Again, Rachel, page 39
Sometimes I’m fine, meeting twenty new people in a pitch-dark room in a villa in Barcelona, when everyone else is crazy-drunk but I’m stone-cold sober and haven’t eaten in eight hours, while bothered by awful suspicions that six years earlier I relapsed into drug addiction and ruined my marriage. Fine.
But the language was a problem. Quin and I spoke almost no Italian and the fashion people, though smiley and charmingly affectionate, spoke no English.
‘I thought it would be just you and me,’ Quin said. ‘I didn’t know we’d have to socialize.’
‘We can pretend it’s just us,’ I said.
But they wouldn’t leave us alone. Two drag queens, both wearing platform ankle boots which looked like goats’ hooves, made a stab at a conversation. We established that the whole group was from a town called Messina and tonight was a birthday party for someone called Giuseppina. But it was hard work for the four of us, and eventually the duo said something to each other in Italian, along the lines of, Ah, fuck this, Vera, and went back to their friends.
‘I’m hungry,’ I said to Quin. ‘Scrap that. I’m hangry.’
‘Oh no,’ Quin muttered as two more fabulously attired fashion types materialized, grinning, from the gloom and the excruciating attempts at chat began again.
Quickly, though, they tired of us but our relief was short-lived, as two fresh ones showed up, black-toothed and garrulous from the wine.
‘They’ve done a rota.’ Quin looked as though the misery might kill him. Then both of us began to wheeze with laughter while attempting to apologize to the Italians.
For the next hour, new companions continued to join us every ten minutes, until they burnt out, and replacements popped up in their stead. In normal circumstances, I’d have said, ‘Hey, Quinster, I’m having the worst night of my life, can we cut our losses?’
But circumstances weren’t normal.
Eventually we were led into another room – just as dimly lit – for dinner. There was a scramble for places at a dark-wood table as long as a runway and Quin and I found ourselves shunted right down at the end. It was for the best.
It was no surprise that not a single one of the browbeaten waiters knew anything about my pre-ordered vegetarian meal. Quin, who was normally very good at complaining – calm but effective – was all set to weigh in but I sensed nothing good would come of it. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll just eat the non-meat bits.’
‘Or we could leave?’ he said.
‘No!’ Bailing early would stamp the evening as an Abject Failure and we needed some sort of a win.
The menu was delivered in loud Catalan by the maybe-Comte. The Italians seemed to understand but Quin and I hadn’t a clue and there was no written menu to translate. However, when the first course arrived, our new friends did their best to demonstrate. From their flapping, it seemed to be a bird.
‘Chicken?’ Quin was deep into Google translate. ‘Pollo?’
‘No, no, no!’ They did bombing motions.
‘A bird of prey? Seriously?’ Quin was looking up words on his phone. ‘Falco?’
‘No!’ some of them said, but just as many others exclaimed, ‘Sí!’
‘Aquila!’ a voice yelled from the gloom.
‘Aquila? Is that not Spanish for “grandmother”?’ I remembered it from watching Dora the Explorer with JJ.
‘That’s abuela,’ Quin said.
The others overheard this and took up the cry. ‘Abuela!’ they declared, pointing at their plates and laughing their heads off. ‘Abuela!’
God, this was hard. It was too dark to distinguish which bits on my plate weren’t meat, so it wasn’t safe to chance eating anything. Then Quin discovered that ‘aquila’ was Italian for ‘eagle’ so it was official that our new friends were laughing at us.
Next thing, two of the fabulous women opposite us began kissing each other, in a very ‘perform-y’ way. I turned to Quin. ‘I’m too hungry for this.’
‘Okay.’ He was already standing. ‘We’re off.’
Our departure triggered a riot of hugs and yelling and the whole place felt moments away from descending into an orgy. I felt sad and ashamed, a non-wine-drinking, non-eagle-eating, non-orgy-attending failure.
Quin and I didn’t speak until we were side by side in an Uber, halfway back to the hotel.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry.’ Then, ‘We can get room service. Or anything you’d like.’
