The Drunk
I was fuming when I woke up the next morning. Anthony was fast asleep on his back. I got up and scowled at him. His drunken words before dropping off to sleep annoyed the hell out of me and only served to rake up the grief of losing our baby and the turmoil I’d been in before Christmas all over again.
I closed the door very loudly as I left the bedroom, clomping down the stairs like an enraged teenager. I crashed and banged my way around the kitchen as I made coffee.
Anthony eventually woke from a booze-induced sleep as if nothing happened, not bothering to back up what he’d said with an apology. I wasn’t convinced he’d forgotten. Besides, I was a firm believer that anything said in a drunken state always stemmed from something you think or feel when sober.
‘Morning,’ he groaned when he entered the kitchen. I gave him a curt reply. He didn’t take the bait.
The toast popped out of the toaster. I put butter and jam on both slices and put them on the one plate. Usually we had one slice each while one or the other of us put a second round in the toaster. Anthony didn’t make a comment about me hogging both slices; he just poured himself a coffee and sat at the kitchen table eyeing up my toast. Each slice was loaded with extra butter and a double helping of jam. I sat and ate it all as if it was the best breakfast imaginable, just daring him to ask if he could have a slice.
Nothing.
After I’d nearly gagged on all that butter and jam, licking my fingers to ham up my joy, he simply said, ‘Hungry?’
With steam coming out of my ears I nodded in the affirmative. Anthony picked up his coffee cup, frowned against the light, and slurped away. His slurp followed by the smack of the lips and a loud “Aah” sound set my teeth on edge. I stared hard at him but he was looking out of the window, still wincing in the spring morning light. He didn’t notice the pounding veins on the sides of my head. I was itching for a fight.
After a while Anthony got up and kissed my cheek. His face was prickly and unshaven. Usually I liked the ruggedness of his unshaven face against mine but that morning I brushed at my cheek as if I’d just been stung by a bee.
‘Sorry,’ he said rubbing his chin. ‘I’m going up for a shave. I’m a bit late.’
He left the kitchen without mentioning the night before. A brief fantasy of me aiming the jam jar at the back of his smug head like a shot put flashed through my mind as he waltzed out of the kitchen without a care in the world.
When I stormed out of the house to go to work I was cursing Anthony while thinking about Anya’s announcement. I hoped she wouldn’t phone while I was that upset.
I suppose you could say I was angry with the world when I slammed the front door and began stomping down the road thinking, “Woe betide anyone who pisses me off.”
At that time of the morning the buses and tubes would be packed and the journey a very long one. Lots of opportunity for me to lose it with someone. So that I wouldn’t actually have to punish anyone who crossed me, and because I couldn’t think of a suitable punishment for anyone who did, I tried practising the Yogic breathing Mother had taught me.
By the time I got into the office I’d avoided having a stroke, a fit, or a bare-knuckle fight. I was a lot calmer. I’d taken deep breaths and tried to pull it together. Before reaching the office I’d made a pact with myself to stay bright and breezy, no matter what. I’d channel all that negativity away and try to stay positive at work. As I stepped into the marble hallway I thought of calm blue seas and skipping through daisy-filled meadows.
I carried on like that as best I could for days and days. The wedding trip was approaching and I was like a bear with a sore head – on the inside – but the perfect angel on the outside. I smiled and got on with my work while battling with my feelings: a bubbling volcano, waiting to erupt.
I couldn’t call my best friend and tell her all about it because she was one of the biggest reasons why I was that mad and upset. All that rage clouded the deep-down pangs of guilt I was also having. As Anya’s best friend, I was the one who should be there for her.
As for Anthony, the lead-up to the wedding was nothing but fabulous for him. He was having a fantastic time within his art world bubble. He was away from home a few times because of his commitments to give talks. He’d had his Brussels exhibition photographed for a feature in an obscure, but well-regarded magazine. The Times Sunday Supplement were also talking to him about an interview.
