Again, Rachel, page 9
‘So why are you here?’
‘I thought if I came in for a few weeks, they’d stop freaking out.’
‘Riiiight. So you’ve come here to prove you’re not an addict?’ I could play good cop now and again.
She met my eyes. ‘And I know how that sounds too. But they were on my case so much it just seemed easier to give in.’
They never stopped amazing me, my clients. They could convince themselves that day was night, in order to keep on using. Now and again reality might break through but in most cases, they truly believed they could justify drinking or taking tablets or placing bets or making that booty call. Reasonable people, intelligent people, educated people – it made no difference. Addiction was the wave that washed away facts, common sense, kindness, everything good.
‘Okay. So I’d like you to start writing your life story,’ I passed her a printout. ‘This is a template. As you can see, we’d like particular emphasis on your relationship with drugs.’
‘But I’m not a –’
‘But do it anyway.’
‘Sure!’ She was so perky and positive. ‘Why not?’
‘You can head back to the dining hall and I’ll see you in group in fifteen minutes.’
No sooner had I secured the best seat in the Abbot’s Quarter than Ella tumbled in, commandeered by Giles. No surprise there, he womanized as automatically as breathing.
Singling out my wonky-legged chair from Wednesday morning, he instructed Ella, ‘Avoid that seat at all costs. And that one too. This is fine, though.’
Almost as soon as she was seated, Dennis barrelled through the doorway. Here less than a week, he already had ‘his’ chair; he stopped short at the sight of Ella sitting in it. Ella – keenly attuned to the moods of others – sprang up. ‘Sorry! Is this your spot?’
Dennis, with his bone-deep need to be loved, declared, ‘Not at all, not at all,’ somehow managing to convey that yes, it most certainly was his chair, but he was such an extraordinarily decent skin that he’d let her have it and welcome.
‘Sit down, sit down, sit down.’ He waved and, with a shy, ‘Thanks,’ she did.
Next to arrive was Chalkie, then Harlie – and the energy in the room changed. She and Ella assessed each other and some vibe flashed between them. It was obvious that Harlie thought Ella, with her freckles and wayward, natural hair, was pathetic. And Ella thought Harlie, with her hair extensions and elaborate make-up, was ridiculous.
It was instant mutual hate.
‘Ella,’ I opened with, ‘can you introduce yourself?’
‘Mmm, yeah, I’m … My name is Ella, from Waterford originally, live in Dublin now and I’m mummy to the best cat in the world.’
‘Any dogs?’ Dennis asked. ‘I’ve a lot of respect for cats, but … do you ever think your fella is judging you? A dog wouldn’t care what you did but a cat –’
‘Not at all. Mooch is gas, he –’
‘Jeeeeezus,’ Harlie hissed.
‘Excuse me?’ Ella’s tone was sharp – which made Chalkie smile. Which, in turn, made Ella focus on him and his blue-eyed charisma, then flush slightly.
‘Ella,’ Roxy interrupted. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Sorry.’ She giggled and went a darker pink. She was lovely, very charming. ‘I could talk cats all day. So, it’s crazy, I had a weird reaction to medication. Prescribed medication. By a doctor.’
‘But …?’ Dennis asked.
‘My boyfriend was freaking out,’ Ella said. ‘So was my best friend – about the way I reacted to the tablets. They were all, You’re gonna end up dead.’ She said it in a funny voice and got a laugh from Dennis and Trassa. The rest, however, remained unimpressed. ‘I know I’m okay, but so they could stop fretting, it seemed easier to check in here.’
‘Would you like to tell your group the events that triggered everything?’ I said.
‘… Ah … Okay! So, yeah. Last February, like February a year ago, I was coming home from work. Late. So it was dark. I was walking from the Luas stop to my house and two people – men – just appeared and … and …’ Her head dropped to her chest and she whispered, ‘Sorry …’
‘Take your time, Ella.’
‘They grabbed me and … pulled off my backpack. Everything was in it, my phone, my purse, my laptop, all my work and stuff –’
‘Did they rape you?’ Dennis asked. Ever sensitive.
