‘I see,’ Dad says, not taking his eyes off me.
‘I need some sleep,’ I mumble, standing up. I say goodnight and go upstairs. It’s not late, but even so, I drop into bed like a stone once I’ve done my teeth.
My eyes are burning as I scroll through my phone. My latest BookTok recommendation has gone surprisingly viral. I roll onto my side to read the comments. I’ve been experimenting with using short dialogues between the characters as a way of sketching out the plot, and it seems to be going down well. I scroll through myFor Youpage for a bit, then switch to WhatsApp. Sinclair’s online but our chat’s been dead for days now. And so’s mine with Val – and I never did tell him I was coming home for the weekend. He’s probably in the Dungeon right now, waiting for me to turn up. I’m about to message him when a text pops in from Florence. I’m frowning as I open it. She’s never messaged me outside our year-group chat before.
F:Hi Tori, missed you after class today and Emma said you’d gone home. Sinclair suggested asking you aboutthe scriptwriting club because we really need new people. Especially now he’s dropped out. So yeah, I thought I’d ask if you feel like joining. We’d love to have you.
I read the message three times, but, surprisingly, the words don’t change. Does that mean Sinclair’s not in the scriptwriting club now? So that he and Eleanor Attenborough can rehearse together in peace? And now they want me behind the scenes, tinkering about with their love story? What could possibly be nicer?
I toss my phone aside and bury my face in my hands.
Am I jealous? Is that it? And if I am, of what? I’m dating Valentine. There’s no reason for me to feel crap just because my friend might have a chance with the person he fancies. I should be supportive and give him advice on winning Eleanor over. But I can’t. All I feel is this grim helplessness when I remember the way everyone clapped them both. Because Sinclair made such an unusual Romeo, and Eleanor’s so perfect and self-assured.
Eleanor and Sinclair. My thoughts are toxic and I want this to stop. Why did he even audition? What even was that? He was dying to work on the script, but suddenly he wants to be on stage himself? Was it just for her sake?
God, it’s all so stupid.
I don’t know when I nodded off, but at some point, I wake with a start and a head that weighs a ton. The mattress sags with a creak as a body lies down next to me.
‘There you are, lovey.’
What the . . .? My tongue feels furry with too little sleep. ‘Mum?’
‘How are you? Is everything OK? I wanted to be back earlier, but it got rather late, so . . .’
I smell the alcohol on her breath and my stomach ties in knots. My bedside lamp comes on now that I’ve finally found theswitch. I screw up my eyes. ‘Mum, what’s the time?’ My voice is husky.
‘I’ve missed you so much, Tori. You and your brother, you’re hardly ever here.’
‘It’s only been a week, Mum,’ I point out. ‘But we’re here now.’
‘Thank God.’ She sinks down beside me. ‘It’s horrible without you, the house is too big . . .’
‘Charlotte, let her sleep.’
I raise my head. Dad’s standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, and memories wash over me. Dad putting my drunken mother to bed. Quiet, discreet. My younger self standing in the bedroom door, not daring to breathe so that Dad won’t notice I can see them.
‘I just wanted to say hello,’ Mum slurs.
I force myself to smile, but my heart is numb.
‘Well, you’ve done that now,’ says Dad. Mum does actually get up as he comes closer. She’s swaying slightly. ‘And we’ll say hello to William in the morning. He was very tired earlier.’ Dad’s eyes meet mine as he leads her out.
I sit on my bed, listening to their fading footsteps. So it wasn’t just a one-off last week with the Wards. It’s a long time since she’s been as drunk as she was just now. At least while Will and I have been here. I hear Dad’s muffled voice from their bedroom and don’t move.
I wait, the way I’ve always waited, for Dad to come back to me. With every minute that goes past, the irrational fear grows inside me that this time he might not.
I hold my breath as I hear the floorboards creak. Dad leaves my door ajar as he comes in.
‘Are you OK, pet?’ His soft voice is heavy with disillusionment. But he still tries to smile, just to reassure me, which finishes me off.
‘Yeah,’ I whisper. And then I ask, even though it’s obvious, ‘She’s drinking again?’
‘It was Theresa’s birthday,’ says Dad, and it’s awful. Co-dependency. Finding excuses that make it more bearable somehow. The last therapist explained that to us, just before Dad threatened her with divorce and getting custody of us, to make Mum finally go to that clinic. Back then, I hadn’t understood it can’t work that way. That she has to want it for herself. To dry out. Far away in my idyllic boarding school, it was all too easy to forget that my mother isn’t some invincible heroine in shining armour.
I nod in silence. It was naïve to think she’d recovered. That things could never get this bad again. There were signs, but I ignored them because otherwise it’s unbearable. Dad’s evasive answers on the phone, the times he said Mum was stillout. The way she acted at the Wards, the moment I saw her with a glass in hand again.
‘Don’t you worry, OK?’ Dad says. ‘Sleep well, love.’
