Ros convinced herself she wasn’t an alcoholic on a daily basis. Of course she wasn’t. She just liked a glass. Half the time it was medicinal, and anyway it was better to be consistent than boom and bust. Obviously she’d have a clean out in the spring, a Dry January or a ten-day juice fast; she used to beg Harold for a stay at the Mayr Clinic, apparently you could bump into Tracy Emin at the herbal tea bar, but he’d told her she could just as easily not drink at home for free. Fucking Harold. He hadn’t had to put up with yoga mums eyeing each other’s thighs in Daylesford café while going on about sugar and how much they adored wheatgrass. It was no wonder she drank. They all did. Anyway, white wine wasn’t fattening. Everyone knew that. And she could stop anytime. She finished off the bottle of Pinot and opened another. The house was quiet, the dogs asleep, the girls were out. All she wanted was an hour to herself, and she’d be fine. It wasn’t her fault her nerves were on edge. The whole thing was getting to her. She adjusted her chair on the uneven floor. The wine tasted delicious. So did her Marlboro. She exhaled and felt reasonable thoughts flood through her.
She should never have got involved in the first place. She knew there was a reason she’d given it up. She was too highly strung. Too sensitive. She simply didn’t know how to not give it her all. Amateurs tossed lines about like sticks, put on voices and took them off again, pretended, but she became; there was a difference, she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t a professional for nothing.
She’d always been like that, even as a child doing shows in the front room, she’d taken it seriously, immersed herself completely, hadn’t understood how her parents could get bored, leave halfway through, or not turn up at all. Peter had sat through some of them, jollied on by their mother, but he’d got distracted too, started playing with his Action Man; it had generally ended in tears. Soft toys and dolls had filled the gap until she’d discovered the actual stage, a real stage at primary school where she wasn’t a sheep or third angel for long, where aged nine, she was cast as Mary. She could have lived in that moment forever, the blue dress, the headscarf with white trim, the plastic Jesus in her arms that doubled as everyone’s baby when the girls played Washing Up. She used to fight over it too until the nativity changed her world; after that only the wedding gown and veil from the dressing up box would do; who wanted a baby anyway when there was an audience to please, she didn’t have time. She would spend her lunch break trailing torn white lace and refuse to go outside unless the wind was blowing in the right direction; how could she exit the building if the train weren’t lifted in a river behind her? What good was a dramatic pause if there was no one there to see it? That no one took enough notice, mattered only as long as it took to build an audience in her mind; in her imaginary world, contained within the brick and cement playground, the parquet floors, and crowded classrooms she decided a sell-out show, a deafening applause, an audience of thousands who never took their eyes off her at all. Walking home with Peter after school, was cameras, lights, action! a director devoted, telling her how beautifully she’d done that scene, telling her she was perfect; a tilt of the head here, a sideways smile there, the subtlest glimmer in the eye; she was a star in her own school uniform, an Oscar winner as she ate her tea, an actress adored who felt a little lonely inside when she went to bed, but that, as she told her teddy, was the price of fame.
She topped up her glass. Funny how these memories came back. She’d known from the outset that she would be an actress. It was in her blood. No matter what she did, it would never let her go. Doing the play had reawakened something, a yearning, a desire only satisfied with bright lights, and even then, only for those moments. The want rushed in as quickly as the curtain dropped, why had she have left it so long? She lit another cigarette. She knew why. It was too big, too great, too deep. She’d shut it out, hoping that would shut it up. But it had only waited, silent, full of power. It would never leave her.
That was how she saw it, anyway. She wasn’t aware that a drip feed of neglect, a daily laceration of the missing can lead a faith to break, an omnipotence to be born, a mind to opt for fantasy, and a body to be so riddled with discomfort that to live amongst its screaming nerve-endings becomes a thing impossible. So subtle had been the lack, so consistent, so hidden by the appearance of plenty, that when she looked back on her childhood, the absence of her parents’ care read as normal. Instead of seeing the pattern on repeat, she lived as if the yawning gap within her was for want of something given her today.
Another week of rehearsals, another Friday night doing Freddy’s tea and the cool sense of control she’d had when had Scott dropped her off after the pub had been replaced by the dawning of another, more disturbing sensation. It couldn’t be. She must be imagining it.
