Connie has got it into her head that she wants to throw a party. The Bakers throw a lot of parties, they always have. They’re party people through to their souls. Over the years, Connie and Luke have thrown lavish Christmas, birthday, Easter and summer dos, any excuse. Connie is known for her incredible attention to detail and her generous hosting. I used to love them, I really did, but I haven’t been to one since Millie was born. I hate parties now. I find excuses. Some of Connie’s friends take their kids along but I never have. I tell Simon that I worry about drugs. Connie doesn’t indulge but a lot of her guests do. It’s not something I want Millie to be around. Truthfully, some of the people Connie mixes with leave me cold.

This is the third time she’s brought up the topic of us hosting a joint party, a ludicrous idea. The previous occasions were over the phone; I was able to say someone was at the door and cut the conversation short. This time, it’s harder to dodge. We’re sat face to face in a coffee shop in Covent Garden. I can’t even depend on one of the kids interrupting us because her three girls and Millie are all sitting at a different table. Fran, Connie’s eldest, is holding court the way only a thirteen-year-old can. Her younger siblings, Flora who is ten, Sophie age seven, and Millie are in her thrall. She’s showing them different apps on her phone. There’s no way any one of them will tear themselves away from that.

The café is a noisy, overly trendy place. Pricey but fun. It’s a novelty, being out in town after school. Normally Millie and I have a class or rehearsal to dash to. Unfortunately, because of her slip in the bath, Millie isn’t well enough to go to classes. I’m trying to make sure we enjoy the time that has been freed up, rather than resentfully dwell on Simon’s carelessness. Millie is laughing and giggling with the others. For a moment I’m able to forget the inch-long wound at the back of her head, flagged by matted, dirty hair. I can’t bring myself to wash it yet so we’ve been making do with dry shampoo.

‘Come on, Daisy,’ Connie insists. ‘It’s our anniversaries, we have to celebrate.’

As coincidence would have it, Simon and I share our anniversary, more or less, with Connie and Luke. We met at their first wedding anniversary party and married a year later. It was fast. Too fast? The thought springs into my head and I push it away, mortified by my subconscious betrayal. Things aren’t easy right now but that’s a terrible thought to have. I play with a sachet of sugar in the bowl on the table. I now see that when I was planning my big day, I should have given more thought to the fact we’d be forever sharing our anniversary with the Bakers. I didn’t because, after Simon proposed, all I was concerned with was securing the first date possible in the venue I wanted. I practically ran down the aisle.

‘Don’t you think a joint party will be fun?’ Connie asks.

I don’t. I can’t think why she’s suggesting it. The Bakers are not short of money, so I know they can’t possibly be motivated by splitting the cost. I can’t add anyone exciting to the guest list, we share our best friends and I don’t have any acquaintances that Connie would be keen to meet; I’m a Year Six school teacher, she’s a photographer for glossy magazines, she has the monopoly on glamorous friends. She’s not normally shy of being centre of attention. Honestly? I think I can go so far as to say it’s unusual for her to want to share the limelight. So why this sudden and ardent interest in us hosting a joint anniversary party?

‘It’s not really my sort of thing,’ I reply carefully. ‘People don’t make a big fuss of anniversaries unless it’s a round number,’ I point out. We’ve been married sixteen years; the Bakers have been married eighteen.

‘But why not? That’s a crazy rule! Every year is special.’ Connie has always had her own way of looking at things. To be fair it’s a brighter, more sparkling way than the rest of us and usually I enjoy her joie de vivre but sometimes she can be a tiny bit irritating.

‘I think Simon might have already booked something for us that weekend,’ I mutter. Connie widens her eyes sceptically, but is too polite to say this is very unlikely. I take care of all the social arrangements, I book our holidays, organise flights, car hire, bookings at Airbnb. Truth be known, I also deal with the less exciting admin: insurance, renewing the TV licence and reading the electricity meter to someone in a remote call centre. Simon isn’t the sort to surprise me with a mini-break.

‘I have to do something!’ she says, laughingly. Connie laughs a lot because her life is perfect. I know, I know, no one’s life is perfect but I’m up close and personal with hers and believe me, it is as near to perfect as I can imagine.

‘Fine maybe you do, but why do you need me and Simon to be involved?’

