market and buy herself a gorgeous, light-filled flat on Marylebone High Street.
My mother has come alive again. She has filled the roof terrace with terra-cotta pots, geraniums and honeysuckle spilling over, clematis climbing up the trellis that hides her from her neighbors and allows her to sunbathe naked, which she does whenever the weather gives her the opportunity.
She has a cat (my father hated cats, which, really, should have been an instant warning sign—never trust a man who doesn’t like children or animals, and it seemed to me that my father didn’t particularly like either), a wardrobe of beautiful clothes, most of which are picked up downstairs in the Whistles sale, and a busy social life with her new townie friends.
We have plans to meet this morning at Sagne, which is something of a tradition on a Saturday, even though I am usually, as I am this morning, suffering the effects of the morning after.
It wasn’t quite so bad last night, though. No parties. I had dinner with Jamie, my on-again, off-again person. I can’t call him my boyfriend, because he is most definitely not my boyfriend, but he’s also most definitely more than a friend. What he is, most of all, is convenient. Jamie’s the person I can call, anytime, if I’m feeling horny, or talkative, or simply bored. I still can’t quite figure out why we haven’t been able to take the next step, because we do have great sex (although, honestly, most of the time I barely remember), and we do have great conversation, and it seems this should be enough, particularly given that neither of us seems to be able to name the one thing that is missing that would seal this deal.
He’s already left, for which I am grateful. I know what I look like first thing in the morning after a night of drinking, and it isn’t pretty. Although Jamie’s seen me like this many times before, I keep thinking I won’t do it again, and because he and I both know that’s not true, he’s taken to leaving while I’m still asleep. It slightly protects our integrity.
Last night we walked down to Regent’s Canal and had dinner in that restaurant that’s on a barge. It was lovely and romantic, and I wish to God I hadn’t polished off the martinis and all the wine, because the streets along the canal are at their most beautiful at this time of year, and I really would love to have strolled through, enjoying them.
If I recall correctly, it was more of a stumble than a stroll. Jamie had to keep catching me and steering me straight. I have no idea whether we had sex or not, but he says he usually stays now just to make sure I’m okay. Of course I’m okay.
Hang on. Something’s coming back to me. Last night. We had a fight. On the way home. Oh God. I groan and bury my face in the pillow, as if that will somehow make this memory go away, but it won’t; it’s still here, and I wish I didn’t have to remember.
Jamie is worried about my drinking. He started to tell me I was drinking too much, and I went ballistic on him. I shouted at him all the way along Blomfield Road. I don’t remember what I said, only his stricken face.
He didn’t stay the night. Now I remember. He said he wasn’t going to do this anymore, that he couldn’t watch me destroy myself in this way. He said all of my friends were worrying about me, and that at twenty-nine I was still acting like I was ten years younger, and it was time for me to grow up and start becoming responsible.
I remember screaming something about being responsible, I owned a flat, for God’s sake, and I had a steady job, and he knew nothing about me.
I open one eye and look over at the right side of the bed, which is, unsurprisingly, empty. Of course he didn’t stay the night and creep out early. He made sure I got home, and—I look down at myself, in a T-shirt and pajama pants—yes, undressed me, and then he left.
I am awash with shame. I may be on my own, but my cheeks are burning. He’s right. I can’t stand this. I can’t stand waking up every morning feeling like shit. I can’t stand waking up every morning swearing that I will never do this again, that today is the day I