Wow.Every unfolding idea illuminates just how far down this pit I have crashed.
‘I should probably just go home and have an early night,’ I say, only for the two bottles of chilled wine in my fridge to spring to mind. Yes.And I was still considering going to the bottle shop?I wouldn’t have drunk all of that in one night.Would I?But if my supply gets too low, I feel anxious. Now I’m wondering how I allowed it to spiral this far without admitting to myself that I have a problem. And when I started referring to it as my ‘supply’.
‘It would be really positive if you could go through this night, after your first meeting, sober,’ Ali says.
I agree. It would be. The idea of failing so fast is almost as worrisome as the concept of no wine. It would unleash a massive tumbling into an abyss from which I couldn’t claw my way out.Is this the ‘slippery slope’ everyone talks about, or has that been overtaken by events?
‘The way you’ll feel in the morning will be worth it,’ Ali adds. ‘I’d be happy to keep you company.’ I’m meant to call Rach fora lift, but maybe I should spend some time with someone who really gets this, from experience.
‘I’ve got two bottles of wine at home,’ I blurt out. I don’t mean for it to sound like an invitation. If it was, two bottles for two people wouldn’t be enough. ‘It’s not far from here, and I know we just met, but would you come with me and hold me accountable while I tip them down the sink? I’ll cook you dinner?’
She takes my arm the way characters do in Enid Blyton novels when they’re about to skip to the shops and purchase cakes and sweets. Except what we’re doing is the opposite of Enid Blyton. It’s dark. It’s terrifying. I can feel myself sweating and shaking at the mere thought of trying to get through even one evening without that magical softening of the edges.
‘It’s just tonight,’ Ali assures me.
Itisn’tjust tonight, but I can see why tonight is all that we have to handle right now.
‘Audrey, you can still have a beautiful life,’ she promises as she unlocks her car. ‘This is the start. Not the end.’
THE START (AGAIN)
34
Three years on
AUDREY
‘This is why they say not to make major decisions!’
Even the torrential rain pounding on my Jeep’s soft-top won’t drown out theI told you soin Sara’s voice.
‘You’re not meant to make major decisions in thefirstyear,’ I remind her. ‘Pretty sure I’m off the leash in the third.’
‘But what made you think you could reverse a caravan without crashing into anything?’
‘It wasn’tanything.’ Gallows humour has always been my go-to when things are dire. ‘It was a RAM ute bigger than Miss Bennet!’
Miss Bennet is my vintage caravan, bought on a whim from Facebook Marketplace. She belongs to the broad-spectrum whim that also saw me quit the public service job that I had been trundling along with quite nicely and sell almost everything I own without consulting my hyper-cautious older sibling, hence the latest in her lifelong lecture series.
‘How did the owner take it?’ she probes, nervously.
I glance at the obnoxious gunmetal-grey caravan towering beside me. It’s one of those off-road behemoths, built to conquer raging rivers in the wilderness.Outback Viperis emblazoned threateningly along the side in blood-red lightning font.
‘I’m sure he’ll be reasonable?’ Really, I’m certain of nothing of the sort. I catch sight of my own caravan in the mirror—the type you’d hire out as an Instagram prop for weddings. A delicate little thing in white and Tiffany blue.
‘What are the precise coordinates of this camping ground?’ Sara demands. ‘Drop a pin!’
Just as I’m cursing the hat trick of bad luck that led me to become Sara’s opposite in every way—fiscally irresponsible, wildly romantic, hopeless at parking—the behemoth’s door flings wide open, spilling golden light through sheets of rain.
The Viper presents himself. A villainous silhouette in black jeans and a Tshirt, with unkempt dark hair and tattoos—definitely capable of digging the hole he might need to bury whoever dented his ute.Why couldn’t I have crashed into the vehicle of some bespectacled computer nerd?
I watch as he processes the news that Miss Bennet’s rear is wedged tight against the nose of his prize rig. ‘He looks furious,’ I whisper to Sara. At least,Iwould be furious if this situation were reversed. ‘He’s coming over.’
I end the call and throw my phone into the centre console as I try to scramble my face into something approachable and apologetic, something that says bothMea culpaandPlease don’t murder me. ‘I’m so sorry!’ I gush, clambering out of the Jeep and into the rain. ‘I’m new to this.’
I mean that I’m new to reversing caravans. In truth, I’m new to a lot more than that, but this guy doesn’t need a play-by-play of the whole saga of the last three years.Stick to the crisis at hand.
He ignores me, walks to the back, gives both my caravan and his ute a powerful shove, and gets on his haunches to assess the damage. I trot behind, peer over his shoulder, and, in the manner of a panel-beating apprentice, say, ‘Any closer andthe two vehicles would have successfully cycled through the entire welding process.’
