parents, he still made her feel guilty, casting tense glances at her when she reached for the bottle before, during and after dinner. And if she was being honest, she found his reaction unfairly censorial, irritating. It took the edge off her pleasure and encouraged her to act furtively.
It wasn’t as if she got rolling drunk or was too inebriated to function, it was just how she relaxed, how she shrugged off the stresses of the day. A harmless habit. If she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine in an evening, she couldn’t sleep. If she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine before a social event, she couldn’t go, because her nerves would get the better of her; and if she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine before Sylvia arrived, she simply couldn’t cope.
She hadn’t confided in her husband how the thought of a cold bottle of wine waiting in the fridge could get her through the most challenging of days. If she got caught in traffic, lost her keys, mislaid her handbag or struggled over some particularly troublesome data in the lab, all of these things could be eased by simply picturing the honey-coloured reward that awaited her at the end of the day. It was her only vice. She didn’t eat vast quantities of chocolate or takeaways and she had never smoked or taken drugs, all of which would surely take a far greater toll on her health than the odd glass of plonk.
The two women took up seats at the pine kitchen table and chatted and laughed as they polished off not one but two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. Romilly found her new friend hilarious, enjoying the raucous tales of single life and how Sara was making up for lost time after years of being stuck in a dull, lifeless marriage.
‘My husband was like the fun police! I can see that, now I’m out of it.’ Sara laughed. ‘He was like this big atmosphere hoover who came in and sucked the joy from whatever I was trying to do. I wasn’t allowed to have any fun! None at all. I feel sorry for his poor bloody dental assistant, who will have to put up with him, the miserable bastard!’
They were halfway through the third bottle when the sound of a key in the front door caused Romilly to sit up straight and narrow her eyes at the kitchen clock. It was 7.30; she had completely lost track of time.
David strolled into the kitchen, clutching his car keys and laptop. He was surprised to find the two sitting at the table in semi-darkness, leaning heavily on crooked arms and snorting laughter at each other’s comments. He flicked on the central light and eyed the stranger.
‘David! Hello!’ Romilly called out, shielding her eyes from the harsh bulb. ‘This is my new friend, our new neighbour, Swara…’ Her laughter rippled from her as she hiccupped. ‘No, no, it’s Swara!’ She beat the tabletop with her palm. ‘Swara!’ Again she tried and failed to get the name right.
Sara stood up and wobbled on her heels as she held out her hand. ‘Hello, Mr Accountant, I am Swara!’ She giggled, tilting her head in a coquettish manner.
David nodded, ignoring her outstretched hand. ‘Where’s Celeste?’
As if on cue, she ran into the kitchen. ‘Daddy!’ She flung her arms around his leg and looked up at him. ‘What’s for tea?’ she asked, her voice small.
‘You haven’t had your tea?’ He bent down.
She shook her head.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we go up the Stoke Bishop chippy and you can have chicken nuggets? How about that?’
‘Yes!’ The little girl jumped up and down on the spot; this was a real treat. She ran towards the front door.
David hovered in the kitchen and glared at his wife. ‘It’s 7.30, her bedtime, and she hasn’t even eaten! I suggest you get yourself together while I get the food. We can talk later.’
He barely registered their new neighbour. As he ushered his little girl from the hallway and closed the front door behind him, a ripple of laughter followed him up the driveway.
Romilly waved Sara off, feeling a mixture of
It wasn’t as if she got rolling drunk or was too inebriated to function, it was just how she relaxed, how she shrugged off the stresses of the day. A harmless habit. If she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine in an evening, she couldn’t sleep. If she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine before a social event, she couldn’t go, because her nerves would get the better of her; and if she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine before Sylvia arrived, she simply couldn’t cope.
She hadn’t confided in her husband how the thought of a cold bottle of wine waiting in the fridge could get her through the most challenging of days. If she got caught in traffic, lost her keys, mislaid her handbag or struggled over some particularly troublesome data in the lab, all of these things could be eased by simply picturing the honey-coloured reward that awaited her at the end of the day. It was her only vice. She didn’t eat vast quantities of chocolate or takeaways and she had never smoked or taken drugs, all of which would surely take a far greater toll on her health than the odd glass of plonk.
The two women took up seats at the pine kitchen table and chatted and laughed as they polished off not one but two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. Romilly found her new friend hilarious, enjoying the raucous tales of single life and how Sara was making up for lost time after years of being stuck in a dull, lifeless marriage.
‘My husband was like the fun police! I can see that, now I’m out of it.’ Sara laughed. ‘He was like this big atmosphere hoover who came in and sucked the joy from whatever I was trying to do. I wasn’t allowed to have any fun! None at all. I feel sorry for his poor bloody dental assistant, who will have to put up with him, the miserable bastard!’
They were halfway through the third bottle when the sound of a key in the front door caused Romilly to sit up straight and narrow her eyes at the kitchen clock. It was 7.30; she had completely lost track of time.
David strolled into the kitchen, clutching his car keys and laptop. He was surprised to find the two sitting at the table in semi-darkness, leaning heavily on crooked arms and snorting laughter at each other’s comments. He flicked on the central light and eyed the stranger.
‘David! Hello!’ Romilly called out, shielding her eyes from the harsh bulb. ‘This is my new friend, our new neighbour, Swara…’ Her laughter rippled from her as she hiccupped. ‘No, no, it’s Swara!’ She beat the tabletop with her palm. ‘Swara!’ Again she tried and failed to get the name right.
Sara stood up and wobbled on her heels as she held out her hand. ‘Hello, Mr Accountant, I am Swara!’ She giggled, tilting her head in a coquettish manner.
David nodded, ignoring her outstretched hand. ‘Where’s Celeste?’
As if on cue, she ran into the kitchen. ‘Daddy!’ She flung her arms around his leg and looked up at him. ‘What’s for tea?’ she asked, her voice small.
‘You haven’t had your tea?’ He bent down.
She shook her head.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we go up the Stoke Bishop chippy and you can have chicken nuggets? How about that?’
‘Yes!’ The little girl jumped up and down on the spot; this was a real treat. She ran towards the front door.
David hovered in the kitchen and glared at his wife. ‘It’s 7.30, her bedtime, and she hasn’t even eaten! I suggest you get yourself together while I get the food. We can talk later.’
He barely registered their new neighbour. As he ushered his little girl from the hallway and closed the front door behind him, a ripple of laughter followed him up the driveway.
Romilly waved Sara off, feeling a mixture of
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