I didn’t want to rain on his parade. Why would I? Rather than call him out about how hurtful he’d been on the night he was drunk, I kept a lid on the volcano within and hoped it would stop bubbling. I wanted and was waiting for that happy-ever-after moment, that time when every problem, fight, or disagreement we ever had could be forgotten and everything would be wonderful again.
Anthony didn’t even remember our plan to have a romantic break after the rebranding and his art exhibition. I didn’t think much about it either. How could I be romantic with all that anger brewing inside me? We were nowhere near a happy-ever-after. The reality was day after day of strained conversations. That was coupled with the growing gap in my life not seeing Anya was causing. And yes I know it was common for months to go by before I could see Anya, given the nature of her work, but at least we’d been speaking.
Anya hadn’t called me in weeks and I hadn’t called her either. The longer it went on the harder it became to just pick up the phone and dial her number. In many respects I dreaded calling her because I didn’t want her telling me she’d gone through with it, done the deed, got rid of the baby. You see with each passing day, the thought of her abortion felt like a blow to my tummy, raking up my loss. Yet I didn’t want to lose Anya. I longed for the day I would talk to her again, ask her to forgive me and be my friend. I just wasn’t big enough to reach out.
***
One afternoon, just a few weeks before the wedding, I popped in to reception to talk to Riley. I found her with her feet up on the desk, sipping Diet Coke and reading a magazine.
‘Hey, chief,’ she said, pulling her feet off the desk. ‘Just catching up on the celebrity goss.’
‘So I see.’ I sat on her desk. ‘Who’s been sleeping with whom?’
‘Everyone’s at it. But, hey, I see your friend has made the columns again.’
‘My friend?’
‘Anya Stankovic.’ Riley turned back a page and lay the magazine out. ‘Here she is, out doing coffee with some model girls. And an actor. I know I’ve seen him in something but I can’t remember what.’
I was only half listening to Riley. My eyes were standing out on stalks as I looked at the photograph, taken at one of the outside tables of a coffee shop Anya and I used to frequent. And if that wasn’t bad enough, plopped on a chair next to Anya was a Michael Kors handbag with the nose and ears of a tiny, yappity dog popping out of the top. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, Anya was smiling. Smiling for photographs gives you lines and wrinkles, she always said, especially when you have to hold the pose. Therefore, she only smiled when she was on an official shoot and getting paid to get lines and wrinkles.
The alternative scenario would be that Anya didn’t know the picture was being taken. That being the case – what was with all the smiling? I could only assume that Anya had found another best friend in one of those model types and was having a wonderful time. And why the dog? Anya and I had sat and drawn up a list of celebrities we would like to have whacked by the Mafia because of their handbag dogs. We hated handbag dogs. For one thing they were out of fashion and when on earth did Anya start buying Michael Kors?
I rewound my eyes into my head. So that was it, was it? Anya had become someone I no longer recognized with model and actor friends, her most detested forms of company.
Well if she had forgotten about her no small dogs rule, her no smiling rule and – apparently – me, then I would forget about pining for our friendship. I’d go out and find some new friends.
‘Love that dress she’s wearing,’ Riley was saying.
‘It’s Dior.’ I got up and went to the door, forgetting that I’d only come to see Riley to get out of my own headspace for a while.
‘Cool,’ said Riley. ‘She’s so glamorous. They look like they’re having a great time.’
‘I know.’ I hovered by the door for a second. ‘Er, Riley, what are you up to this evening?’
‘I’m meeting Jimmy’s parents can you believe?’ She looked up, excited, auburn bunches swinging at each ear.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s nice. Nervous?’
‘Not really, no, but Jimmy’s a complete wreck. God knows what he’ll be like when my folks come to town.’
She had a bright smile. I tried to smile back, trying to hide my disappointment that she was not available for a drink after work.
Back in my office I called Anthony to see if he could meet me.
