‘Yes. And you think you blanked out? Something about an old man and a duck attack and hissing swans?’
‘That’s it. Yes, and I’d put his shoes on the wrong feet. He kept tripping over them and I didn’t even bother changing them.’
We both sip our drinks, David absently rubbing the kitten’s tummy.
‘What did you see that day in the pizza place?’
A blank space opens up between us. He shifts his body infinitesimally away from me. ‘Not sure how to answer that, Sonya.’
‘Why, was it that ugly?’
‘I could read the stress in Tommy.’
I don’t know which would have been worse: had he said I looked like a drunken sot, or this, this focus on Tommy’s distress. I remove the top of the cup and contemplate the dark depths. Yes, this is worse. The shame creeps across my skin, tingling and biting.
‘You could see that Tommy was a stressed little boy?’
‘He had these big frightened eyes, and you seemed kind of manic, strung out.’
I cast my mind back. I hadn’t eaten in days and I’d had a binge and my boy was starving. Can he see that I’m post-binge now? I don’t feel manic, just tired and disappointed and emptied out. And if I’m honest, and if I let it in, the guilt might just undo me. I should have worn my big Jackie O glasses; I’m sure I’m sporting the same dug-out under-eyes my father had in the years following my mother’s death, the same hollows my son wears since my abandonment of him. I hope the whites of my eyes are not yellow. What other signs? Amazingly, my hands aren’t shaking, although my fingers are periodically twitching. The smell could be reeking off me; it does that, even days after. Stinky-stink, Yaya! Tommy used to come into the bedroom with a toothbrush and paste, and a glass of water. Jesus fucking wept.
I check my clothes – anything chaotic there? Odd socks, surely, but they can’t be seen. I brushed my hair and fixed my face before leaving, but as my eyesight dims in the days after a blow-out, I probably look like a mad old bat with caked, blobbed mascara and streaky, dried-out foundation. I’m lucky I didn’t kill the kitten or set the house on fire.
Imagine Tommy being so scared that a stranger could see it in his face. I think of the woman on the beach and Mrs O’Malley.
‘Are you ok, Sonya?’
‘Did I smell of it?’
‘Booze? I could smell the attempts at disguising it.’
What about now? Can you smell it now? I don’t expose myself to this line of questioning.
‘Have you made contact with Tommy’s social worker?’
‘Yes. Meeting her on Friday.’
‘That’s good. Will give you some time to compose yourself.’
So. What does he see? Has he ever had a ‘slip’？
‘Have you been to a meeting yet?’
‘Walk?’ I ask, not wanting to continue where this conversation is headed. I pick up the kitten and place her inside my coat.
‘You should get that cat a leash!’
‘That’s what Tommy said.’ I don’t know why, but this makes a bubble of happiness swell inside me. We fall into step, circling the pond, no words shared or tossed between us. I have an image of us, in twenty or thirty years, walking like this, my hand in his, or his gently resting at the base of my spine. There’s something of the old-fashioned gentleman about him, and this doesn’t make me want to toy with him, or run away from him, as I would have in my earlier incarnation. Is this my ‘post-recovery’ self, one who just had a blip, a sober person who can appreciate the quality of silence, the breeze touching my cheeks, the rustling trees, the ripples in the water, the sleeping ducks bobbing peacefully? Today there are no duck attacks, no swans hissing. All is serene, and I don’t feel the need to rip the fuck out of the fabric of that peace.
‘Have you spoken to your father yet about what he told social services?’
The mention of the words ‘social services’ immediately leaches any remnants of calm.
‘You may need to hire a solicitor.’
Talk about blurring boundaries. Is he angling for a job here? I don’t need this right now; what I need is forgetting time. Still too shaky and vulnerable after my bender to be able to grapple with this.
‘You’ve gone very quiet. Hope this isn’t too much of a shock to hear. I’d have thought your father would have made you aware of the legal situation and its ramifications.’
Ram your ramifications up your arse. Silently hum the tune to a waltz I danced to in an avant-garde production of Pride and Prejudice. Picture myself on set, wearing a corset, a crinoline-style dress, shot silk, pale blue, and suspenders.