She lifted her head and stared at him. ‘No … But they hurt me and they scared the shit out of me.’ She looked in my direction. ‘Sorry for swearing.’
That was hilarious, her mannerly apology. In a matter of days, if she was like everyone else, her effing and blinding would be out of control.
In silence, I waited. I had a feeling Harlie would get this for me.
Sure enough, she swished her thick curtain of hair and asked, ‘Then what happened?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re not in rehab because you got mugged.’ Oh, the scorn. ‘What did you get addicted to?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tablets,’ Harlie reminded her. ‘You said you were taking tablets. And your friends said, You’re gonna end up dead. So, what did you do?’
‘I stopped being able to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I, like, felt their hands on me and I was so scared. My doctor said I had PTSD … My GP gave me a prescription for sleeping tablets.’
‘And?’ Harlie demanded. ‘No one is in rehab because their doctor gave them a prescription.’
‘… Okay …’ Ella looked to me for guidance. I remained poker-faced. It was something I’d found very hard in the beginning – the whole impassive thing. My impulse was always to jump in and help them out. Left to my own devices, I’m a dyed-in-the-wool people-pleaser too.
‘So, yeah, a weird thing happened. I took my boyfriend’s car out for a drive one night last week. I’d taken my sleeping pill, I was in bed asleep, and it’s insane but I don’t remember doing it –’
‘You don’t remember driving the car?’ Harlie pounced.
‘That sometimes happens with these tablets.’ Ella was all earnest explanation. ‘In the US, there are court cases now. It’s the fault of the pills.’
‘Did you get home safely that night?’ I asked.
‘Um, no. So I drove the car into a wall –’
‘– the front window of a house,’ I corrected.
‘Hold up, there!’ Roxy exclaimed. ‘Is that how you broke your collarbone? Was that “the accident”?’
‘Yes!’ Ella was smiling but red-faced, caught out.
‘I thought you’d slipped on the ice or something,’ Roxy said.
Of course Ella had been vague about how she’d come by her injury, trying hard to muddy any link between broken bones and sleeping tablets.
She’d try to stick to a simplified, sanitized version of what she’d done but the real story would be revealed over the next days and weeks. Unless, of course, she started having sex with one of the other patients behind the sofa in the rec room. And from the longing glances she kept giving Chalkie, anything was possible.
12
In the staff room, I gathered up my stuff.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ Murdo asked. ‘Quin will be back …?’
‘Sunday morning.’ I wished he was back already.
‘What are you up to now?’
‘Meeting Claire in Dundrum for a burger.’ And a debrief.
‘Dundrum.’ He winced. ‘All those shops and shit. The fake waterfall … So, enjoy it. If that’s actually possible. See you Monday.’
‘Well?’ Claire asked as she briskly deconstructed her burger, discarding the bun and offering me her chips. ‘Did you get to talk to him?’
I shook my head. I was already regretting not having gone to Justin’s house. I’d had a chance to corner Luke, maybe quiz him about the reasons he’d left me, but I’d turned it down.
‘He saw me, though. He knows I was there.’
‘Good stuff, good stuff.’ A meaningful pause. ‘How did he look?’
‘Upset.’
‘Well, yeah, obvs.’ For about half a second her expression was fake-sorrowful, then she lost interest. ‘But is he still … hot?’
Hey, there was no getting around this. ‘Yeah, Claire.’ I sighed. ‘Still hot.’
‘Full head of dark hair? Eyes intense and brooding? Body still sexy af?’
My stomach felt sick. ‘Yes.’ Then, ‘Yes. And yes.’
‘Yeah.’ She lapsed into thoughtful silence, then hit me with her full beams. ‘You know, I was going to say, “That’s a shame.” That maybe it would have been better for you if the wheels had come off. But a man as hot as Luke Costello, it would be, like, a terrible loss to the world.’
‘This isn’t making me feel any better. Just in case that was your intention.’
‘Sorry, babes. Eat your … whatever it is, vegetarian thing. So listen, you’re going to feel weird for a few days. Your sleep will be affected, you’ll eat lots of ice-cream and the sneaker-makers of the world should brace themselves for a spike in sales. But this too shall pass.’
