“We’re going to have to go soon. Isn’t it a bit early for karaoke?” says Dave.
“God, you’re always so sensible. Go on then. I’ll do it on my own.”
“Don’t get annoyed—it’s nearly seven. We’ve been here for hours,” Louisa says.
Nearly seven? It is late. Time’s slipped away again. I can’t remember half the conversation that we’ve had. I push myself off my chair, neck the contents of my glass. As I tip it hard towards my mouth, two tendrils of red snake down from the corners of my lips and onto my white top. I slam the glass back down on the table and stalk towards the door.
“Well, I’m going to do some karaoke now. You be boring if you like. It’s the bloody weekend.”
I’m in good form tonight. The children watch wide-eyed with awe as I hit all the high notes in “Wuthering Heights.” They’re enthralled. Heathcliff would let me in for sure. I roll in the deep with Adele, take a nod to Prince and his little red Corvette before hitting my musical peak, “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.” Someone said once that I sound spectral when I sing it, and it’s always my showstopper. No “My Way” for me, this is my way to finish, outclassing Morrissey himself. Possibly. I hold the last note as long as I can and collapse back on the sofa, spent. I’m almost surprised not to receive a round of applause, so clearly in my mind are Carl and David and Louisa avidly listening and admiring my singing.
“…how you put up with it.” Louisa’s voice, clear in the sudden silence after the end of my song. Then a shushing noise. Can they be talking about me? I haven’t been that bad…I lean back into the cream leather sofa and close my eyes. The door slams and I jump, but only a little before settling back into the cushions, eyes tight shut.
A little later I come to with a start. There’s no noise in the house. I go into the kitchen and start to clear the rest of the dirty plates and glasses from the table to the sink. Carl’s used the good glasses, the heavy ones that look solid but chip as soon as one touches the other. I carry one load over and come back for the next.
I’m confused about the way the afternoon’s ended up; I was so sure that everyone would want to join in. There’s a fear lurking in the corner of my mind that I’ve mishandled it all, somehow, my mind clouded with drink, my judgment askew. It’s not how it used to be. As I carry the glasses past the kitchen door I catch sight of the print of Temple Church hanging in the corridor—Carl gave it to me when I first got tenancy and I’d been so pleased with how thoughtful he was. I should be more sensitive to him. His confidence has never been the same since his redundancy, even though the counseling training went so well, and his part-time practice as a psychotherapist has really taken off. He never set out to be a househusband.
“Don’t carry them like that. I’ve told you,” Carl says. I jump, nearly dropping the glasses. They chime against each other.
“I was just trying to help.”
“Don’t. Go and sit down. I can’t bear it if you break something.”
There’s no point arguing. I look at him through my bangs. A vein is throbbing on his temple and his cheeks are flushed. The color gives him youth, suddenly, and the boy he was stands in front of me, just for a moment, hair dark and floppy, eyes creased in a smile. The vision recedes along with the hairline and I’m left with reality again, a cross man in his forties with thinned, graying hair and an impatient expression on his face. But enough of the memory lingers, the boy superimposed on the man, and a small surge of love stirs in me.
“I’ll go and read to Matilda.”
“I don’t want you to upset her.”
“I’m not going to upset her. I’m just going to read her a story.” I try to stop my voice sounding plaintive. The surge has subsided.
“She knows you’re drunk. She doesn’t like it.”
“I’m not that drunk. I’m fine.”
“Fine? When you’ve pissed off my friends so much that they’ve left early in embarrassment? When I had to scrape you off the floor of chambers this morning?”
“I was on the chair. And it’s not that early.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. I don’t agree, though. “I don’t think that’s fair. They didn’t leave because of me. They’d have been welcome to do karaoke.”
“Jesus, Alison…I don’t even know where to start.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Don’t shout at me. I’m not going to talk to you when you’re like this.”
“I know I’ve pissed you off, and I’m sorry. We always used to have fun together, though. I hadn’t realized everyone had got so boring. Whatever. I’m going to read to Tilly.” I walk out of the kitchen before Carl can say any more.
She’s sitting in bed reading a Clarice Bean book. Six years old but still my baby. She hugs me and murmurs, “Night night, Mummy, I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, and tuck her under her flowery duvet. Carl comes through as I’m about to turn off the light and for a moment we stand united, looking at the child we created. I turn to him and hold out my hand and he pauses, about to take it before he backs away, his hand partly outstretched but the fingers curled tightly into his palm.
“I made you a cup of tea. It’s in the living room.”
“Thank you.” He’s gone before I can finish the words but this is a start, the smallest of moves. Maybe he’s inching back in my direction. Though I know it’s more than I deserve. It was only twenty-four hours ago I’d promised to myself that I’d have one drink and then go home. For a moment I feel a deep sense of despair. I can’t even keep to one drink, I can’t make it home to my family as I ought to. I stare into space for a long while, remorse gnawing at my guts, before I shake myself out of it. I drink the tea and go to bed, overwhelmed by emotion and exhaustion. It’s been a long week. I fall into sleep soothed by gentle clinks and splashes as Carl washes up. At least I offered to help.
3
They leave before I wake up, off to the castle together as the brief note Carl leaves me announces. I couldn’t wake you. We had to leave. You’ve got work to do anyway. I finished the washing up. No kisses at the bottom. Cross, not crosses. I am too—I promised to go with them. They should have taken me. When I realize they’ve gone I try to call but his phone’s off. I lie in bed, listening to his voice on the voicemail message. Can’t take your call. Can’t take your call.
Won’t, more like.
Finally, I get through. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I tried. You stirred, told me to fuck off. I thought I’d better just leave you to sleep.”
I don’t remember that at all. “I didn’t wake up till eleven. It’s not like me.”
“You were wiped out from the night before.”
“I wished you’d tried harder to wake me up. Or that you’d waited.”
“I did try, Alison. But you weren’t having any of it. We left at nine. There wouldn’t have been any point going if we’d gone any later.”