Apparently, I screamed then repeatedly yelled ‘Yes’. I can’t remember that, but it seems reasonable. I can imagine it would be something I’d do. The happiness was almost painful, it was so complete and beautiful that, even whilst I was slipping the diamond on my finger, I was thinking This can’t last. This is too good. So, in that moment I was never happier or more afraid.
Everyone in the room cheered and applauded. People started singing, ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. That seems quaint now. It’s a lifetime ago. There was hugging and congratulating, lots of kissing and some crying and champagne corks popping; it was a luminous, glistening moment. Later, Simon confirmed that he’d come up with the entire plan on his own, not just the bit about giving me my ring in that way, but dressing as Santa, giving all the gifts to the children, everything. I worked out as much that evening, when we were snuggled up in his bed, post-coital, emotionally and physically elated and exhausted. The gifts were the tell. If Rose had been in charge she would have chosen different presents for the children, something less fun.
It was such a thoughtful, individual, perfect proposal. For a long time, I believed that moment would stay gleaming in my mind for ever, but it’s tarnished now. I’m embarrassed for them. That hopeful young woman, that ambitious young man, because we let them down. I have no idea where that man went.
Or that woman, come to think of it.
Wednesday, 13th July 2016
The TV woke him up. He tried to focus, but it was tricky. There were a lot of voices talking across one another. What was he watching? Four middle-aged women, sitting on stools around a breakfast bar. They were wearing bright tops, but the gaiety was cancelled out by their angry faces. They were arguing although not with each other. Simon listened for a moment or two, long enough to gather they were angry with some man, or some male thing, yet there were no men there to shout at so they were shouting at each other and in general. It was almost funny.
He knew what it was, he knew it. Daisy loved this show. It was Loose Women. He didn’t know how he knew that, he was hardly the target audience, but he did. He felt remembering the name of the show was something. A small victory. Daisy sometimes watched it in the school holidays. A guilty pleasure when she was ironing or doing something with Millie, crafting or whatever. It must be mid-morning. Why was he asleep in an armchair mid-morning? His head was fucking killing him. It was pulsing, pounding. He must be ill. That was it. He was off work because he was ill. He searched about for the remote control and noticed an empty bottle of red wine and an empty bottle of whisky at his feet. He ignored them. They didn’t make sense. Finding the remote was all that mattered. He had to mute the angry women. If only life was as easy. Unfortunately, even when he managed to shut them up, the screaming and yelling continued in his head. He didn’t know if it was real, or something he remembered, or just something he was imagining. It was sometimes hard to tell.
Simon looked out of the window, it was pitch black, dead of night, not mid-morning. He turned back to the TV confused. Definitely Loose Women. It took longer than it should but then he took a stab at sorting it out in his mind – it had to be a late night repeat. He checked his watch; it was tricky to focus, he couldn’t quite see the illuminated numbers. He was really ill. Maybe hallucinating, a fever? He’d heard something was going around, something serious. It was 3.15 a.m. Or maybe 5.15 a.m. He didn’t know or care. Not really. What was that smell? It was disgusting. Puke and sweat.
He noticed that his shirt and the arm of the chair were covered in vomit. Some of it had solidified, some of it still oozed. Sloppy and shaming. He peeled off his shirt, balled it up, tried not to let the puke slide onto the floor. He walked through to the kitchen and dropped the soiled garment on the floor, in front of the kitchen sink. He realised that he probably should put it in the washing machine, but he couldn’t, not right then. Too much effort. He wasn’t up to it. He was ill. Daisy would sort it out when she got up. He tried to remember yesterday. Had he come home from work sick? Had he gone into work at all? Maybe this was not a bug, maybe he’d had a few jars, eaten a curry with a bad prawn. He couldn’t remember eating. The puke didn’t smell of curries or prawns.
He needed a drink. Water maybe? No, a beer. A beer would be best. Hair of the dog. Because yes, he realised now this was most likely a hangover. Off the scale, a different level, but a hangover all the same. His hands were freezing, his vision was blurred. Not a hangover then, he was still drunk. It would be best to keep on drinking.
As he opened the fridge, the light spilt out on to the kitchen and he nearly dropped the bottle in shock.
‘What the fuck are you doing, sitting in the dark?’ he yelled.
Daisy sighed. She’d been crying. He could tell. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face blotchy. Simon realised, with a slow sense of regret, that it had not just been a late night but an emotional one, too.
Here it was. Off they went.
‘I stayed up to check you didn’t choke on your own vomit,’ she said with another sigh. Like, how was it possible to have that much air and disappointment to expunge? It couldn’t be for real, could it. There had to be an element of theatre to it, a sense of drama. She had her hands wrapped around a mug, the very picture of wifely patience. It fucked him off. Her patience – or at least her show of it – her acceptance, her constant understanding, it all fucked him off. Because it wasn’t real. It wasn’t her. He didn’t believe it. Not anymore. It would be more real if she showed she was angry. He wanted her to be angry. Like him.
He was swaying, ever so slightly. He needed to sit down. Just as he was about to do so, his body collapsed below him. He sent a wooden kitchen chair toppling, his head thumped against the corner of a unit. The pain was blunted by his state, but in the morning there would be a bump. His body relaxed into the pain, working through it. He’d learnt this technique now. Sometimes when he was drinking he hurt himself by accident. One evening, he fell down some steps in town, another time he walked into the closed patio doors thinking they were open. It was best to roll with the pain. Not to fight it.
‘Oh Simon.’ He could hear pity and despair in Daisy’s voice.
He felt warm and then cold, his thighs. He could smell something beneath the puke and sweat. It was a dark and acidic smell. It was piss. He’d pissed himself.
He woke up, he was in bed. He was relieved. Sometimes, he didn’t get to bed. He fell to sleep on a chair in the sitting room, on a bench in the street, or on the train home. That was the worst. He’d be carried to the last stop on the route and then woken up by a ticket inspector. He couldn’t always get an Uber. Occasionally he’d slept on stations, caught the first train home in the morning. Waking up in his own bed was a bonus. He put his fingers to the back of his head where it ached, not just the usual hangover ache, something more specific; there was a lump, but he couldn’t feel any stickiness, no blood. There weren’t any bottles next to his bed. He was naked but smelt clean. It didn’t add up.
Daisy was not in bed. As he sat up he noticed she was dozing on the chair in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was normally covered in discarded clothes. She heard him stir and her eyes sprung open. Always a light sleeper. Instantly, her face was awash with anxiety, resentment, disappointment.
‘Morning,’ Simon said brightly. Best to style this out. Clearly there had been something but as yet he couldn’t recall