She was right. That was the great thing about being not-young: knowing through practical experience that feelings, even the worst of them, calm down and eventually ease. They’re probably not gone forever – that was another thing I’d learnt: the notion of ‘closure’ is unrealistic. If I’d felt an emotion once, it stayed on file for-ev-er and could be reactivated if the conditions were right – or, more accurately, wrong.
‘What was he wearing?’ she asked.
‘A suit.’
‘Pics?’
‘Claire …’
‘Tight trousers?’
‘Not obscenely so.’
‘Now that is a shame.’ Then, ‘Yeah. Sorry, Rachel, sorry. Anyway! Why would you care about Luke when you’re getting it from Nick Quinlivan on the regular! Sexy man, is Quin, is all I’m saying.’
Even before Claire had met Quin, she’d liked the sound of him. She’d scolded me for writing him off after our first date.
‘He was honest with you,’ she’d said. ‘He made a mistake by cheating on his wife, and now he’s trying to do better. And do you honestly think you’re going to meet someone who hasn’t fucked up at some stage? It’s human nature, we all do it. Give him a chance, would you?’
And, surprising myself, I’d decided I might. There had been a shift in how I felt about myself since the meditation weekend. There was definitely some forgiveness, some healing. That alone made me feel positively towards Quin.
And – unexpectedly – I’d fancied him.
This, I’d discovered when Claire had asked, ‘How would you feel about him pounding away on top, hoofing it into you?’
‘Hoofing it into me?’ I’d winced.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the testosterone gel. Since I’ve started, I think about sex twelve times a second. I guess this is what it’s like to be a man.’
It was a mystery why Claire’s doctor had put her on, of all things, testosterone supplements. It wasn’t as if she’d ever been lacking in confidence. Menopause seemed like a strange country with some very odd practices and I did my best to pretend I’d never be old enough for it.
As it happened, I could well have been perimenopausal, but it was hard to be sure, seeing as I already had several of the symptoms. Insomnia? Step right up! Tiredness? Well, that’s just modern life.
‘So?’ Claire had insisted. ‘The hoofing?’
I’d thought about it and … oooh. Definitely something there.
‘My God,’ she’d declared, vivid with delight. ‘You like the sound of it! You’d better reply the next time he messages you!’
Back in the now, I took a forkful of chips from Claire’s plate.
‘Take them all,’ she said. ‘Save me from the carbs. So, Rachel, if you ever get tired of Quin …’
Oh Jesus, we were, once again, skirting dangerously close to swinger talk. I was so hoping she’d forgotten about it.
In a high voice, I blurted, ‘Have you found a dress yet for Mum’s party?’
Mum was turning eighty in four weeks’ time and we’d been ordered to throw her a surprise party. Between Claire’s dynamism and Margaret’s meticulous nature, arrangements were well advanced: eighty of Mum’s family and frenemies had been invited to a champagne reception and sit-down dinner in the SugarLoaf Inn; an elaborate frock was being constructed by a ‘couturier’ that Margaret had managed to unearth and, in New York, Anna was in negotiations with her employers to secure huge amounts of free make-up and skincare for the party bags.
‘Jesus, the dresses,’ Claire declared. ‘If it was only me I had to worry about … But I’m also ordering them for Kate, Francesca and Molly.’
Molly was her stepdaughter, Adam’s daughter from another relationship. Around the same age as Kate, Molly was willowy, gorgeous, charming and had a high-status job as a scientist for a clean-energy company. All of us were in love with her but Mum was the worst – absolutely fascinated by Molly’s impeccable social skills. She was also prone to frequent bouts of anger triggered by how far short all of her own children and grandchildren fell by comparison.
‘Then there’s Luka to worry about. I ordered him a studded hoodie from Balenciaga and he’s refusing to even try it on. “The planet,” he says. What other fifteen-year-old boy gets the chance to wear Balenciaga!’
Luka was an incredibly tall, incredibly thin, incredibly earnest young man. Not much fun, to be honest. And not his fault. Like teenagers everywhere, he rejected the value systems of his parents – and his parents were all about fun.
‘Seriously, Rachel, the stress of it.’
