Ice and a Slice Page 2

  He nodded. “So when you do drink, after nine, what would you have on an average day, say?” His voice was mild and not at all judgmental.

  That was easy. “Wine. White wine, usually. With dinner, you know – like everyone.”

  Another little nod. “How many glasses would you have?”

  “Two or three, it depends on the size of the glasses – they vary so much these days, don’t they?”

  “Would it be easier if you told me in terms of how much of the bottle you had? Would you drink maybe half a bottle, or more than that?”

  “More than that,” she said without thinking. “I mean, half a bottle is nothing, is it? Everyone has half a bottle of wine with dinner.”

  He smiled. “Three quarters?”

  “Yes, I’d say it was usually three quarters, occasionally the whole bottle, but not always. Maybe if I’d had a particularly stressful day, or if I was up late.”

  “Do you drink on your own or with a husband or partner?”

  She was ready for this one; it was the same thing they asked on the Are you an alcoholic? questionnaire she’d found on the net. If you drank alone you were a saddo alky, but if you were sharing the wine with someone else you were okay. Not that she exactly shared the wine because Tom didn’t like white much – luckily – but he did quite often have a glass of red.

  “My husband’s usually around,” she said firmly.

  “But not always?”

  “No, he sometimes works late, so I might have the odd glass before he gets in.”

  “But not the whole three quarters of a bottle?”

  “Well, possibly I might – if he was working very late.” How had she fallen into that one? “I mean, if I didn’t I wouldn’t have a drink at all, would I?”

  “And would that bother you, not having a drink at all?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Her hands felt slippy on the leather of her bag – she didn’t remember picking it up, but it was on her lap and she could feel sweat dripping down the back of her neck. Flustered, she stared at a paperclip on the grey carpet just in front of Kit’s trainer.

  The truth was she couldn’t remember the last day she hadn’t had a few glasses of wine – so she didn’t actually know whether not having it would bother her. After a slight pause she told him this. After all, she wasn’t in denial about how much she drank. If she was an alcoholic she would have been in denial. That was a big part of the illness – it was almost the definition. If you thought you were an alcoholic then you probably weren’t. She’d been clinging to that little truth for a while now.

  But instead of condemning her as an alcoholic Kit changed tack. “Do you ever drink anything else besides wine, Sarah?”

  The fact he’d called her Sarah reminded her that whatever she told him would be attributed to someone else and, feeling a strange sense of liberation, she told him she drank gin and tonic, too – not much – a litre or two of gin every couple of weeks. She knew this because she put at least one empty bottle in the green recycling bin every fortnight. Never any more than two bottles. She was quite proud of that, although occasionally she put the recycling bin that contained innocuous plastic shampoo bottles and milk containers over the one that contained glass - in case the neighbours took more than a passing interest.

  “So you’re mixing your drinks?” he asked unexpectedly, and she stared at him.

  “Is that bad?”

  He paused, and suddenly she’d had enough. In the cold light of day listing all her drinks like this sounded a lot worse than it felt. It wasn’t as though she ever got drunk – well, very occasionally she did, but hardly ever. Not one of her friends had ever commented on how much she drank, although, come to think of it, she’d had an awful lot of jokey drink-related birthday cards this year. Not even Tom had commented. Mind you, he didn’t comment on much she did; he was too tied up with his job to notice.

  She wanted to get out of here – she’d only come to reassure herself her drinking habits were normal. For heaven’s sake, if you were French you drank gallons of wine, didn’t you – not just the odd bottle. The French had the stuff with every meal. A ten-year-old French child probably drank more than she did. But before she left she really needed to establish she was fine and didn’t have a problem. Otherwise the whole embarrassing experience would be a waste of time.

  “Am I drinking too much?” she asked, glad her voice sounded perfectly calm. “I mean, I know I’m not teetotal, but I’m not too OTT, am I?”

  “Do you know what the recommended amount of alcohol units for women is?” Kit smiled as he spoke, as if they were about to share some private joke.

  Reassured, she smiled back. “Yes, it’s something absurd like twenty-one units a week, isn’t it?”

  “A bit less than that – it’s fourteen units for women.”

  She waved a hand, feeling in control again. “Everyone knows that’s ridiculous. It’s like the government recommendation for eating five portions of fruit and veg a day – a nice idea, but utterly impossible in reality. I mean, no one lives like that.” Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food. She’d been too anxious to eat breakfast. At least she didn’t feel sick any more. She glanced at the clock – soon this would be over and she could escape and get something to eat.

  “Sarah. From what you’ve told me, you’re drinking at least fourteen units a day. So in a week you’d be drinking – what – almost seven times the recommended limit?” His voice was soft, completely non-judgmental, but the words hit her like a bucket of ice.

  For a few seconds she was too shocked to speak. The little room felt oppressive and her head was spinning. No longer caring about body language, she grabbed her bag again and closed her eyes for good measure so she didn’t have to look at him.

  “Shit, am I?” she whispered, opening her eyes and staring at a point to the left of her shoes.

  “According to what you’ve told me, yes. I could list all the damaging effects of alcohol - what it’s doing to your body - but you don’t need me to do that, do you? You’re obviously bright. You can work it out for yourself.”

