“Wow, I’ve not worn these since…Oh, way back—before I was even married. Berty used to love them.”
“Charlie…”
Charlie could feel that inner voice trying to elbow its way into the room.You’re awful, you’re a piece of shit. Oliver is going to find out, and he’s going to stop caring about you, just like Berty did. Just like your parents did.
“These crystals on the straps! So adorably 2010. I probably wore these with a bandage dress.”
“Brianna says…She says you’re not OK, Charlie.”
Oliver stood and made his way through to the kitchen. Charlie’s heart began to hammer as he started searching through the cutlery drawer, then the cupboard of mugs.
“Oliver, stop it!” She grabbed his arm as he reached for the cupboard under the sink, but he shook her off and opened it.
He pulled out the cardboard box behind the cleaning products.
Charlie let out a sound so thick with shame it was almost animal—a whimper, a mew. With teeth-gritted force, she pulled herself together.
“That’s no big deal, Oliver! It’s just my backup box. It’s just where I keep spares.”
His expression was grim as he placed the box on the kitchen table and took off the lid.
Three half-empty bottles of spirits lay inside. Vodka, gin, whisky. She’d hated the taste of all three of them, once, but these days she wasn’t fussy.
—
When she had first begun the backup drinks box, Charlie had congratulated herself on her forethought. She was notorious for running out of alcohol—for running out of everything, actually. It had been a favorite inside joke with Fearne—whenever she came for dinner, she’d message beforehand to say,What’ve you not got enough of, then? Want me to pick up some milk? Bread? Eggs?
And running out of wine was the worst. The evening would just be getting started—they’d just be warming up. Who wanted to pop out in the rain to the corner shop then?
At first it had been two bottles of wine. A red, a white. Then she’d drunk those herself, on a couple of evenings when setting up the shop had been stressing her out and she’d needed something to help her relax. So she’d replaced them a few times, and then, when that had become tedious—she would still end up running out—she’d opted for gin. It was more space efficient.
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” Oliver said, closing his eyes. “You’ve been…Oh, God, I used to worry about you so much, but I never thought…The slurring, the forgetfulness, all the times you insisted on bringing coffee in your own thermos from home…”
Charlie would do almost anything to escape from this conversation. She stared at the kitchen window, contemplating jumping from it.
“It’s my fault,” Oliver said, sitting down unsteadily. “I should have noticed. Of all people, I should have noticed. But I’ve been drinking too much, too, since Fearne died, probably even before then, really, and I just…I’m so sorry, Charlie. I let you down.”
Charlie leaned forward on the table, looking at the backup box. Her heart seemed to be beating behind her eyes, a pulsing, awful thump. She’d had a drink already today. There was a backup box at the shop, too.
She was not surprised that Oliver hadn’t noticed her drinking—she was extremely good at hiding it. In fact, much of the time, even she could go about her day without looking directly at it. It took a lot of mental effort, but it was possible.
Oh, God, she thought, and there was the voice, the one that came to her at three a.m., when the night stripped her bare and she could not hide from herself.You’re a disgusting addict. You’re useless, you’re worthless. No wonder nobody wants you.
You’re an alcoholic. You have to stop drinking.
“It’s OK, Charlie,” Oliver whispered.
She began to cry.
Berty had said it, too, when he’d left her.I don’t know what else to do, Charlie, he’d said, as he’d packed up his suitcase, face red with crying.I’m so sorry. But you’re an alcoholic. And I can’t be with you unless you stop drinking.
Oliver, by contrast, had made it so easy. His friends from the downhill-racing scene were fun—thrill-seekers and adrenaline junkies—and her drinking seemed tame in his context; he was chill, flexible, had always been happy to stay at his place if she wanted him gone. He also, crucially, did not know her the way Berty did, so the drinking had been much easier to hide.
She’d thought that was why the universe gave him to her—to make life easier, softer, more fun. But as she slowly lowered herselfdown into the chair opposite and looked into those gray-blue eyes, with the crinkles at the corners, the thought occurred that perhaps the universe had brought Oliver to her forthismoment. The moment when more than anything she needed a kind friend who knew what it was like to be ashamed and miserable.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, laying her head on her forearms. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing? Charlie, shh, it’s OK.”