‘I don’t want to bag the date and make it all about me. Us,’ she quickly corrects herself, remembering to include Luke. ‘It’s your date too. It will look bad.’

‘Who to? I don’t care.’ I really don’t.

‘I’ll feel bad,’ she persists.

I might have agreed to a smaller, more intimate gathering. A dinner party for our nearest and dearest could be nice but that’s not Connie’s way. Connie’s wedding anniversary parties always echo the original, triumphant day, which was a glorious, no holds barred affair, full of possibility, romance and big flouncy skirts. Connie loves looking back at her wedding day. She had her old wedding video digitised and they watch it on every anniversary; I don’t doubt she has plans to play it at this party, if it goes ahead. I find taking a trip down memory lane more complex. Sometimes it’s just what I need, today I can’t face the thought of it.

Last night, I barely got any sleep. Simon came back late. He said he’d had to stay at work for an important meeting. If I’d lit a match near his mouth he’d have probably gone up in flames the alcohol fumes were that bad. When I asked him if he’d been to the pub he said yes, just for one beer, but that was a lie, he smelt of spirits and could barely walk in a straight line. I was so angry. It had only been a few days since his drinking and negligence had led to Millie’s accident. I’d hoped his remorse might last longer. We rowed. I called him a bloody liar, he said I was a sneaky bitch. We say some awful things to each other sometimes. Then I cried, he hugged me and told me he has it all under control, that I’ve got nothing to worry about.

You see, he is a bloody liar.

‘Do you think it’s over the top if Luke and I renew our vows?’ Connie suddenly asks. She doesn’t meet my eye but instead stares intently at her half-finished wheatgrass smoothie.

‘Do you need to renew them? Have you broken your vows?’ I ask with the flat honesty that a twenty-seven-year friendship allows. She did. Once. A long time ago. It was a drama. I really don’t want to hear if she has again.

‘No, I have not,’ she says quickly, self-consciously. ‘But I thought it would be romantic.’ She pauses and then, oh-so-casually adds, ‘I thought you might want to do it too. You and Simon.’

And there it is. Her reason for asking us to share a party with them. I had wondered. Now I understand.

It is a pity party.

Literally.

Scalding hot embarrassment seeps through my body, drenching me in shame. Connie beams at me but I know her too well, the smile is shadowed with concern. The side of her mouth quivers ever so slightly. ‘Simon popped round to ours last night.’ She’s trying to sound simply chatty, off-the-cuff. She fails. ‘He and Luke are working together on something at the moment and it needed discussing, so Luke had asked him to stop by.’

I nod as though I knew this already. I didn’t, Simon doesn’t often give me much detail about the projects he works on. He used to. My first thought is relief that his explanation for being late home wasn’t totally inaccurate. Going to see Luke to discuss work, even in a pub, is almost the same as having to stay behind for a meeting.

My tentative optimism is knocked back when Connie adds, ‘Only Simon wasn’t really up for talking about the project. He wasn’t making much sense at all, in fact. Just kept going on about how much Millie had loved camping in the garden. He was sort of fixated on that, you know.’

She doesn’t say it. She wants to say he was rambling and repeating himself, that he was drunk. I know she does because I’ve seen it often enough myself. There was a time when Connie might have dared call a spade a shovel but we’re more careful with each other now. More reserved.

When we were at university together and when we shared a flat after that, we saw each other every day of our lives, but that intimacy has been neglected. I can no longer open up to her without reserve. We’ve replaced one another. We’re married now and have been for a long time. That draws a curtain around certain things. Things like her explicitly saying my husband is a functioning alcoholic. She can’t say it until I do. I have no intention of doing so. We still love each other. I love her boldness, her candour, her volatility. Her panache. I’m also intimidated by all those characteristics too.

As usual, I try to change the subject. ‘I should have brought your camping stove back, I forgot all about it.’

Connie looks briefly impatient as she knows I’m dodging her point. ‘Simon returned it last night, actually.’

‘Oh good.’

‘Well, most of it. He’d mislaid the screw-on pan support bit.’

‘We’ll buy you another,’ I say quickly.

‘Oh wow, no. No need. I didn’t mean that. We never use it.’ She glances at her hands and then carefully says, ‘Luke put him in an Uber.’