‘I can’t, Magenta,’ he said sounding rushed. ‘I’m so sorry. I told you Slater’s are putting the exhibition back up again. I’ve sold a few in Manchester so I’m having to rethink the whole layout of my paintings. You know? So the themes make sense?’
‘And that takes all evening?’
‘Well not all evening, but I can’t speak to the curator at Slater’s until he’s out of a meeting. He’s not in London but he’s due back in the next hour or so. I have to discuss it before he leaves for his holiday. Bit chaotic here at the moment.’
‘So when does the exhibition come back to Slater’s?’
‘Few days.’
‘Well, okay, I’ll see you later, then,’ I said and hung up the phone.
‘I’m off now,’ said Riley, putting her head around the door.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I waved to her.
‘Oh, and Magenta, I was wondering what you were doing tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘There’s a place not far from here that does a good selection of spirits. I know how you like your whisky. They have live music sometimes.’
Why was I getting a feeling that Riley was feeling sorry for me? Maybe because she was. I was a sad case with no best friend and a boyfriend who was too busy to go out with me.
‘I’ll probably go out with Anthony tomorrow night,’ I said but I wasn’t holding out much hope of that.
Riley left with a swish of her bunches and I was feeling lonely.
I wasn’t thrilled by the idea of going home to an empty house so decided I’d pop in somewhere on my way home for a drink.
Having said that, the last time I went out drinking on my own I was a carefree teenager who turned up at a bar where I’d most likely know everyone, anyway, so that really didn’t count. In those days I’d flounce into a bar and very soon some girl in a red chiffon dress would have invited us all back to her father’s penthouse flat in Knightsbridge to do shots.
Now, at a grown-up thirty, I only ever went to bars occasionally with Anya or Anthony. But as I was pissed off with the pair of them I wanted to prove to myself I could still do it. I didn’t need them.
Leaving the Mayfair office, I headed towards Park Lane, passing several hotels in which there’d be a bar of some description. I was just on the verge of chickening out when I decided to take the plunge. The Moran Hotel had a reasonable enough bar on the lower ground floor. I’d been to it with Anthony once or twice. It would do.
The reception area of the hotel was bright and inviting. The man on the front desk nodded and smiled at me as I confidently made my way across the foyer towards the back of the hotel, down a few steps and into a dimly lit bar. Someone in their wisdom was going for atmosphere but it was too much on the dark side and therefore a little seedy for my liking. Especially since I was on my own. I started having doubts but as the barman was giving me a winning grin, I thought just the one drink would be enough to prove I still had it and that I could be happy in my own company.
I sat on a barstool with confidence, plopping my jacket and bag over the backrest. There was no one else sitting at the bar but I noticed I’d sat next to an unfinished drink. Before I could change stools, the owner of the drink returned and the barman leaned across to ask what I’d like to have.
‘A glass of Prosecco, please,’ I said.
The barman looked at the man who had just occupied the seat beside me. His rosy cheeks told me he’d had one or two too many. He gestured to the barman.
‘It’s on me,’ he slurred, nodding his head. ‘Put it on my tab, would you?’ He winked at the barman.
‘You really don’t have to,’ I said holding up a hand. I shouldn’t engage.
‘My birthday,’ he said. ‘I insist.’
The drunk took off his glasses and squinted at me as he began to wipe the lenses with a crumpled tissue from his pocket. I noticed his hands were shaking. The barman placed my glass down. Completely regretting my decision to walk into a bar alone, I thought I should knock back the Prosecco in one gulp and run for the door.
Just then a man in his late seventies came into the bar with a woman of a similar age. I sighed with relief. I was no longer alone with a drunk. The barman went to serve them.
‘You really didn’t have to pay for this,’ I said taking a large sip.
‘It’s the least I could do,’ my drinking partner said. ‘I mean I’m not sure what I should do in these sorts of circumstances.’
Was he so naive he imagined that any woman at a bar on her own had to have her drinks paid for by the nearest available man? Oh well. Who was I to complain? I’d done it. I’d proved to myself that I didn’t need anyone to accompany me on a night out.