‘Quick is all that matters.’
‘We’ll go to the marina. There are stalls there, they’d be fast.’
The car dropped us at the seafront, where we sat on a wall and had churros and hot chocolate from a stall. Because the night was once again breezy, Quin put his jacket around my shoulders, the way he had the previous night, but this time, neither of us mentioned our perfume.
72
‘… for an actual moment, I wondered if I was dead?’ Quin said, laughing. ‘If this was hell? Having the chats with friendly Italians for all eternity.’
After the churros on the marina wall, we’d slept heavily and had woken up in a better mood.
‘To me,’ I said, ‘it felt more like a zombie movie. The black teeth, the eyeliner … And as soon as we got free of one lot, another popped up in their place.’
‘Seriously, though.’ He rolled over in the bed and looked up at me. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘No way, Quin. It was a risk and this time it didn’t pan out. But if you play it safe all the time, nothing exciting happens.’
‘And playing it safe is the most dangerous thing a woman like you can do.’ He said that to me a lot. I loved it even though it wasn’t true, not even remotely.
‘So, this morning, the Gaudí house?’ I said. ‘And then the airport?’
‘And if we’ve time, I’d like to drop in on someone. There’s a man here, deals mostly in furniture, but he’s always got beautiful, interesting pieces, things with a story. I like going along, just to see what he has. You’d like it.’
‘Okay. Great.’
‘Oh my God, I’m in love,’ I said to Quin, turning in a circle in one of the rooms in Casa Batlló, letting the colours from the stained glass wash over me. ‘Like, he didn’t hold back, did he? Gaudí? Not a man for restraint? I’m getting my house redone soon as we get back. Make it wavy! All of it, the floors, everything!’
I was genuinely mad about this beautiful house but I was overdoing the delight. My unsettling memories from six years ago were casting a long shadow. Pushing back against it, desperate to reach baseline normal, was hard work.
Finally, I let myself admit that for a lot of this weekend I’d been impersonating my happiest, most carefree self. Because Quin deserved it. He’d put a lot of thought and effort – and money – into these few days.
But there were other reasons – I needed touchstones. Things being good with Quin mattered because it was proof that, Yara aside, my life had worked out. The facts were: I was clean today; I was good at my job; and I’d met a lovely man.
I smiled at Quin. ‘Is being in this house like being underwater?’ I asked.
‘Yeah!’ He was pleased with me. ‘See how the ceiling looks like a whirlpool? And the effect this glass has …’
‘You’re a great tour guide.’
The walls were curved, the windows were wavy, even the ceiling undulated. ‘There are no straight lines, are there? Not a single one.’ Laughing, I said to Quin, ‘I bet you hate it.’
‘It’s not how I’d do my home but I can appreciate it.’
‘Well, I’ – I grabbed him by the shirtfront and leant close – ‘am enchanted!’
His smile was wide, he seemed genuinely happy and my heart lifted, even if it didn’t get as high as it needed to reach.
Each room, right up to the roof, revealed new delights. The wall mosaics, the shapes of the doors, even the ventilation system was gorgeous. ‘This is a dream world,’ I declared.
When we reached the roof, I looked around, then asked, ‘What’s next?’
‘That’s it,’ Quin said. ‘You’ve seen it all.’
‘I have? Oh no!’ It was like a bubble bursting. This magical house had kept me cocooned from harsh reality. I wasn’t ready to return to my suspicions and fear. You relapsed, you ruined everything.
‘What time is it?’ I asked. ‘What?’ We’d been there for two and a half hours. ‘Oh, Quin, what about the man you want to see?’
‘Was worth it to see you happy. Anyway, there’s still time.’
‘Okay. So. Let’s go.’
As we walked, Quin made a call. ‘Mr Navabi? Nick Quinlivan here. We’re on our way, we’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’
‘You’ve to make an appointment? Go on, tell me about him.’
‘His name is Omid Navabi. From things he’s said, I think he’s from Iran. Sometimes his stuff is a bit wack but it’s always interesting.’