They know. My friends know my marriage is quaking under the strain of Simon’s drinking. I’d hoped we’d hidden it well enough, but they know, and this is Connie’s clumsy attempt to fix things. She doesn’t understand that what she is suggesting – a party, a renewal of our vows – is a pathetic, inadequate Elastoplast put over an amputated limb. Her idea is idealistic, therefore idiotic. How could we stand up in front of our friends and family and say our wedding vows again? For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. It’s a crazy idea. For one thing, Simon rarely stands without swaying, he prefers to slump. He rarely speaks, instead he slurs. It would be utterly humiliating. I’m doing my best to hide, why would she think dragging us out, putting us under the microscope would be a good idea?

She clears her throat and carries on. ‘It might be fun to do something celebratory. I know you have a lot on your plate. Your mother-in-law being so ill, the pressure Simon’s under at work.’

I flash her a look that could freeze breath. ‘What do you know about his work?’

‘Luke made me go along to some corporate dinner the other week. Simon’s name came up amongst the guests there. They just mentioned that…’ she loses her confidence and trails off.

‘What?’ I demand hotly.

‘Well, his workload seems to be getting on top of him. They weren’t gossiping. Just saying,’ she adds hurriedly. Connie blushes. They, whoever they are, clearly were gossiping.

I need this conversation to stop. I need to put an end to this stupid idea of hers. I shake my head. ‘I’ll come to your party, we both will, but we can’t possibly renew our vows.’

‘I just thought it would be—’

‘No, Connie. Absolutely not.’ I’m rarely this forceful. Usually I don’t have it in me to argue with anyone other than Simon. Not the nurses in my mother-in-law’s care home, not the whingy parents of my pupils, not even the annoying cold callers that ring to ask if I’ve been in an accident recently, certainly not Connie who is wily and persuasive. She seems startled by my determination but, to my relief, she nods.

‘OK, I understand.’ She pauses and glances at Millie. ‘But you know if there’s anything we can ever do.’

‘There isn’t,’ I state, plainly.

‘If you ever need to talk.’

‘I don’t.’ I glare at her. I need her to drop this now.

On the whole, my friends and family seem prepared to look in the other direction when there’s evidence that Simon drinks too much. That he’s a functioning alcoholic. Oh yes, I know the label, I just don’t see what it achieves in bandying it around. Of course, I’ve asked him to get help; yes, I’d like him to go to a doctor, a counsellor, but he won’t. So what is there to discuss? My friends are understandably embarrassed, or at least they know I am, and in a truly British way, they don’t want to make a fuss. We’ve known each other since we were students. There isn’t one of us who hasn’t seen every other one of us totally plastered at some point or other, so to date they’ve made excuses for my husband. They laugh when he falls asleep at the dinner table or slips on their front step as we leave their home. As though it’s all one big joke. As though he is a big joke. This has suited me. I don’t know what to do to get him to stop drinking, this is a problem I can’t solve so I’ve been happy enough to ignore it. I thought, hoped, that one day he’d wake up and announce that the hangovers were no longer worth it, that he was going to buy a Fitbit and a bike and start getting healthy, that’s what most middle aged men do. But he hasn’t. Few of my friends get seriously drunk anymore, most abstain from drinking through the week and, other than Simon, I don’t know anyone who drinks through the day.

Now, I no longer know what I want from my family and friends. Do I really still want them to politely look away, to refuse to acknowledge what they evidently see? I don’t know how to ask for help or even accept it when it’s being offered up, as it clearly is by Connie, right now. Sometimes it feels like Simon and I are on a boat, an oar-less boat that’s drifting further and further out to sea. My sister and my friends are stood on the shore, watching us, aware we are in deep and dangerous waters but doing nothing other than waving at us; friendly but ineffectual. If Connie holds my gaze for a moment more I might just tell her. Simon isn’t coping. I’m not coping.

She shrugs, the moment vanishes. Lost. Well she offered. She can tell herself, and Luke too no doubt, that she’s done the right thing. She can congratulate herself on being a good friend without having the awkwardness of me telling her just how bad things are. She brightens up, almost instantly, nothing much depresses her for long. ‘But you’ll come, right? That’s great news. You haven’t been to one of my parties for ages. I’ll absolutely mention that it’s your special day in my speech.’

