Simon’s proposal to me was a fairy tale. Textbook. Perfect. It was at my sister Rose’s house just before Christmas, on the twins’ first birthday. Simon and I had been dating for not quite six months. I wasn’t expecting a proposal, I didn’t so much as dare dream about it. Honestly, that’s true. If I did dream about it, I’d wake myself up because I didn’t want to jinx anything. Even the idea of Simon liking me enough to want to date me was mind-blowing, the possibility that he might one day propose was out of this world. So I was not expecting a ring. He was an amazing boyfriend though, I already knew that. I thought I’d be getting maybe a necklace for Christmas or something especially meaningful, like an early edition of Little Women, my favourite book. We’d had the conversation about favourite books. We’d had so many conversations, late into the nights. He was easy to talk to.

The setting was very romantic. Rose’s house was dressed for Christmas, there were fresh, green garlands and white twinkling lights everywhere. Rose’s ‘mum friends’ naturally all had kids about the twins’ age and many of them had other siblings too so there were smallies everywhere. As usual, I spent a lot of time playing with the children that were old enough to understand games like hide and seek. Everyone I cared for most in the world was at that party: my parents, my sister, her husband and children and, as my sister had sort of adopted my gang, many of my closest friends were there too, including Connie and Luke. Whilst I was playing rowdy games with the kids, I was constantly watching the door because Simon was late. His absence was profound. I suddenly realised that almost everyone in the world I most cared for was at the party, but not everyone. He’d leap-frogged into that special position in my heart. He was the most important.

I was beginning to imagine all sorts of dreadful scenarios like he’d fallen under a bus or, worse still, he’d gone off me. No doubt he’d ditched the toddler party and the robust redhead and was sipping gin and tonics in a bar somewhere with a leggy brunette. Then suddenly, I spotted him. He was dressed as Santa with padding, a fake beard, a sack, the lot. I was pretty cross with Rose for roping him in for such a job; I couldn’t believe he’d really be comfortable with the role. On the other hand, I was totally delighted because he’d agreed to do it. I mean, no matter how shaky my self-esteem may have been, even I understood that a boyfriend dressing as Santa to entertain your baby nephews and their sticky, noisy, tiny friends, was an act of devotion. I intercepted him under the mistletoe. Giggly, blushing, breathless.

The kids that were old enough to have a clue about what was going on were rustled into a line and Simon did the whole ‘ho ho ho’ thing. He followed the traditional script and asked each child what they wanted for Christmas and whether they’d been good that year. They nodded their little heads, wide eyed and expectant. On cue he delved into his huge sack and produced a present; I can’t remember what the gifts were, something tacky and plastic. I remember being surprised because I’d thought Rose would opt for chocolate coins and wooden puzzles. I do remember the children’s happy, excited faces. Their pink rosebud mouths lisping thank yous, following the prompts of their watchful mothers.

When all the children had received their treats and were beginning to get restless about what would come next in the constant stream of entertainment and goodies, Simon yelled above their noise, ‘There is one girl who hasn’t told Santa what she wants for Christmas, yet.’ He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto his knee. I was this exquisite mix of mortification and total utter joy. I’d never been happier than in that moment. I’m not normally a fan of being in the limelight and I’ve never been a fan of sitting on men’s knees, I feel too hefty and it’s uncomfortable. I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks, but still, I was delirious with happiness.

‘Now, Daisy, have you been good this year?’

I heard one of my friends make a joke referencing something lewd I’d told her, and I promised myself to stop over-sharing. I tried not to be distracted as I replied, ‘Quite good.’

‘Well, as much as I hate to disagree with you, I think you’ve been more than quite good. You’re wonderful and so I have a special present for you. If you’ll accept it.’

I didn’t guess. I heard my friends whisper that it was probably flights to somewhere exotic, but I couldn’t think clearly enough to hazard a guess, I was so in the moment. Overwhelmed. The room was tight with anticipation and excitement, everyone loves a bit of romantic theatre. At least we did then, now I wonder whether we’d all feel a bit embarrassed if one of us put on a similar show. You get too old for such blatant romance. Too weary, I suppose.

He continued, ‘In fact, you are unbelievably good. I never thought that I’d meet anyone quite so good, special and amazing.’ His voice was thick and heavy with sincerity and intent. ‘So, I would be honoured, ecstatic, if you’d accept my gift.’ Then he reached into his sack one more time and pulled out a small ring box. Suddenly everyone else disappeared. I mean, I know they were there, the collective intake of breath nearly starved the room of oxygen, but suddenly they didn’t matter to me, not my sister, my parents, my nephews, my friends, no one mattered, except him. His shiny eyes, his dark curly hair, his hopeful nervous smile. ‘Will you make me a very happy man, in fact, the happiest man alive, and agree to be my wife?’

