stop drinking, and then, at five, or six, or seven o’clock, I tell myself it’s only one glass of wine, or one beer, or a quick drink, which surely won’t hurt, and then, bam! Cut to the next morning, waking up with spotty memories about what happened the night before, and always, always, feeling like shit.
I pick up the phone and call my mum. “Can we make it eleven?” I croak when she picks up the phone. “I’m not feeling so good.”
“Oh God, Cat. Again?” She’s used to these Saturday morning phone calls.
“I know. I’m sorry.” To my amazement, my eyes then well up with tears as my voice starts to crack.
“Mum? I think I need some help.”
* * *
An hour later I’m sitting opposite my mum in Sagne, fortified by several strong cappuccinos, four aspirin, and an almond croissant. I know they say the best cure for a hangover is a full English fry-up, but the thought of greasy bacon and fried bread, ever, is enough to make me throw up. A meltingly buttery almond croissant, with just the right amount of marzipan filling, does it every time.
“So,” says my mother, gazing at me with concern. “You need help with your drinking?”
Suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so urgent. When I spoke to her this morning my head was pounding, my mouth felt like three thousand squirrels had died in it, and I felt entirely desperate. Now, buoyed by painkillers, coffee, and sugar, I’m realizing that I completely overreacted.
“Sorry about that.” I am sheepish. “You caught me at a particularly bad moment. I was feeling like complete crap when I called, but I’m fine now.” I expect her to smile with relief, but when I look at her, she is frowning.
She is so very elegant, my mother. Her hair, dyed to within an inch of its life when my father was alive, was left to turn its natural salt and pepper once my father died and now, three years on, is a soft shade of whitish grey. She has it cut in an elegant bob, her skin still soft and smooth, her eyes that startling shade of green, which—thank you, God!—I have inherited, the one thing I have inherited from her.
It is no surprise that my father called me the changeling, because in truth I do not look like either of them, with the exception of my mother’s eyes. My father had that classically pale, wan British skin, a nose that was slightly beaky, although he always described it as aquiline, and thin lips.
My skin is naturally olive, hiding a multitude of alcoholic sins. Even when I am horrifically hungover, practically comatose with exhaustion, I never look pale or pasty or ill. My lips are full, and my hair is dark with streaks of gold that come out in the sun on summer holidays to hot places. As a child, I detested my looks, longing for mousy brown hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and thin lips. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, I am becoming more accepting, occasionally, only occasionally, looking at myself in the mirror and feeling both surprised and pleased at the face that stares back.
Still, it is not a face that resembles my mother’s. At twenty paces, and despite her having spent the vast majority of her life in this country, you would peg her for an American. Something in the way she holds herself, a confidence, her smile: and yes, she does have great big perfect white teeth (another thing, thank you, God, I have inherited).
She is slim and tall, and even in a pair of jeans and V-necked T-shirt, with an antique gold belcher chain around her neck and ballet flats on her feet, she is almost ridiculously elegant. More so now that she is able to dress as she wants. Her style is simple: she wears shades of greige, never a color, and always looks immaculate, even without makeup, even though she appears to make little effort.
I find it hard to believe she is my mother.
But she is, and I know her, and I know this frown, which is not a good frown.
I take a deep breath. “I really am fine. I just had a bit too much last night, and I always wake up feeling awful, but I don’t need help. I mean, clearly I’ve been drinking too much.” She looks up then, surprised I have admitted it. “I know I’m drinking too much, and I’m going to stop. I can’t