Instead it was Sophie who took her upstairs, giving my hand a comforting squeeze as she clambered out
of the cab, her kind little face telling me how agonizing it was to be stranded between us, the two
women she loved most in the world. Not that something like that would ever occur to Rachel of course.
I’ll call you later, Sophie mouthed over her shoulder, and I asked the cab driver to stay put, waiting until
I could see the light go on in the middle-floor window, stinging tears pouring down my cheeks.
Was that my mistake? Not treating my emotions like a game of show and tell? Instead I tried to stay
strong for her: to be a parent, not an indulgent friend.
What I hadn’t grasped yet was that parenthood was a job you could be fired from; it was not my primal
right. By the time Nick’s key turned in the lock, I was an hour into some soporific crime drama with a
sage, hangdog detective in a wide-brimmed hat wandering around Italian vineyards. He leaned down to
my prone body, slumped on the sofa, and kissed me full on the lips.
‘You look like a wife in need of a drink.’ The irony. My hangdog detective could’ve pointed out the
watertight evidence we’d received that seeking relief in alcohol was the last habit our family needed to
indulge. He came back from the kitchen with two brimming glasses of Chablis and some salty almonds
in a ceramic bowl. I took a de ep glug, despite my irritation with him. His unexplained absences, his
refusal to metabolize any more worry than the amount I spoon-fed him. I stopped myself. He was caring
for me, in his own way, wasn’t he? We all have different languages for love: the trick was to appreciate
his, rather than complaining about the ones he wasn’t fluent in.
‘We got her into bed between us,’ I said, the lie as light as gossamer. ‘It’s not nearly as bad as last time.
She can sle ep it off. I told Sophie to stay, ke ep an eye on her.’ ‘Well done, darling,’ said Nick, picking
up my hand in his. His wedding ring glinted: it felt so progressive that he’d wanted to wear one when
we tied the knot. ‘She’s a fucking disaster, isn’t she?’
I rolled my eyes, not trusting myself to speak. ‘You’ll get her back to see the therapist next week, yes?’
he asked, squeezing my hand with his. ‘At least we know we’re getting her help.’ I thought of Rachel’s
blazing eyes as she screamed up at me from the cold tiles, Esther’s name reverberating around the
cramped space. I sat up, almost dizzy, and took a handful of almonds.
‘We need to take it one day at a time,’ I said. I was the one to press my lips against his this time. His
breath had that residual sourness that champagne
always leaves, but I overrode the thought. Something I was good at. ‘At least the other two are thriving.’
‘Exactly,’ said Nick, visibly comforted by the thought. It was our constant refrain, a comfort blanket
that would one day come to smother us. He pushed me backwards against the cushions, and I allowed
my body to yield to him. ‘I love you,’ he muttered into my hair, as his hand sought out the zip that ran
down the length of my back.
‘I love you, too,’ I said, kissing him back with an impressive degree of fervour. I think I even fooled
myself.