Down a narrow side street, at an anonymous door, we were buzzed in and went to the first floor. Mr Navabi was a handsome, suave, well-tailored twinkler. ‘Nicholas, my old friend, come in. And the famous Rachel, how are you enjoying the Minerva bracelet? I can offer you orxata? Vermut?’
The showroom was styled like an apartment straight out of Mad Men – no wonder Quin loved it here. There were Knoll sofas, a peekaboo coffee table, a modern piano in rosewood and lamps so gorgeous I wanted to buy them all.
A louche drinks cart featured a sleek rounded whiskey decanter and matching tumblers. Atop a sectional sideboard was a chrome-and-walnut cigarette dispenser.
On a wall of open shelving were all kinds of charming, probably useless things that you could only call objets: an old camera in a battered brown leather case; a Lucite Rolodex; vintage sunglasses; toy sports cars.
‘Look in the bedroom part.’ Quin pointed me to a space further along.
God, it was gorgeous – hand-tufted rugs, more beautiful lamps and a bed with a cartoonishly padded headboard. I opened the wardrobe to discover Pucci kaftans, a silver Courrèges coat, dresses from Biba and a stack of Hermès luggage.
‘All vintage,’ Quin was behind me. ‘Have you seen the jewellery? There on your right, on the dressing table.’
I looked – and gasped: there were bangles, pendants, earrings and cufflinks. All in precious metals and stones, winking and dazzling on a velvet backdrop.
‘And.’ A short pause followed. ‘There are rings.’
… The back of my neck prickled. God almighty, he wasn’t about to –? I turned to see him holding a large green ring towards me.
Panic surged. No, Quin, no, Quin, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Inadvertently, I’d stepped away from him – and only then did I notice his confusion.
‘What, Rach?’
His gaze moved from my stricken face to the ring in his hands. I watched understanding dawn on him. ‘Jesus.’ He sounded shocked. ‘Did you actually think …?’ In disbelief, he spluttered, ‘I wasn’t asking you to marry me, Rachel.’
‘Ah. One of my favourite pieces.’ Mr Navabi appeared. ‘Green tourmaline and diamond. A cocktail ring.’
‘A cocktail ring?’ I managed.
‘Worn for special occasions. I’m available if you need any information.’ Discreetly, he slipped away.
The ring was still in Quin’s hands. ‘So you’re certain you don’t want to marry me?’ His tone was sarky. ‘Quite certain, I’d say. Yeah, no room for doubt there.’
‘Quin. I’m sorry, I don’t know what …’
I’d hurt him terribly. I’d even managed to shock myself.
And we’d been doing so well.
We left for the airport, checked in, endured security, had a seventy-minute wait in the lounge and got on the plane, all without exchanging a word.
About two hours into the flight, Quin suddenly uttered, ‘I don’t know why you thought I was proposing.’
‘I don’t either.’ I genuinely hadn’t a clue. But what was clear was that, in that moment, the thought of a long-term commitment to him had been terrifying. So much so, I hadn’t been able to hide it.
‘If it had ever been on the cards,’ he said, ‘not that it was, you have my word that now it never will.’
‘Quin, I’m so sorry for hurting you. I don’t know what –’
‘I need you to stay at your own place tonight.’
‘Quin.’
‘I’ll drop you at mine,’ he said. ‘Your car is there.’
‘Quin –’
‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
I bit my lip and stayed silent. By now I thought I understood where my wild overreaction had originated. Quin and I had had a tense few days. He’d resented the soul-searching I’d been doing about my past, about Luke.
And I’d resented him for resenting it.
Our glamorous weekend had done heroic work trying to conceal the strain, but our mutual grievances had kept breaking the surface.
At Dublin Airport, we got into his jeep and drove, in silence. When we reached his house, he yanked my carry-on from the boot and clattered it to the ground. With an angry beep, he locked his car, then rattled his front door open and slammed it shut behind him – leaving me outside in the cool night.
Feeling sad and foolish, I hung around, hoping he’d return. I watched the lights go on inside his house, then watched them all go out again. When the last one disappeared, I had no choice but to go home, already worried about what tomorrow would bring.