I took a few more hasty sips and noticed the drunk staring at me. I sipped some more but began to feel rude for ignoring him.
‘You work locally?’ I asked. Another big sip.
‘In Marble Arch. And you?’
‘I’m nearby.’
‘Okay, right. I see. I suppose you get around though?’ he said, suppressing a hiccup.
‘You could say that. But Paris is the furthest I’ve been, lately.’
‘You really are in demand, aren’t you?’
‘Well I’m doing all right,’ I agreed. ‘The nicest thing about my work is that every day is different.’
‘How many clients would you have in an average day?’ he asked, leaning towards me. I backed away.
‘Oh that varies,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I’ll have just the one. Other days the phone just doesn’t stop ringing.’
‘Goodness me.’ He loosened his collar. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you really don’t look like the type.’
‘You mean I don’t look like a hardworking woman? Well, everyone wants to just kick back and have a life of leisure but in the end we’ve got bills to pay, right?’
‘I get that.’
‘Well I’m no different,’ I continued. ‘A lot of people get the wrong impression about me. I suppose because of the way I dress, the places I go. They don’t imagine that behind all that, a lot of work went into getting to where I am now.’ Too familiar perhaps?
‘I don’t mean to pry,’ he said. ‘I was just curious to understand how a girl gets into this kind of thing. That’s all. But we could talk about something else.’
It was a big mistake to have started chatting to a drunk in a bar. I noticed he was getting awfully close and eyeing me up in a somewhat lascivious way. I picked up my glass and knocked back the rest of my drink and slid off the barstool. I turned to say a brief goodbye only to find he’d sprung off his stool and was putting his jacket on. Maybe if he was leaving I should give him five or so minutes, wait until he was well and truly gone, and then head home. But he didn’t leave.
‘Should we?’ he asked me.
‘Um, I’m not quite done,’ I said. I sat back down. ‘Thought I’d have another. But you can go,’ I said, quickly.
‘Well do I just meet you up there or what?’ He looked puzzled. But not as puzzled as I was. Did he mistake me for someone else? Is that why he bought me a drink? I felt like a fraud and wished I hadn’t guzzled the whole glass already.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘If you want to go then be my guest.’
‘No, if you’re staying for another drink then I should get it.’ He whipped his jacket off and sat beside me, this time scooping his stool a little closer.
‘I don’t want to keep you,’ I said.
‘Well there’s not an awful lot I can do on my own; surely that’s the point.’ He laughed and I noticed his hand shaking again as he went to loosen his already loose tie. ‘Oh, um, my name is Andy, by the way. Not sure if you knew that already. You don’t mind … if I get comfortable?’ he said.
‘Help yourself,’ I said, looking around to make sure there were still people in the bar. I was slowly suspecting that I was having a drink with an axe murderer. Or maybe strangulation was his thing. The way he kept fidgeting with his tie. Whatever he was into I needed to make a quick getaway. Just as I went to slip off my stool, I felt his hand on my thigh. I gasped and looked at him in shock.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I asked him. He moved his hand as quick as a flash, holding both hands up.
‘You have to forgive me,’ he spluttered. ‘They just told me, get her a drink and then take it from there.’
I looked all around the bar. I thought I’d see cameras. I was being pranked, surely?
‘Wait. What?’ I demanded. ‘Who told you to buy me a drink?’ I stood up.
‘The lads in the office. PJC Communications? Kevin Sawyer or Danny Mooreton would have spoken to you.’
‘Spoken to me? About what?’
His face went several shades lighter than pale.
‘I-I think there’s been a bit of a mistake,’ he said. ‘I’m so, so sorry. See those two, Kevin and Danny, they hired me a …’ He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. ‘An escort. It was supposed to be my birthday treat. I was supposed to meet her here at seven, then you walked in and I thought …’
‘You thought I was an escort?’ I stage whispered back in horror.
The drunk shrugged his shoulders.
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me I look like a drug dealer too?’