‘You’re not stressed,’ I said. ‘You love it!’
‘Ah, yeah, I do.’ She gestured for the bill. ‘Gotta go.’
‘What you up to?’
She nodded in the direction of the fourth floor, where the medi-spa lived. ‘An oul’ spot of radio-frequency body contouring.’
‘What does that do?’
‘Tightening.’ She pursed her lips with evident satisfaction. ‘Tight. En. Ing. See you tomorrow.’
This was news to me.
‘Committee meeting for Mum’s party.’
Another one? There were so many. ‘Listen, any idea what’s up with Helen?’
‘Not one clue. But we’ll have to get it out of her. Right. Bye!’
After Claire had gone, I had a moment of freefall, of not knowing what to do next. The shops were there … I could always stagger around them, killing time. But no.
FaceTime Quin? Again no. I was so raw that I’d probably say something to accidentally hurt him. Call Nola? Jesus Christ, no! My worst idea so far – no way had I the energy for the deep-dive she’d make me do on my emotions and motivations.
Go to a meeting.
If I drove fast, there was an eight thirty NA meeting that I could probably make. It was oh-so-tempting to skip it and just go home and collapse on the couch …
Go to the meeting.
All right! I’m going!
People who haven’t been to a Twelve Step meeting think it’s all about addicts bemoaning their miserable drink- or drug-free existence. But it’s nothing like that. In meetings we talk about whatever’s going on in our lives, good or bad, managing our responses to rogue emotions, celebrating all that’s good and identifying old destructive habits, so that we don’t lapse.
Once I got there, I was happy. It was good to sit on a hard chair in a circle with others of my kind and check in with myself – yes, my name was Rachel; yes, I was an addict; yes, my feelings today were painful but yes, I could cope with them.
What more did I need?
13
There was no sign of Kate at home. After taking Crunchie for a speedie turn around the block, I tumbled straight into bed, and FaceTimed Quin. A quick in and out was what I was hoping for – just your basic bedtime courtesy call. This wasn’t the right time for a deep and meaningful.
‘How was the funeral?’ he asked. ‘Did you meet your ex?’
‘No. But it was okay. We can talk about it on Sunday. Like, if we need to. But really, it’s all good.’
We said our goodbyes – then I was hit with a wave of gratitude that, two years ago, I’d listened to Claire’s urgings and given him a second chance.
‘Ask me anything,’ he’d said. ‘And I’ll answer you honestly.’
‘Why did you cheat on your wife? Because you’re Mr Upgrade?’
‘Nah, I wasn’t like that with Shiv. But she was messing around, you know, flirting with a man she worked with. I was … hurt. Hurt, scared, humiliated … so I decided to get back at her. Which is pathetic, you don’t have to tell me. I hoped she’d see what she was missing but thing was, she’d had enough of me and I was too stupid to realize.’
‘That’s a lot of drama, Quin.’
‘Shiv is a … she’s a strong personality. She and I, we’re quite similar. But all of that drama was temporary. And five years ago. These days we care about each other. But not the way we used to.’ He paused. ‘You, though, I really like.’
‘Why?’
‘Why does anyone like anyone?’
‘I get the feeling the only reason you want me is because you think you can’t have me.’
‘Can’t I have you?’ he shot back. ‘Then why did you text me?’ This was the first time I’d ever seen him smile. ‘Rachel, maybe you’re right, maybe the only reason I want you is because I think I can’t have you. But we won’t know until we know. You’re just going to have to take that chance.’
He held my gaze and I was frozen by his being Not-Luke. I’d honestly thought I’d never again consider another man, and even though that seemed to have changed, Quin’s unfamiliarity confused me.
That beautiful fantasy of ‘After ten minutes I felt I’d known him all my life’ didn’t occur so much in reality. Nobody likes to hear this, but intimacy isn’t a gift granted by the Gods of Love at First Sight, but is something that has to be worked at – like learning to stay upright on a unicycle.
This relative stranger wanted things from me – my time, my thoughts, access to my body. And for the first time in forever, the idea wasn’t horrifying. Which I put down to whatever strange business had gone on between us at the meditation weekend.