  When she forced herself to meet his gaze, his eyes were gentle, but he was no longer smiling.

  She nodded, wondering if she looked as shaken as she felt. “Yeah, I can work it out. But just because I drink a lot, it doesn’t mean I’m an – an – alcoholic.” She had to force the word out. “I mean, I don’t get through a bottle of spirits a day. I can still do my job fine. I’m good at it.”

  “I can’t tell you what you are or what you aren’t. You came here because you were worried. All I can tell you are the facts. It’s up to you to decide what you want to do from here.”

  He let that sink in and she chewed the inside of her mouth, longing for a cigarette and trying to get her head back into some kind of normal thinking pattern. Everything seemed distant now. The sound of the drill, the drone of traffic, all muted. As if she was in a little bubble of unreality while the real world went on outside the window, unconcerned.

  “We can help you if you want some help. It’s up to you.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  In answer, he got up and came across the small space between them. He had some papers in his hand. Where had those come from? He crouched beside her chair and showed her the forms.

  “This one’s a confidentiality agreement. We’ll need you to sign it. This one tells you what we’re about and gives you information about our appointments system, our aims and objectives and our mission statement.”

  “Everyone has a mission statement these days, don’t they?”

  He rocked back on his heels and smiled at her. “Yeah, I guess they do.”

  She was relieved she could still joke about things like mission statements. Paperwork, she was familiar with. The Adult Ed courses she taught at City College were riddled with paperwork. They were on the same side. They could laugh at mission statements together.

  “This other form’s self-explanatory. But I would like to go throu
gh it before you go. Then you take it away with you. You don’t have to put anything personal on it. But you will need to fill it in. Then you bring it back next week so we can discuss it. If you’re coming back next week. Are you? Would you like me to make another appointment?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I think maybe I would.”

  Chapter Three

  Twenty minutes later she was outside again. The roadworks team had downed tools and disappeared. People in suits were hurrying along the pavements, juggling their mobiles with takeout coffees – lunch on the run. A Big Issue seller was arguing with a black cab driver about change. On the opposite side of the street, a man with mad black hair and a scruffy denim jacket was staggering out of The George. When she’d phoned the helpline, the girl who’d answered had told her the drop in centre was opposite a pub. “Bit ironic,” she’d said.

  Ironic wasn’t the word for it. She gazed back at the drunk. He could hardly stand up by the look of him and it wasn’t yet one o’clock. He lurched against the wall of the pub and almost fell.

  She felt an unexpected wave of sympathy, which she hastily suppressed. He was a proper alcoholic – she didn’t even think about drinking in the day. How could she possibly be the same as him?

  Everything around her looked normal, but she didn’t feel normal inside. She felt as though a part of her world had been jolted off its axis. It was ridiculous; she was still the same person she’d been when she went into S.A.A.D. She didn’t ever have to go back. Even though she’d made another appointment – she could cancel it – they just needed twenty-four hours’ notice. Then someone more deserving, more in need of their services could take her place. Like that man across the street. He probably didn’t know the place was here. Perhaps she should go back in and tell someone and they could hook him in and dry him out or whatever they did to people with real problems.

  Remembering her mobile, she switched it on and a text message flashed up on the screen.

  Hi hun, long time no c. When can u do lunch? Tanya Xx

  She lit a Silk Cut and phoned her. It was a relief to hear her friend’s voice, a thread of normality through the weirdness of the day.

  “So how’s it going, SJ?”

  “Fine, absolutely fine,” she murmured, giving the usual response. The required response. No one ever expected you to say anything else, did they? It was just politeness to ask. One of those stupid English traditions. You’d say you were fine if your leg was dropping off. “How’s you?” she asked. “Keeping busy?”

  “Mad busy. As ever.” Tanya was an accountant, although she was as far from the stereotype as it was possible to get. “How about you? You up for lunch some time?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Hey, I don’t suppose you fancy lunch now, do you, Tanya? Are you in your office? I’m near Chinatown – say if you’re busy.”

  “I’m never too busy for a girlie lunch.” Her friend laughed throatily. She had the sexiest laugh on the planet and it wasn’t a cultivated thing. From her wild red hair to her outrageously short skirts, nothing about Tanya was cultivated. Tanya’s laugh put some perspective back into things and SJ relaxed a little. She hadn’t been aware she was so tense until she felt her neck muscles unknot.

  “I’ll meet you in All Bar One in around ten minutes,” Tanya was saying. “Mine’s a white wine if you get there before me. Standard – not one of those bucket-sized glasses you drink. I’m seeing a client this afternoon.”

  “Okay,” SJ said, feeling guilty and thinking of the form she was supposed to fill in. She was pretty sure people with drink problems, even minor ones, shouldn’t go into wine bars. It was the equivalent of a dieter going into a cake shop and drooling over the cream donuts – far too much temptation. Bollocks, she could have a Diet Coke. It wasn’t like she needed to drink.