He studied me with a furrowed brow, looking at me from head to toe. I wanted to punch him.
‘Don’t answer that,’ I shouted.
I hooked my bag over my shoulder and began to wrestle my jacket on over it. Realizing what I was doing I pulled off the jacket and unhooked my bag from my shoulder. I tried the jacket again, only this time I was putting it on inside out.
‘Damn it!’ I said.
‘Here, let me help you,’ said the drunk.
I wriggled away from him.
‘Get off me. You thought I was a …’ I stopped myself when I noticed a woman of colour walk into the bar. She wore a slinky black dress. She strode over to the bar and asked the barman if Andy Donovan was in yet.
‘That’s me,’ said the drunk who now had my jacket in his hand. I grabbed a sleeve, stopped, and looked from him to the woman who’d just asked after him.
‘You see I told them I wanted to do it with a black girl,’ he said, sounding quite sober now. ‘So I just thought that …’
‘Unbelievable,’ I said, finally getting purchase on my jacket and hearing a ripping sound as I tugged it from him. I stormed out of the bar. The man on reception called out a hearty “good evening,” but I ignored him, yanking open the heavy door and almost dislocating my damned shoulder.
There was nothing good about my evening. I wished I could call Anya and tell her what happened. Ordinarily I would have called her straight away. She’d either be livid and offer to take a hit out on him (“I know people,” she would say), or it might have given her something to rib me about for weeks to come.
It was taking an awfully long time for me to calm down despite the cool air on my hot cheeks. I managed to get my act together enough to put my jacket on properly and noticed a bus heading for Green Park Station coming my way. I hopped on board, took a seat, and replayed the scenes in my mind. I was still a little hot with anger but was aware of how much my emotions contrasted with the eerily quiet spring evening. The whole of the West End seemed to have lulled itself to sleep.
There were few people on the bus and the tube carriage was as empty. I sat feeling like a failure, an ego as crumpled as the Metro magazine in the empty seat opposite me, pouting all the way to Hammersmith where I waited for the bus to the King’s Road. All I had to look forward to was an empty house.
I got off the bus a few stops early, hoping to find somewhere to buy some junk food to drown my sorrows.
I stopped at the Tesco Metro and bought a greasy-looking pie from the hot counter. There wasn’t that much choice at that time of night. I grabbed a bottle of Snapple and thought I’d eat on the way.
As I got closer to home I could smell the enticing aromas coming from the new Aztec diner Anthony and I had yet to try. I looked disappointedly at my greasy pie, containing nondescript foodstuff, minced, making it difficult to attribute an early coronary attack to any one ingredient. I gazed into shop windows as I ambled along, stopping outside Veronique’s for refuge against my washed-out night of solo drinking.
Peering in I noticed that there were very few shoes lining the shelves and that the gloves and handbags had all but disappeared. I wondered if it was a sign that Veronique was going out of business. Anthony had once joked that I should go in and speak to the owner about updating her lines and possibly diversifying to bring in new business. I’d thought about it often, in fact every time I went by on my way to the bus stop and saw Veronique (if that was her actual name) looking eagerly at the door for it to open. But it looked as if the idea of updating the business was far too late for Veronique.
I couldn’t pull away from Veronique’s. My head was almost touching the window. I think I was looking for a sign that the shop wasn’t going out of business because it would have been a shame if it were. I caught my reflection, greasy pie wrapper in one hand and bottle of Snapple in the other. It reminded me of the opening scene of Breakfast at Tiffany’s when Audrey Hepburn stares longingly into the windows of Tiffany & Co while eating a croissant and sipping coffee.
Seconds later I realized I couldn’t possibly be Audrey Hepburn. She was pristine in Givenchy, not a croissant crumb in sight, yet I had dropped a splurge of greasy mince onto my jacket.
‘What a night I’m having,’ I said, dropping the oily supper into a nearby bin. With one last glance over my shoulder at Veronique’s, I turned away and headed home.