Behind Her Eyes(59)

‘Adele?’ The disembodied voice drifts into the room, and I frown. Is that really her? I’ve been thinking about her so much I don’t know if I’m really hearing her or if she’s in my head. It’s so hard to focus, and she feels so constantly entwined with me that right now, in this state, I don’t know where I end and she begins.

‘Adele, it’s me. Louise! Please let me in. I’ll only stay a moment. I just want to know you’re okay.’

Louise. It is her. My saviour. I smile, although it feels like I’m gurning and I probably am. There’s some drool on my chin and I clumsily wipe it away before hauling myself to my unsteady feet. I knew she’d be back, but I wasn’t expecting her so soon.

I take a deep breath to try to clear my head a little while I decide whether to answer the door. It may be a risk, but still I hide the things I need to in the little teak ornate box on the side table. I don’t know where I bought it from or why, but at least it finally has a use.

She calls my name once more, and I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look like a mess. I’m sweaty pale, and my pupils are so dilated that my eyes are almost black. My lips twitch. I don’t recognise myself. That makes me giggle, a sudden sound that almost spooks me. To let her in, or not to let her in, that is the question. But then, in the part of my brain that’s functioning properly, I realise how I can work this to my advantage. I was going to have to fake this behaviour at some point, but now I don’t. My plan marches on. But then my plans always do.

I shamble towards the front door and open it, flinching in the bright sunlight. An hour ago I wouldn’t have been able to move, but now that I’m concentrating, my limbs are doing what I tell them. I’m feeling quite proud of myself, but Louise looks shocked. It takes a second before I realise I’m the one who’s swaying slightly, not her, or the pavement outside.

‘Shit, Adele,’ she says, quickly coming inside and gently taking my arm. ‘You’re in a right state.’ She leads me towards the kitchen. ‘Are you drunk? Let’s get some coffee on. I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘I’m so sorry about my phone,’ I slur. ‘So sorry.’ She lowers me into a chair. It’s a relief to be sitting down. One less thing to concentrate on.

‘You have nothing to be sorry about,’ she says, as she fills the kettle and searches for mugs and instant coffee. I’m glad there’s a small ‘in case of emergencies’ jar in the cupboard. I may be semi-focused now, but I don’t have the energy to explain the coffee machine.

‘You’re allowed to have friends, Adele. Everyone’s allowed to have friends.’ Her eyes scan the room for evidence of booze, but see nothing. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you sick? Has he done something?’

I shake my head slowly, keeping the world in place. ‘The pills. I maybe took more than I should.’

She goes to the cupboard and as she opens it I know she’s calculating whether it would be possible to give yourself a black eye when doing so.

‘Really, don’t worry, it’s fine, they’re prescription,’ I mutter. She doesn’t stop though, of course not. She ignores the little defensive line of ibuprofen and antacid tablets, and reaches to the packets beyond, spreading them out on the counter. The kettle clicks off, but she doesn’t move. She’s studying the labels. All neatly printed with my name and dosage instructions, as prescribed by my husband.

‘Fuck,’ she says, eventually. ‘David prescribed these for you?’

I nod. ‘For my nerves.’

‘These aren’t for your nerves, Adele. These are strong anti-psychotics. I mean, really strong. All of them to one degree or another.’

‘No, you must be wrong, they’re for my nerves,’ I repeat.

She doesn’t say anything to that, but continues to stare at the packets, many with strips of half-empty blisters hanging out where I’ve flushed the pills down the sink. She rummages inside one box.

‘No information sheet. Does David bring these prescriptions home for you, or do you collect them yourself?’

‘He brings them,’ I say quietly. ‘Can I have some coffee please? I feel so tired.’ Actually, I’m surprised at how quickly I’m straightening out, given that this is only my second time practising this.

She finally makes the coffee and comes to sit opposite me. There’s nothing ditzy about chubby little Louise any more. In fact, there’s nothing chubby about Louise any more. These past couple of days of heartache have knocked the last difficult pounds off.

‘How long has he been making you take these?’ she asks.

I shrug. ‘For a while. But he’s always trying different ones.’ I stare into my coffee, enjoying the burning sensation of the hot mug on my over-sensitive fingers. ‘I don’t always take them. But sometimes he watches me.’

I lean my head against the wall behind me, tired of holding it up. My mind might be straightening out, but the rest of me has a way to go. ‘I said I wanted control of my money back,’ I mumble, as if this seed of information isn’t important. ‘Before we moved. After what happened in Blackheath. But he said no. He said I had to take the pills for a while first to calm me down, then we’d talk about it. He’d been trying to get me to take them for a while, and I’d always said no, but then I thought after all that, I’d try. For him. For us.’