I don’t say anything, and she takes that for agreement. She often does. I’ll think of an excuse to get out of the party later. I slurp down my iced latte and say, ‘Look, we’ve got to go.’ I stand up, banging my leg into the small table in my haste. It shudders and the glasses rattle on their unnecessary saucers. The women on the table next to ours stare at me. I wonder whether I’ve spoken too loudly, sometimes I don’t judge those things as well as I ought to, not if I’m stressed. I use my school teacher voice, when really that should be limited to the classroom of eleven-year-olds.

Connie looks crestfallen. ‘Don’t you want to stay and make some plans? Talk about menus and things?’

‘It’s not really my forte, I’m sure whatever you decide it will be wonderful,’ I garble. ‘Millie, come along now, Daddy will be wondering where we are.’

This is unlikely, but Simon isn’t the only one who is a bloody liar.

Chapter 10, Simon

Sunday, 26th June 2016

Simon hated visiting his mother. He thought it was a waste of time. She often didn’t know who he was and, even if she did seem to temporarily recognise him, she forgets that they’d seen one another within an hour of his visit. But Daisy was adamant. She was religious about it. She visited every Wednesday after school and insisted that they all visit every Sunday. She said it was their duty. It was the right thing to do. She argued that even if Elsie’s relief was only temporary, she was cheered while they were there. This wasn’t always true, sometimes Simon’s mother just cried when they visited. Or swore, cussed at them in a way that would make a sailor blush and made Millie giggle inappropriately. Daisy always took flowers, which Millie liked to present to her grandmother with a little over-the-top flourish. Once Simon’s mother tried to eat the flowers. Millie laughed at that too, she thought her grandmother was being deliberately funny. Daisy never took chocolates; chocolate messed with Elsie’s digestive system. Daisy said that dealing with the aftermath wasn’t pretty.

Simon thought that it was a depressing hellhole, the care home. He understood that they tried, he wasn’t saying otherwise. The staff were friendly enough, and no doubt dedicated, conscientious, blah blah blah. But in the end, all he could see was an over-heated institution, where people went to die. You couldn’t polish that turd.

His father had died of a heart attack just a few years after Daisy and Simon married. At the time, his dad being cut down before he’d even retired, seemed like a tragedy. Now, Simon had redefined what tragic was.

‘Hey, do you remember that game show on TV?’ he asked.

‘Which game show?’ Daisy did not quite manage to hold in her sigh of frustration. She didn’t like his non sequential thoughts, his musings. She called them ramblings.

‘The one where people would carry buckets of water over greasy poles or rolling logs, and others would interfere, try to knock contestants off balance by squirting water or throwing custard pies. What was it called?’ Simon was excited by this thought. He really wanted to know the name of the show. It was on the tip of his tongue. ‘Knockabout, something like that…’

‘It’s a Knockout,’ offered Daisy.

‘It’s a Knockout, that’s right.’

‘What about it?’

‘Nothing.’ Simon turned and looked out of the window. It was a bright day. He wished he’d brought his sunglasses.

Even with his head turned away he could feel Daisy’s frustration. She wouldn’t have liked him to elaborate, though. Not really. He was thinking that sometimes life was something akin to a great big game of It’s a Knockout. The show was designed to emphasise skill or organisation. Brains mattered, strength and endurance too. People always started the game grinning, showing great determination and spirit but everyone ended up looking foolish; wet, exhausted, broken. Yeah, life was like that game except it wasn’t pies that were thrown, it was infertility, depression, madness, infidelity, death. No one was immune, no one was safe. You think you’re doing OK, drifting along, going to university, getting hired, getting laid, getting married, things are going well and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a great big blast of icy water knocks you off your greasy pole. Daisy wouldn’t want to hear him say that.

