My Sister's Bones(63)

As he closes the door, my skin prickles. I need another drink. I wait for a few minutes then get up out of the chair and creep through the living room and into the hallway. I pause by the cupboard underneath the stairs. There’s no sound of Paul; he must be in bed. I carefully open the cupboard door and reach my hand inside. The bottles are still there where I left them a few days ago. My secret stash. It’s the perfect hiding place. Paul never goes near this cupboard. He thinks it’s full of junk and old clothes. I carefully close the door and slip back into the conservatory.

I sink into the chair clutching the bottle to my chest. Just one glass, I tell myself, one glass to calm my nerves. But as I unscrew the lid I know that will never be enough.





29


I wake up in an empty bed. My back is aching and I pull the bedclothes round my shoulders but sleep won’t come. I open my eyes and lie still for a moment. The air feels different. Something happened before I went to sleep, something horrible. And then I remember. The news. Paul’s face. It is real. I am alive and my sister is dead.

‘Paul!’ I shout. ‘Paul, are you there?’

There is no reply and I climb out of the bed. The clothes I was wearing yesterday are neatly folded across the back of the chair by the window. Paul must have carried me upstairs in the middle of the night and got me into my pyjamas but I can’t remember any of it.

‘Paul!’ I shout again, but there is still no answer.

I put on my dressing gown and go downstairs to find him.

He’s left a note on the kitchen table saying that he’s been called into work but will be back as soon as he can.

I put the note in the bin and walk out of the kitchen feeling a little clearer. When Paul is here I feel suffocated and my brain won’t function. At least with him out of the house I can think straight.

I go straight to the cupboard under the stairs and open the door. I need a drink, just one, to ease the aching in my chest. I put my hand inside. There’s nothing but old coats and boxes. Turning on the light, I push aside the junk and feel around for the bottles. But there is nothing. I step further inside and get down on my hands and knees. Where the hell are they? I put six bottles in here two days ago. There should be four left. Where have they gone? My mouth goes dry and my heart starts to pound as I search frantically through old shoeboxes and moth-eaten jackets. Then I see it, a yellow Post-it note stuck to the floor where the bottles had been.

I rip it off, my hands shaking with anger.

‘It’s not worth it, Sally,’ he has written. ‘We can get through this together . . . without the booze. I love you xxx.’

The f*cking idiot. He’s got rid of my wine. I run back into the kitchen and start pulling open cupboards and drawers. Where’s he hidden it? I can’t deal with this without a drink. It’s too much; too huge.

I go into the conservatory and look behind the sofa, behind the cushions, screaming with frustration as I go. Then as I get to the chair by the window something outside catches my eye. The recycling box, ready for tomorrow morning’s collection, is sitting on the patio with four empty wine bottles in it. He’s poured it down the sink. I don’t believe it.

I slam my fists against the window. The stupid, stupid man. Why would he do that? He’s just making everything worse.

There is no way I can get through this day without a drink so I’ll just have to go and get some more. ‘Didn’t think of that, did he?’ I mutter to myself as I take off my dressing gown and throw it on the floor. What was the point of pouring my wine down the f*cking sink when I can just go out and buy more? I’m a grown woman and he treats me like some stupid kid. Sod him.

I find my over-sized green puffa coat hanging on the hook in the hallway and put it on over my pyjamas. Hopefully no one will notice, I think, as I dig out my old trainers from the shoe rack, but as I bend down to put them on I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and it’s been days since I last washed. My hair is limp and greasy; my skin a sickly yellow. Jesus, I think to myself, as I step away from the mirror. What must Kate have thought when she saw me? She was always immaculately turned out. Ever since she was a kid she had been fussy about her appearance. Everything had to be just so. And she was so slim and pretty. I could never compete.

I try not to think about her as I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a pair of sunglasses. It’s an overcast day and I’ll look silly but better that than scaring people to death.

The streets are deserted as I set off. Thankfully. I have no idea what time it is or what day, all I can see in front of me is a bottle of cold white wine and all I can feel, as I cross the road that leads to the shops, is the absence of it in my bloodstream.

I pull the hood of my coat up round my face as I walk up the narrow path to the Spar. I don’t want anyone to see me. I just want to do what I need to do and get back to the house without any hassle.

As I enter the shop I’m relieved to see that it’s the man working today and not his wife. She always looks at me like I’m dirt when I put the wine bottles on the counter. Bitch. But her old man is pleasant enough and he smiles as I pick up a basket and head to the fridges.

The shop radio is playing ‘Hey Jude’ and I feel a crushing sense of sadness. It’s as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. Kate loved this song when we were kids. She used to change the words to ‘Hey You’ and dance with me around the room. But that was when I was very little, before we started hating each other. I try to block out the song as I put three bottles of Pinot Grigio into the basket and make my way to the counter, but it’s already wormed its way into my head and I know that it will stay there for the rest of the day unless I drink it away.