Whatever it was, I sensed it was going to be bad.
73
And sure enough, at 6 a.m., when I jolted awake into heart-pounding anxiety, the truth finally caught up with me and landed intact: Luke had left me because I’d started using drugs again. Abusing. I’d plunged right back into addiction and become totally unreachable.
There was no more uncertainty, no more flip-flopping. The knowledge snapped into place, then clicked, turning on lights, flick, flick, flick, illuminating everything with a grand sweep.
Nothing had changed but everything was different.
The reality was there, hard and clear: as soon as I’d seen there was a chance of getting sleepers from Carlotta, I’d relapsed into addictive thinking, then addictive behaviour. In so deep I hadn’t even known I was in trouble.
No wonder he had left.
Not because he blamed me for Yara. Not because he’d stopped loving me. But because I was, once more, an active addict.
Now that I knew, it was laughably obvious – and yet, the shock was enormous.
What also landed was the understanding that, in a way, I’d always known I’d relapsed. It was as if, when I’d started abusing drugs again, a part of me had sliced itself off from the main track and run on a parallel path. I had worked very hard to ignore that phantom self but now and again, I’d catch a glimpse of it – a glimpse of me – almost keeping pace.
Now that I knew, it was hard to believe how I’d managed to blind myself.
But that was addiction, that was denial. There was nothing special about me. Day in, day out, I saw how hard addicts worked to hide their shame-filled behaviour from themselves. When they finally ran out of road and went careering smack-bang into the truth, it wasn’t that they remembered things they’d conveniently forgotten. They’d always known the facts, but some shift happened which recontextualized them.
I was no different.
I called Nola, who sounded as if she’d been expecting to hear from me. She said, ‘Come over when you finish for the day.’
Then I rang Quin but it went straight to message. I asked him to call me, then went to work – where I had to listen to Bronte describe my own delusions, almost word for word.
‘I thought it was fine to take the tablets,’ Bronte had said. ‘Because a doctor had prescribed them.’
‘But,’ I said, going through the motions as best I could, ‘as soon as you started, the craving for more and stronger would kick in?’
‘It did. I admit it.’
‘You had other options? You knew you had? And you still went for the dangerous one?’
‘Yes. Yes. And yes.’
‘But you’re educated,’ Trassa told Bronte. ‘You know French words and the names of Greek gods. You’d got free of heroin years earlier so why would you do something so stupid?’
‘Education makes no difference. I forgot I was an addict. No, that’s wrong, I decided to forget.’
‘Why, though?’ Poor Trassa was trying to understand. ‘If your life was good?’
‘But it wasn’t.’ She bit her lip. ‘Rachel was right. When Freya was … when Eden changed Freya’s plans, it felt as if I had no reason to live. I had managed to stay hopeful for a long, long time because I’d expected good things would come to pass.’
‘I don’t get it.’ Lowry was scornful. ‘Okay, you’re upset about your daughter and your horses but you’d kicked your habit. That’s a big deal. Why would you take drugs that would lead you back to smack?’
Bronte gave him a cool stare. ‘Because we addicts’ – she twirled a finger around the room, ending by pointing it at Lowry – ‘at our core, we want an excuse to relapse.’
‘Hold on now,’ Lowry piped up. ‘I’m not addicted to anything –’
‘There were two versions of me.’ Bronte cut across him. ‘The one who wanted to be well and one who wanted to disappear into the drugs again. There will always be two of me. No matter how many clean years I have, the addict in me is always waiting for its chance.’
‘That sounds desperate.’ Trassa was distressed. ‘I want to be able to stop.’
‘You can stop but addiction is never cured,’ Bronte said. ‘It’s just under control.’
‘Jesus, Rachel.’ Chalkie gave me a sly smile. ‘Is Bronte applying for your job?’
But I was in no mood for bants with Chalkie. Once again I was faced with the realization that, like Bronte, I had had other options: I could have taken Carlotta up on her offer of antidepressants that helped with sleep. But I’d known that they weren’t any fun.