Last Friday he’d rung to ask if she could possibly pick Freddy up from school; a complicated arrangement with Barbara taking over at nine meant that she hadn’t seen him. He’d left the key under the mat for her, and a note on the table saying you’re an angel. I owe you, and for a split second she’d thought it said I love you. Had he done that on purpose? It was too impossible to contemplate. She kept it anyway. She folded it up and put it in her purse.
The weekend had passed quietly. Molly and Issy had been at their dad’s; he’d picked them up on Saturday morning. She hated him intruding on her life here, turning up in his stupid sports car. He could at least get a Porsche and not some knock-off from Japan. She’d stayed upstairs, watching from the window, waiting for the door to slam and hadn’t come down until he’d driven away, Molly in the front, Issy squished in the back.
She’d planned on going to the spa. The brochure was still open on her laptop, a massage, a sauna, a swim, but it was too cold to go out, and on Sunday it rained, so she’d stayed in bed and watched Outlander. On Tuesday, Scott had shown up at rehearsals looking battered. She’d kept her distance. They’d walked through scenes like automatons. Everyone was getting tense; maybe it was that. Or maybe he was fighting it as hard as she was. On Thursday he’d had to leave early, she hadn’t bothered going to the pub with the others, the play felt like it was falling apart, and today was Friday, another Friday, her life had become marked by them. She looked at her phone. She’d texted him asking how he was doing but had heard nothing back. Just as she determined to forget the whole thing, have a bath, congratulate herself on not falling down that rabbit hole, it pinged its little notice, making her jump. She glanced, trying to be casual even though there was no one watching.
knackered
She could have sent a sad face emoji and shut that shit down. But Molly was at Nancy’s and Issy was on school sleepover, and Ros was bored. She picked an upside-down smiley face and pressed send.
His answer came back a few minutes later. Enough time for her to roll through doubt, regret, flippancy and fuck you.
want to come over?
She had to get a grip. This was what theatre did to you. Chemistry was the danger that worked. You had to feed it but keep it on a leash, that was what she’d learnt. Feed it, but keep it on a leash, because when the curtain came down on the last show of the run, that would be that; the spell would be broken, and they’d all go back to their lives. You had to believe you were in love, it was all part of the play. Scott knew that. They were both playing. She was sure of it.
As she downed her glass, no point in wasting it, picked up her bag, shrugged on her coat, shut the dogs in the utility and turned off the lights she had no intention of saying anything about Harold. She was thinking how glad she was she’d made a casserole that morning, so she didn’t have to rush into Midhurst and turn up with another lasagna from Cook. She sat the Le Creuset on the passenger seat beside her and put the belt around it so that it didn’t slide off.
He opened the door in his tracksuit, a Fair Isle cardigan slung over the top of a Ramones t-shirt she recognized from doing the ironing last week. While he helped Freddy with his homework, she reorganized the kitchen drawers. He’d said a few times that the cutlery was in the wrong place. It should be on the other side, in the drawers below the cupboard with the missing a door and the crack snaking up the side. She’d always thought Tessa was exaggerating about her kitchen needing doing.
Waiting for the potatoes, she moved quietly about the utility room, taking clothes out of the drier and folding them up. The laundry basket was full of Scott’s work clothes and Freddy’s sports kit. She put on another wash.
Scott set the table. Freddy went off upstairs and returned in his pyjamas.
“I hope you like venison.” She poured them each a glass of red, and refilled Freddy’s cup with water. They ate in silence for a while, the atmosphere too perfect to break. Ros picked at her food. It was hard to feel hungry and happy at the same time. Glistening gravy, smooth and buttery mash, Scott went to the pantry and came back with mustard. These details she was learning. She’d remember for next time.
“She’s a fine cook, isn’t she Fred?”
Freddy nodded.
Ros smiled. “Well thank you. It’s a pleasure. My girls don’t seem to bother with food.”
“You’re wasted on them.”
“They get it from their father. He’s like a piece of wire. Salad, that’s what he liked. And fish.”
“I hate fish,” said Freddy.
“Then I shall make a note not to cook it.”
“You’d have a career as a private chef no trouble,” said Scott, piling mash onto his fork.
