‘Oh, I do that,’ I say before I can stop myself.
‘Do you?’ Dinah peers at me.
‘Well, yes. One of my daughters is at art college, so she’s broke all the time and a bit scatty anyway. I know she basically survives on Pringles and beer. And my other daughter’s in London and it’s so expensive, so I send the odd parcel of treats—’
‘I don’t really see the need,’ Dinah interrupts as I realise I’ve committed the cardinal sin of going on about my kids to someone who – fair enough – has no interest in them. Best not to mention that I ordered Eddie that blind for his window, plus a new duvet cover andmatching pillowcases. She’d probably slap me down for that, forcaringabout my son. Instead, I start to calculate how soon I can possibly slip off to bed without seeming rude. Because now, as Dinah launches into a tirade about ‘overindulgent parents’, while Oliver regards her mutely, something hits me.
Eddie, and the way he is. I must have spoilt and mollycoddled him for things to have turned out this way. Bella has accused me of this – of treating him differently because he’s the boy. I’ve denied this strenuously, and honestly believed that she’d got it wrong. That if I fussed less over her and Ana, it was only because they were always fiercely independent. There was no choosing their outfits or packing their lunchboxes, even when they were little. The girls always wanted to do it for themselves and I had to back off.
Meanwhile, through his whole childhood, Eddie just seemed toneedme more. But actually, now I’m thinking Bella was right. And if I hadn’t run around after him, doing his laundry and burrowing under his bed for takeaway cartons and mugs growing fur, then maybe things would be different. Perhaps, if I’d been tougher, as delightful Dinah here is insinuating, then my son would have left home as a fully fledged adult, instead of only being oneon paper.And then he would’ve just gone for a few drinks with Calum and Raj and come home and unpacked this room and not made a baby!
I touch my clammy forehead. The cabin, which seemed so delightfully cosy when I arrived, now feels stuffy and oppressive, and I’m seized by an urge to escape. On top of this, all this talk of adult children reminds me that at anymoment, Suki might mention Lyla and Eddie’s supposedly rock-solid relationship. How would it go down, in present company, if I leapt up and announced, ‘I’m sorry to tell you but actually, they just had a drunken shag on a pile of coats!’
I won’t, of course. I’d no more destroy Suki’s illusion than go to Dinah for therapy. But now my reserves of politeness are running critically low, and although I’d love to know more about Dinah’s digestive troubles and Oliver’s beavers, I’m done for the night.
‘Is there another bottle of wine?’ Dinah asks Suki. ‘Did you open the good stuff I brought?’
Rather than the not-good-enough stuff Carly brought, is what I think she means.
‘I’ll get it.’ Suki springs up and fetches it from the fridge. She returns and goes around the room with the bottle.
‘Actually, that’s enough for me tonight,’ I say quickly.
‘Oh, are you sure?’
‘Yes. Thanks – and this has been lovely – but I think I’ll head through to bed.’ I get up and say goodnight, aware that ducking out of the fun at 10.40 is perhaps alittlerude, but fuck it. Oliver turns briefly from the fire he’s been poking at again, as if it needs constant attention, like a risotto.
‘Goodnight,’ he says.
I smile tightly and scurry through to my room, hoping that the several glasses of wine I’ve downed will knock me into unconsciousness the moment my head hits the pillow. Then, in the morning, I’ll make my excuses and leave.
I can’t face a whole weekend with this lot. I just can’t.
However, sleep won’t come, even when the voices dwindle and everyone seems to be heading to bed.
What shall I say in the morning? I’ll be ill! That’s the best thing. But I’ll need an illness that doesn’t have visible symptoms. What could that be? It comes to me as, tucked up in bed now, I glance through the window at those twinkling stars.
Sciatica! That’s it, I decide, as sleep folds over me in the silent room. I’ll have an attack of the sciatica that Frank tried to make me have at Suki’s club. And then I’ll be out of here.
Chapter Twenty-two
Kenny
Kenny loves his little flat. He’s never happier than sitting at the window, watching the birds and the gently bobbing boats. But he’s not loving it now as it seems as if the sea has somehow washed right through the glass and into his living room – because his entire body is drenched. And now a wave of nausea surges over him and he vomits, loudly and dramatically onto the carpet.
The sea hasn’t really burst into Kenny’s flat. It’s sweat that’s soaking his tartan pyjamas, and somehow he’s roasting and teeth-chatteringly cold, both at once. Kenny is an electrical engineer, a logical man who knows that this is impossible. Yet it’s happening right now. It’s as if his body’s internal systems have been rewired incorrectly and all he can do is sit there, shivering and gazing miserably at the dirty plate from his pilchards on toast, waiting for it to stop.
Kenny woke up an hour ago, at three-thirty a.m., feeling woozy and sick. Thinking it would help to walkaround a bit, he fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, even though he never drinks the stuff normally. That’s another thing Carly nags him about.Try to drink more, Dad!Kenny drinks plenty, he always tells her. Plenty of whisky and beer, at any rate.
Unsteadily, he gets to his feet and takes his plate and water glass to the kitchen, wincing at the terrible stench that’s coming, he realises, from the empty pilchards can sitting by the sink. Christ, that’s bad. He drops it into his bin, trying – and failing – not to get any of the saucy residue on his hands.
Maybe he just had his dinner too late. Normally, if Carly’s not coming over, he’ll have it done and dusted by five-thirty, all the better for a long, uninterrupted evening of jeering at the TV. But occasionally, like last night, he forgets.
He also had a fair few whiskies, come to think of it. One wee dram led to another, and it all went a bit hazy towards the end. Another wave of nausea surges through his body and he clings onto the sink for support. Cramps follow, gripping his torso and triggering a fresh bout of the sweats. Kenny lurches out of the kitchen and along the short hallway towards the bathroom where, just in time, he manages to yank down the tartan pyjama bottoms Maggie bought him in Woolworths’ closing down sale and collapse onto the lavatory, where terrible things happen from the other end.
What the hell’s going on?
Kenny sits on the loo for a few minutes, leaning forward with his sweat-dowsed head in his hands.
