wine, a line of coke. My dealer was on speed dial.’ He shrugs. ‘This was years ago, Polly, when I worked in the City. I went into rehab when I was thirty, haven’t looked back. I don’t know … I wasn’t wavering the other day, or maybe I was, but what with losing Grace and Emily living with me, life has been a little crazy.’
I look at Ben. He’s got money, the designer suit, looks (if only he’d get rid of that beard) the cushy pad, but all I can see is emptiness inside. ‘If ever you need to talk, if you need a friend …’
He turns to me, warmth in his dark-brown eyes. ‘You’ve already helped with the plait situation.’ He pauses, pressing his head into his hands. ‘I am worried about losing clients. I can’t seem to focus, I need to …’
‘Listen,’ I interrupt, ‘anyone would be struggling right now in your shoes. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
He nods. ‘When did you start drinking?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Fourteen!’
‘Oh believe me, people start younger than that.’
‘Why did you?’
‘I don’t know. I felt nothing inside,’ is all I can say. ‘Escape, I guess. The only time I felt at peace was when I drank. You?’
He thinks about this. ‘The normal route to life, you know, marriage and children, it seemed pretty dull. I was determined not to go down the same path as my mum and stepdad. They had a marriage I wouldn’t inflict on my worst enemy,’ he confides. ‘I thought I was better off living the high life, drinking and partying to excess, I didn’t want to invest in any relationship that got in the way of my freedom. I see now that that way of living is no route to happiness.’ He stops, runs a hand through his thick wavy hair. ‘Boy, this is getting a bit heavy. I hardly know you.’
‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk to complete strangers.’
‘Not
quite
so complete now.’
We smile, and in that moment I see something flicker between us, something that tells me we are going to become good friends.
8
1994
I’m in the kitchen being told off, my father telling Mum to calm down. She’s spitting with rage as she reads a letter from my headmistress. ‘Why did you do it, Polly?’
To earn money to buy cigarettes, I set up a hairdressing camp in one corner of the playing field with my best friend, Janey.
‘She said she liked it, Mum.’ The girls brought along a picture from a glossy magazine of a hairstyle they liked and Janey and I copied it. It was all going so well until Lucinda wanted a short spiky hairdo like Helena Christensen’s. I thought I’d copied it faithfully, but clearly from the letter Mum is reading, Lucinda’s parents are furious.
‘Lucinda was pleased!’ I stress again.
Mum steps forward, hits me so hard across the cheek that even Dad is shocked.
I stagger back, tears stinging my eyes.
She tells me how disappointed and ashamed she is of me, and soon her words become a blur. I can’t listen. All I hear is, ‘Go! You’re grounded for a month.’
Slowly I head upstairs, feeling guilty and wretched. I stop when I overhear Mum talking to Dad. ‘I’m not being hard! My mother hit us all the time, never did us any harm. If we’re not careful she’ll turn out like Vivienne.’
I catch my breath. Vivienne? Why is that name familiar? I recall sitting on the stairs the night after Hugo was dropped off at school. ‘
Think of it as medicine
,’ Dad had said.
‘It’ll help you sleep.’
‘
I don’t want it! It’s poison!
’
‘
Gina, you’re not Vivienne!
’
Vivienne. Who is she?
*
Later that night, I lie awake, missing Hugo. I wish I could go into his bedroom, talk to him like we used to.
When Hugo left home three years ago a light switched off in the house. When we sat down to supper, none of us could look at the empty seat opposite mine. We’d gone from a comfortable square to an awkward triangle. Mum can’t disguise anymore that he is undoubtedly her favourite child. Hugo is ten now, but when he was eight his
I look at Ben. He’s got money, the designer suit, looks (if only he’d get rid of that beard) the cushy pad, but all I can see is emptiness inside. ‘If ever you need to talk, if you need a friend …’
He turns to me, warmth in his dark-brown eyes. ‘You’ve already helped with the plait situation.’ He pauses, pressing his head into his hands. ‘I am worried about losing clients. I can’t seem to focus, I need to …’
‘Listen,’ I interrupt, ‘anyone would be struggling right now in your shoes. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
He nods. ‘When did you start drinking?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Fourteen!’
‘Oh believe me, people start younger than that.’
‘Why did you?’
‘I don’t know. I felt nothing inside,’ is all I can say. ‘Escape, I guess. The only time I felt at peace was when I drank. You?’
He thinks about this. ‘The normal route to life, you know, marriage and children, it seemed pretty dull. I was determined not to go down the same path as my mum and stepdad. They had a marriage I wouldn’t inflict on my worst enemy,’ he confides. ‘I thought I was better off living the high life, drinking and partying to excess, I didn’t want to invest in any relationship that got in the way of my freedom. I see now that that way of living is no route to happiness.’ He stops, runs a hand through his thick wavy hair. ‘Boy, this is getting a bit heavy. I hardly know you.’
‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk to complete strangers.’
‘Not
quite
so complete now.’
We smile, and in that moment I see something flicker between us, something that tells me we are going to become good friends.
8
1994
I’m in the kitchen being told off, my father telling Mum to calm down. She’s spitting with rage as she reads a letter from my headmistress. ‘Why did you do it, Polly?’
To earn money to buy cigarettes, I set up a hairdressing camp in one corner of the playing field with my best friend, Janey.
‘She said she liked it, Mum.’ The girls brought along a picture from a glossy magazine of a hairstyle they liked and Janey and I copied it. It was all going so well until Lucinda wanted a short spiky hairdo like Helena Christensen’s. I thought I’d copied it faithfully, but clearly from the letter Mum is reading, Lucinda’s parents are furious.
‘Lucinda was pleased!’ I stress again.
Mum steps forward, hits me so hard across the cheek that even Dad is shocked.
I stagger back, tears stinging my eyes.
She tells me how disappointed and ashamed she is of me, and soon her words become a blur. I can’t listen. All I hear is, ‘Go! You’re grounded for a month.’
Slowly I head upstairs, feeling guilty and wretched. I stop when I overhear Mum talking to Dad. ‘I’m not being hard! My mother hit us all the time, never did us any harm. If we’re not careful she’ll turn out like Vivienne.’
I catch my breath. Vivienne? Why is that name familiar? I recall sitting on the stairs the night after Hugo was dropped off at school. ‘
Think of it as medicine
,’ Dad had said.
‘It’ll help you sleep.’
‘
I don’t want it! It’s poison!
’
‘
Gina, you’re not Vivienne!
’
Vivienne. Who is she?
*
Later that night, I lie awake, missing Hugo. I wish I could go into his bedroom, talk to him like we used to.
When Hugo left home three years ago a light switched off in the house. When we sat down to supper, none of us could look at the empty seat opposite mine. We’d gone from a comfortable square to an awkward triangle. Mum can’t disguise anymore that he is undoubtedly her favourite child. Hugo is ten now, but when he was eight his
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