If they had to visit his mother every Sunday, Simon would have liked to do so in the mornings. It was not that he was a make-the-most-of-the-day sort of person, far from it. If anything, it was more of a get-it-over-with mindset. There were two main reasons for his preference. Firstly, if they arrived at 11 a.m. they had to leave at 1 p.m. because that was when the carers served the strained mush that they called lunch to the oldies, so the visit could be a maximum of two hours. Secondly, he liked to go out for long pub lunches, the sort that shimmered with the chance of swelling into the afternoon. There was nothing better in the winter than a roast, washed down by a bottle of red, maybe a couple of whiskies, in front of a fire. In the summer he was more of a G&T guy. The long lingering lunches weren’t possible if they had to be at the care home by 2 p.m. However, Daisy didn’t agree with Simon. She’d decided it was more convenient to visit his mother in the afternoon. That way she could take Millie to the dance studio for a private lesson in the morning and have a big meal in the evening. Millie wasn’t even dancing this week, but it seemed there was no room for flexibility. Simon was pretty sure Millie could be dancing again by now, she seemed as bright as a button, fully recovered. She was practically climbing the walls, she had so much energy to spend, but Daisy wouldn’t hear of it. Daisy was milking it, making more of the accident than need be. She was punishing him. Still. Even after the success of the garden camping. It didn’t matter what he did. How hard he tried. Daisy wasn’t the forgiving type.

She was such a hypocrite.

Daisy argued that the long, lazy lunches weren’t as much fun for her as she always drove. She did most of the driving when Millie was with them. She never said anything directly, but he knew she didn’t quite trust him, didn’t think he was quite up to it. It was insulting if you thought about it, so he tried not to think about it. In all honesty, he did have a bit of a thick head, it was probably best that she drove. Simon hated Sundays. They were swamped with a sense of dread and impending doom. He always had a shot of whisky before he visited his mother. It took the edge off. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d started this habit, a year ago? Maybe more.

Dr Martell was back in his head today. The fucker. He thought he’d pushed him out but, today, he’d crawled back in.

Daisy was such a hypocrite.

At first, Simon thought they were going to have a good afternoon with his mother. She was dressed appropriately, smartly in fact. His mother used to have standards, she was a consistently beautiful, elegant woman, but that was no longer the case. He hated it when he found her wearing someone else’s scruffy tracksuit, maybe because the staff had got the washing mixed up, maybe because she’d stolen it. Today she was wearing a neat blue dress, tights and shoes. Not mismatched socks and grubby slippers. Someone had brushed her thin, white hair; even put on a bit of lipstick for her. There was some on her teeth but that was not necessarily anything to do with dementia, Daisy often had lipstick on her teeth. Simon felt cheered and had a quick slug from his flask by way of celebration. But then Elsie started to talk, and Simon realised the lipstick was just a mask for the chaos.

‘Who is this?’ Elsie demanded imperiously, pointing at Daisy.

‘It’s Daisy, Mum. My wife,’ Simon explained unenthusiastically.

Unperturbed, Daisy kissed his mum’s cheek. ‘Hello, Elsie. You’re looking lovely today. What a chic dress. Look, we’ve brought you some flowers.’

Millie sprang forward. Everything was a performance for her. She beamed and held out the yellow roses.

His mum stared at Daisy, Millie and the flowers with a mix of hostility and surprise. Then her face melted. It was like water. One minute frozen, the next liquid. Simon thought that one day she would evaporate. ‘Thank you, they are beautiful,’ she said graciously. ‘So, you are the new wife, are you? I like you far better than the last one. She was podgy and giggly. A horrible combination.’

Daisy sighed. It was a fact that she used to carry a few extra pounds, something Simon’s mother – a lifetime borderline anorexic – hated with a level of ferocity that most people reserved for paedophiles. Also, when Simon first met Daisy, her thing was giggling. She would frequently erupt into chortles and even outright laughter, when most people were only moved to wryly grin in amusement. Simon had thought it was a result of being a teacher, always being around kids. She found life fun, entertaining. He liked it about her. Now, he’d say her thing was sighing.

‘I’ll go and see if the nurse has a vase,’ said Daisy.

‘Go with your mum,’ Simon instructed Millie.

‘It’s not a two-person job,’ commented Daisy. ‘Millie, stay with your grandma. Tell her what you’ve been up to at school this week.’

Millie looked from left to right, eyes swivelling between her parents. She was an obedient child and found it confusing when they issued conflicting sets of instructions. Which they did with increasing frequency. She hovered near the door, unsure what to do. Simon chose to ignore her. The moment Daisy left the room, he started to rummage through his mother’s bedside cabinet.

‘What are you looking for?’ Millie asked.