“You’re sweet. It’s not difficult.”
“Difficult for some. And that was you, was it? Or our Babs?”
“That was me, what?” She ate a carrot.
“Who cleaned out the pantry.”
She laughed. “Have you only just noticed?”
“Christ, Freddy, who let her go?” Scott scuffed his son’s hair. “You come across a woman like Ros, you grab her with both hands, do you hear? You don’t let her go.”
“Oh, shucks you two. It’s nothing. I’m a tidier. I can’t help it.” She felt warm inside. She felt warm everywhere.
Scott put his knife and fork together.
Ros said, “will you have more?”
“I’m done. Come on Fred-Fred. Eat up. You can watch a bit of telly.”
Ros cleared the plates while Scott tucked Freddy up on a bean bag with the biscuit tin. She put the dishwasher on. He came back with a bottle of whisky. They both got their tobacco out. The sound of Power Rangers filtered in from the snug.
“Just a small one,” said Ros as Scott unscrewed the lid.
“A finger.” He gave her that devilish smile that made everything dirty. Ros looked away.
“Fuck,” he rubbed his face. “What a week. Sorry about last Friday. I was stuck in Alton with a client who kept changing his mind. There’s not a lot you can do if you’ve already cut the fucking tree down.”
The whisky was hot and dry in her throat. It made her head swim. “I was dealing with my ex all week. I wish I could cut him down.”
“Difficult, is he?”
Ros shook her head; her hair fell tousled across her face. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I don’t know the any of it. How long were you married?”
“Thirteen years, but the divorce took another two.”
She remembered his face when she’d said, I’m not leaving. I’ve nowhere to go and he’d said, you’ve done this to yourself Ros. It’s over. You’re going to have to deal with it.
“Was it you who left him?”
It was her who’d done the actual leaving. “We just came to the end of the road.”
“A woman like you. You’ll not be single for long, not round here. They’ll be queuing up.”
“I think I’m done for a while. All the good ones are taken.”
Scott put his feet up and waggled his toes. “You never know.”
“I still feel bruised.” She sipped her whisky. “And I worry Issy’s going to be like him. Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t talk about it. I mean with Fred.”
“Fred’s not here.”
“No, I mean, with Tessa having her illness, and Freddy.”
“It’s not catching.” He leaned toward her, turning his glass on the table, “was that what it was? Your ex? Was he not right in the head?”
Her father used to say that assumption was the mother of all fuckups, but Scott’s face had whisky-softened, and there was a light in his eyes as if a door had opened on another room. She bit her nail.
“Christ, Ros.” He leaned back and put his feet up again on Freddy’s chair. “All this time with me bleating on. You should have said.” Those crinkly green eyes looking right at her. “You know, I only call the police when she’s a danger to Fred. I can deal with no end of shit. I don’t care if she burns the fucking house down, but Fred,” he ran his hand through his hair. A stray pine needle fell to his shoulder, Ros had the urge to wipe it away. “People don’t understand. They think she should pull herself together, and I’m such a martyr for putting up with it, it’s so fucking hard to explain.”
She said, “I tried.”
“It doesn’t matter how hard you try.”
“I had to get the girls away.”
“It’s the most selfish illness there is.”
It’s probably not the same.”
“Sure.”
“I mean you and Tess love each other.”
“Sure, we do.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“We’ll see.”
She’d finished her whisky. “I better get going.”
Scott had been staring into space. He got up. “You all right to drive?”
What was the alternative? She didn’t want to think about it. “I’ll be fine. How’s she getting on?”
“Same.”
“Any news on when she’ll be out?”
He shook his head. She put on her coat, he held the door, she moved past him quickly, rushing for the cold night air as the cold night air rushed in. If she’d stopped, she was sure he would have kissed her.
"She wasn’t aware that a drip feed of neglect, a daily laceration of the missing can lead a faith to break, an omnipotence to be born, a mind to opt for fantasy, and a body to be so riddled with discomfort that to live amongst its screaming nerve-endings becomes a thing impossible."
Love this. One of the many sections shining a light on Ros, her internal workings, the moment-by-moment social adjustments.
The complexity of managing this truly unreliable narrator is something you handle so deftly. I’m in awe.