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‘They were amazing,’ I say, placing my used plate on the countertop next to the sink. ‘Thank you.’
Charlotte snatches the plate out from under my fingertips and ducks it under the water. ‘I’m glad someone got to enjoy them. Do you have any idea when Gavin will be home?’
I look at her blankly and wonder why she’s askingmethatquestion and not him. I shrug. ‘I think he’ll wait till Kayla’s asleep. I hope so, anyway.’
‘Yeah,’ Charlotte says. ‘I’m sure he’ll text.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, my eyes weighing heavy with tiredness. I walk back to the table and reach for the wine. I surprise myself with how easily the first mouthful slides down. ‘This is really nice.’
‘It’s French,’ Charlotte says. ‘And organic. I only drink organic. Anything else gives me a headache and an even worse hangover. I think it’s the sulphites.’
‘I’m not sure what a sulphite is, but it doesn’t sound good,’ I say.
‘It’s just a chemical. And I think there’s enough chemicals in our life without adding more. If I can eat and drink healthily, I do.’
‘But isn’t alcohol technically a poison?’ I say.
Charlotte turns away, but I don’t miss her roll her eyes as she does. ‘Do you need to charge your phone or anything?’ she asks, pointing towards a socket with a charger plugged in. ‘You know, in case the power goes.’
‘Yeah. Good idea,’ I say. ‘I bought a power bank in the hospital shop the other day but suppose I should keep that for emergencies.’
Charlotte nods and I know she’s stopped listening. She peels off her rubber gloves, hangs them over the edge of the sink and walks over tothe table to fetch her glass of wine. ‘Right. I’m knackered. I’m going to go watch some telly. You’re welcome to join me. Help yourself to s’more wine too, if you like. I don’t plan to get up again once I sit down.’
My glass is still full to almost overflowing and something from the fajitas is repeating on me. I tell myself that half an hour of telly could be good. It might help me unwind rather than lying in bed tossing and turning for hours the way I’ve done the last few nights. I take another mouthful of wine, and another, and I can feel myself slowly relax. I wonder if Charlotte is onto something with this sulphur business because this is genuinely nice. I tilt the glass slightly and give it a little swirl the way they do on those posh cookery shows. The wine swirls more vigorously than I mean it to and a smidge splashes out over the edge and onto the cream porcelain floor tiles.
‘Don’t stain, don’t stain, don’t stain,’ I mumble as I stare down at the small, burgundy circle of wine sinking into the grooves of the porous tile. ‘No, no, no!’
I pop the glass down on the table and snatch some paper towel off the shelf. My legs creak, exhausted, as I bend down to dry up the wet patch. I close my eyes as I stand up. I’m afraid to look in case a stubborn red patch stares back it me. Opening my eyes I breath out, relieved to find the tile in mint condition. I pop the paper towel in the bin under the sink. I reach for my glass again and, drinking quite a bit so the glass is empty enough to carry in confidence of no more spills, I make my way into the sitting room to join Charlotte.
THIRTY-ONE
CHARLOTTE
I check my phone on the arm of the couch. There’s still no word from Gavin.Surprise! Surprise!And I can’t help but wonder if he can’t be bothered to text. Or, if reception is terrible, or if he’s chatting to Kayla. But it would be great to hear from him at some point; it’s killing me not knowing what’s happening half the time.
I’m regretting drinking two glasses of wine so quickly now as a small, frustrated vein in my temple pulsates. I’m surrounded by noise; rain pelts against the glass as the storm grows angrier, there’s still the odd crash of thunder. At least there is no more lightning and we still have power. But it’s just as noisy inside as out. I’m surrounded by snoring. A faint wheeze puffs in and out upstairs as Molly sleeps soundly, and there’s the odd noise overhead every so often, which I recognise as the sound of one of Molly’s giant teddies being shoved out of bed.
The snoring next to me is more violent and intense. Like the sound of air passing through a narrow tube when there’s a blockage halfway. I’m squashed into one corner of the couch. Heather and I started out on opposite ends but she fell asleep after less than half her glass of wine, and she gradually stretched out and is taking up more than three quarters of the space now.
It was Heather’s suggestion to watchFriends.
‘They’re repeats,’ she said. ‘We spent hours watching them when we were younger and now Kayla and I watch them all the time too.’
Heather got a bit upset at the mention of her telly time with Kayla so I didn’t bother to ask if theweshe was talking about was her and Gavin. Anyway, I don’t have to ask. I already know. I don’t know why I’m so worried about Gavin and Heather, I know it’s ridiculous.
My fingers hover over the screen on my phone. I want to text Gavin. I want to ask how Kayla is. I want to ask if he’s had dinner. Mostly I want to ask when he’s coming home. I exhale until I’m light-headed and think about the bottle of wine on the shelf in the kitchen. Heather’s glass is sitting on the coffee table. I turn off the TV and pull the throw over Heather, deciding against more wine. I’ll regret it in the morning.
I’m just about to head up to bed when the doorbell rings. I smile, glad I’ll actually get to see Gavin tonight before I fall asleep.
I’m taken aback when I find my neighbour and not my husband on the doorstep.
The man in running gear standing on my step introduces himself as my new neighbour. He moved in a couple of houses down last month with his pregnant wife or girlfriend, but we’ve never actually spoken. I was at a piano lesson with Molly when he came around to introduce himself.
‘He said his name was Ben or Sam or Tom. Something with three letters anyway, I can’t quite remember,’ Gavin said. ‘Seems like a nice guy. About our age. And athletic too, big rugby fan.’
I remember thinking how nice it would be to finally have a neighbour we have something in common with. The rest of the cul-de-sac are older than us; mostly retired couples with grown-up children. But seeing Mr three-letter-name standing on my doorstep at stupid o’clockwith wet hair and a weather-beaten red face I’m wondering if Trish has intercepted him and he’s here as her messenger to scold me about the parking situation. He’s clearly walked from somewhere in the storm and I wonder if it’s because Heather’s car is sitting in his spot.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, shivering. ‘It know it’s very late, but I saw the light on in your sitting room and I guessed you might still be up.’