‘Bedsocks,’ he lied.

Elsie suddenly engaged. ‘Are you looking for this?’ She held up a large print book.

‘No.’

‘Are you looking for this?’ She waved a banana.

‘No, I said bedsocks,’ he muttered impatiently. Simon found the gin at the back of the cabinet, behind the bed socks. His uncle Alan brought his mother a half bottle every week. It was an irresponsible gift to give a dementia sufferer but, no doubt, Alan believed any comfort he could offer the old lady was justified at this stage. Every Thursday when Alan visited, he secreted a bottle in the cupboard and he believed Elsie knocked it back throughout the week. She didn’t, but the gift was gratefully received. Simon quickly put it in his laptop bag, which he’d brought for this purpose. Millie looked at her feet.

‘Is this what you are looking for?’ Elsie pulled out her hearing aid and shoved it under his nose. Simon could see her ear wax on the plastic.

‘No, I told you—’

‘What are you looking for?’ This time, the question came from Daisy. She was stood in the doorway next to Millie, holding the flowers which were now in a vase of water.

‘Nothing. She’s confused, you know what she’s like.’ He turned away and looked out of the window. There wasn’t much to see. A carer was pushing an old man in a wheelchair around the small garden. It took less than thirty seconds for them to do a lap. The silence in the room was deafening. Simon wished his mother would say something. She could usually be relied upon to talk nonsense to fill a gap.

Daisy carefully placed the vase on the bedside cabinet. She bent and closed the cupboard door. ‘What did you put in your bag?’

‘Nothing.’

The room wasn’t large and, in the same instant, they both reached for his laptop case. Simon was slightly speedier. He hugged it to his chest.

‘What are you hiding?’ Daisy demanded.

‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Simon insisted.

She started to try to prise the bag off him. Simon was taken aback that she was being so openly confrontational – what was wrong with her? – and so he momentarily slackened his grip. It was enough for her to get some purchase, she yanked the bag off him and opened it.

‘You brought gin here?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘No, I was taking it away.’

‘You were stealing her gin?’ She glanced at Millie who was trying not to look at her parents. Daisy’s shock was palpable. Simon felt it calcify, another layer of disappointment settling on their history.

‘Not stealing it. Taking it away for her own good. She shouldn’t be drinking. It messes with her meds. Alan brings her it every week.’

‘You steal from her every week?’ Daisy shook her head. Disgust oozed from her.

Simon didn’t answer. What was the point? She didn’t want to know. Not really. She’d prefer not to know that when he nipped into the other rooms, ostensibly to say hi to the other oldies, like a decent chap, he checked their bedside cabinets too. There was usually a quarter of whisky, a small bottle of sherry, at the very least. On a quiet week, he’d settle for a box of liqueurs. He told himself that he was doing them a favour. It was irresponsible to give la la old people alcohol. There could be accidents. He wasn’t stealing. They’d give it to him if he asked. They liked him. These old dears that smelt of pee. They all thought he was their son or husband. They didn’t know their arse from their elbow. Simon knew Daisy wouldn’t understand if he explained all of that, so instead he did the only thing he could think of, he lurched forward and grabbed the gin out of her hands. In an instant he’d unscrewed the top and started to down it. Glug, glug, glug. Temporarily, she was frozen. Then she reacted. She tried to knock the bottle out of his hand.

‘Stop it, Simon. For God’s sake, stop it.’

But if he stopped drinking she’d take it from him. He knew she would. She did succeed in spilling a fair amount down his shirt, which was a waste. He flopped back into the armchair and slung the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. It landed with a satisfying clunk. He yelled, ‘In the back of the net,’ and punched the air. Millie giggled, nervously.

Daisy looked like a fish, her mouth was gaping. She was swirling, sort of gauzy. She looked from him, to the wastepaper basket and back again. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

The air between them shuddered.

‘Him? Oh, he’s my husband. He’s always been rather too fond of the bottle, I’m afraid,’ said Elsie. She carefully patted the back of her hair with her frail, veiny hand. Then in a whisper, leaning towards Daisy, she added, ‘I find it’s best to ignore the matter. It doesn’t do to bring it up.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I only wish he had a hobby.’

Simon started to snigger. It was hilarious. It was just fucking hilarious.