leftovers from the seventies.”
“Really?” Gina sighs, for she is well known for loving vintage. “If she ever wants to get rid of anything, make sure I get first dibs.”
“No,” I say. “I get first dibs,” and I watch as she downs the dregs of wine in her glass and stands up, about to get another round.
All I can taste suddenly is wine. All I can think about is getting hold of a glass of wine. Everything in the room recedes, and all I can see is the dregs of wine in Gina’s glass, and it is all I can do not to grab it and drain what little there is left.
Sam goes off to the bar to get another round. I turn to Poppy and say, quietly enough so no one else can hear, “I think I might just get one glass of wine.”
“No!” she says, her face immediately stricken. “You said no alcohol. Don’t do it, Cat. You’ll regret it later.”
“I really don’t think I will. It’s just one glass.” I eye up her own glass of red, the temptation to take it almost overwhelming. I have to forcibly bring myself back to the present to hear what Poppy is saying.
“… come back? Will’s cooking, and you know what he’s like, he always makes enough for an army. Go on, join us. Please?”
I think about what that would entail. I love being at Will and Poppy’s, even though George will be fast asleep. I love being part of their domestic bliss. I love Will’s cooking, and their gorgeous flat. I love the laughter involved whenever it is just the three of us. But Poppy won’t let me drink, and however much I want to be nurtured by people I love, I want to drink more.
“I have a launch tonight,” I say, even though I wasn’t going to go. Channel 4 has a new television drama set in France, and they’ve taken over Chez Gerard in Charlotte Street for their launch party. Joanna Lumley is starring, and who knows, she may grant me an interview. More important, the french fries will be hot, crispy, and copious, as will, and this is really the clincher, the wine.
“Not that Channel 4 thing?”
“Yes. I wasn’t going to go, but I realize I really need to try to lock down a chat with Joanna Lumley. I can’t not go. In fact”—I make a big show of looking at my watch—“I really have to leave now.”
“You’re going to drink, aren’t you?” Poppy’s worry is all over her face.
“I don’t know, Pops. I might. But you can’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”
“You asked me to stop you,” she says, which is true, and I need to say something to appease her.
“Okay. I won’t. Really. You’re right. I’m going to stay on the wagon.” We both know I’m lying, but we also both know there’s nothing more she can say.
* * *
The cab seems to take forever, and I am fidgeting like crazy in the back, itching to have just one glass of wine, hell, maybe even half a glass, to take the edge off this. I don’t have to have more, but that one glass of wine is like scratching an unbearable itch, and I really can’t live with this itch, not when a remedy is so close at hand.
And finally we are driving down Charlotte Street, crowds of raucous people gathered on corners outside pubs, pints and glasses and cigarettes in hand, laughter, and merriment, and shouting, and then I am at Chez Gerard, and within one minute of signing in, I have a glass in my hand, and everything, everything, starts to immediately feel better.
Eight
The first thing that strikes me as unfamiliar is the smell. My laundry detergent smells like white linen. Even after a week there is always the faint smell of cleanliness, and before I even open my eyes, I’m aware that my sheets don’t smell the same.
My next thought is: What the hell am I lying on? It feels like I’m sleeping on my back (which, by the way, I never do), on a stick.
The thought after that, once I have opened my eyes, is: Where the hell am I?
I try to sit up, but can’t, and I reach behind me to feel a slab of bristles. There is a broom tucked into my T-shirt, and I pull it out, letting it clatter to the floor, clutching my pounding head as I wince, wishing that clattering of the