  Minutes later, she pushed through the plate-glass doors of the bar. To be honest she didn’t much like All Bar One. It was a bit too well-lit, a bit too fresh faced and samey. But then to be fair she didn’t much like bars of any description. She preferred old fashioned pubs like The Red Lion, which was where she taught Poetry and a Pint on a Wednesday night. The Red Lion was all beams and dark corners, with a landlord called Brian who was a bit grumpy but let her have the room out the back dirt cheap on the proviso she encouraged her students to drink as many pints as possible without falling over.

  Maybe she didn’t like All Bar One because she was too old, SJ thought with a pang. The place was staffed by pimply lads who didn’t look old enough to be serving and bored-looking teenage girls who made her feel about a hundred. She went to the bar, dry-mouthed and tense, and heard herself ordering two dry white wines. “Yes, that’s standard ones, please.” How had that happened? She’d meant to order Diet Coke.

  She fumbled for her purse – that damn Tampax had escaped again. Her rummaging caused it to spring to the top of her bag and poke out like some proud paper erection. Shoving it back down and ignoring the barman’s smirk, she extracted a fiver and a couple of pound coins. Thinking about it, she’d save a fortune if she only drank what she’d agreed this week. If she gave up smoking too, she’d be a millionaire. There was always a bright side, wasn’t there?

  Not that she paid for much of the wine she drank at home. Tom ordered it by the case and refilled the fridge every time it was empty. He never complained she drank too much. He only complained if she opened one of the reds he was saving for a special occasion. Expensive reds weren’t for midweek drinking. Not that she ever did drink red; she didn’t like it so much – unless she ran out of white.

  “That was good timing,” Tanya said from behind her. “Thanks – shall we find a table? Are we eating? Shall I grab a menu?”

  Handing them leather-bound menus, the ten-year-old barman stared at Tanya’s legs. Oblivious to his gaze, Tanya sashayed across the room like a catwalk model. SJ wished she had legs like Tanya’s – the women were about the same height, but while Tanya had legs to die for, hers were too thick – and hairy if she didn’t shave them constantly. The downside of having nearly black hair and olive skin – SJ wished she was red haired and glamorous like Tanya.

  High maintenance legs, like hers, were best kept covered up with jeans or leggings – although perhaps slightly less floral overload would have worked better. Nevertheless, no one should be subjected to her legs without a government health warning.

  “So what’s new?” Tanya asked, pulling out two stools at a table near a window. “You sounded a bit weird on the phone.”

  “Did I?” SJ stared at her drink. The pale liquid glowed enticingly in reflected sunlight. Never had it looked so much like nectar but, inexplicably, she was scared to take a sip.

  “Yes, you did. Are you all right? Come on. Give. What have you been up to? Is it work?”

  SJ looked into Tanya’s concerned green eyes and frowned. She thought she’d hidden her feelings better than that. She had no intention of telling Tanya where she’d just been. Already, the shame of her appointment was sliding into the past. She’d just go there for a few more sessions, get some tips on how to cut down and then, with luck, she’d be sorted and there’d be no need to tell anybody – ever. She took a sip of her drink and glanced around. There was no one at any of the nearby tables. Perhaps people didn’t go out for lunch on Tuesday lunchtimes. And this place was huge anyway. Even if they’d been busy, you could have a perfectly private conversation without anyone overhearing.

  “I’m fine, work’s fine. Only another couple of weeks and the summer is mine – well, apart from ‘Poetry and a Pint’ of course, but that’s a walk in the park compared to Macbeth and Wuthering Heights. Everything’s cool.”

  She stretched her hands above her head to demonstrate just how utterly cool everything was and narrowly avoided falling off her stool, which was designed for perching on and looking good, but not relaxing.

  But Tanya, who was one of the most perceptive people she knew, didn’t look as though she would be easily deflected.

  “You’re a rubbish l
iar, SJ. Come on, I’m your best friend. Tell me what’s up. I might be able to help. And even if I can’t – well…” She spread her hands apart. Her fingernails were painted white with little red crosses – in honour of the England football team who were playing someone or other on Saturday.

  Another contrast, SJ thought uneasily, glancing at her own chewed nails and hiding them in her lap. Not that she’d have painted her nails with red crosses even if she’d had any to paint. Most of the black cabs sported flags sticking out at right angles. She was surprised there was no big screen in here – you couldn’t usually get away from the football when England were playing.

  “Something’s obviously wrong,” Tanya continued. “You look like you need a hug. You’re not having problems with Tom, are you?”

  SJ shook her head and put her glass back on the table – it was empty, she realised with a small shock.

  Tanya followed her gaze. “You needed that, didn’t you? You little alky…” Many a true word spoken in jest. “…Want another?”

  “NO!” SJ knew the ‘no’ had come out as a yelp. “I can’t, I’m working later. Tanya – do you think I drink too much?”

  “Sometimes maybe, but no more than anyone else I know. Why? Are you worried?”

  SJ took a deep breath. Tanya was bound to worm it out of her sooner or later and to her surprise she had a strong urge to confess. This morning’s honesty, even though she’d lied about her name, had been quite cathartic. “I’ve just been to an alcohol advisory place. I was a bit worried, that’s why I went. To put my mind at rest.”