Apparently, I screamed then repeatedly yelled ‘Yes’. I can’t remember that, but it seems reasonable. I can imagine it would be something I’d do. The happiness was almost painful, it was so complete and beautiful that, even whilst I was slipping the diamond on my finger, I was thinking This can’t last. This is too good. So, in that moment I was never happier or more afraid.

Everyone in the room cheered and applauded. People started singing, ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. That seems quaint now. It’s a lifetime ago. There was hugging and congratulating, lots of kissing and some crying and champagne corks popping; it was a luminous, glistening moment. Later, Simon confirmed that he’d come up with the entire plan on his own, not just the bit about giving me my ring in that way, but dressing as Santa, giving all the gifts to the children, everything. I worked out as much that evening, when we were snuggled up in his bed, post-coital, emotionally and physically elated and exhausted. The gifts were the tell. If Rose had been in charge she would have chosen different presents for the children, something less fun.

It was such a thoughtful, individual, perfect proposal. For a long time, I believed that moment would stay gleaming in my mind for ever, but it’s tarnished now. I’m embarrassed for them. That hopeful young woman, that ambitious young man, because we let them down. I have no idea where that man went.

Or that woman, come to think of it.

Chapter 12, Simon

Wednesday, 13th July 2016

The TV woke him up. He tried to focus, but it was tricky. There were a lot of voices talking across one another. What was he watching? Four middle-aged women, sitting on stools around a breakfast bar. They were wearing bright tops, but the gaiety was cancelled out by their angry faces. They were arguing although not with each other. Simon listened for a moment or two, long enough to gather they were angry with some man, or some male thing, yet there were no men there to shout at so they were shouting at each other and in general. It was almost funny.

He knew what it was, he knew it. Daisy loved this show. It was Loose Women. He didn’t know how he knew that, he was hardly the target audience, but he did. He felt remembering the name of the show was something. A small victory. Daisy sometimes watched it in the school holidays. A guilty pleasure when she was ironing or doing something with Millie, crafting or whatever. It must be mid-morning. Why was he asleep in an armchair mid-morning? His head was fucking killing him. It was pulsing, pounding. He must be ill. That was it. He was off work because he was ill. He searched about for the remote control and noticed an empty bottle of red wine and an empty bottle of whisky at his feet. He ignored them. They didn’t make sense. Finding the remote was all that mattered. He had to mute the angry women. If only life was as easy. Unfortunately, even when he managed to shut them up, the screaming and yelling continued in his head. He didn’t know if it was real, or something he remembered, or just something he was imagining. It was sometimes hard to tell.

Simon looked out of the window, it was pitch black, dead of night, not mid-morning. He turned back to the TV confused. Definitely Loose Women. It took longer than it should but then he took a stab at sorting it out in his mind – it had to be a late night repeat. He checked his watch; it was tricky to focus, he couldn’t quite see the illuminated numbers. He was really ill. Maybe hallucinating, a fever? He’d heard something was going around, something serious. It was 3.15 a.m. Or maybe 5.15 a.m. He didn’t know or care. Not really. What was that smell? It was disgusting. Puke and sweat.

He noticed that his shirt and the arm of the chair were covered in vomit. Some of it had solidified, some of it still oozed. Sloppy and shaming. He peeled off his shirt, balled it up, tried not to let the puke slide onto the floor. He walked through to the kitchen and dropped the soiled garment on the floor, in front of the kitchen sink. He realised that he probably should put it in the washing machine, but he couldn’t, not right then. Too much effort. He wasn’t up to it. He was ill. Daisy would sort it out when she got up. He tried to remember yesterday. Had he come home from work sick? Had he gone into work at all? Maybe this was not a bug, maybe he’d had a few jars, eaten a curry with a bad prawn. He couldn’t remember eating. The puke didn’t smell of curries or prawns.

He needed a drink. Water maybe? No, a beer. A beer would be best. Hair of the dog. Because yes, he realised now this was most likely a hangover. Off the scale, a different level, but a hangover all the same. His hands were freezing, his vision was blurred. Not a hangover then, he was still drunk. It would be best to keep on drinking.

As he opened the fridge, the light spilt out on to the kitchen and he nearly dropped the bottle in shock.

‘What the fuck are you doing, sitting in the dark?’ he yelled.

Daisy sighed. She’d been crying. He could tell. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face blotchy. Simon realised, with a slow sense of regret, that it had not just been a late night but an emotional one, too.

Here it was. Off they went.

‘I stayed up to check you didn’t choke on your own vomit,’ she said with another sigh. Like, how was it possible to have that much air and disappointment to expunge? It couldn’t be for real, could it. There had to be an element of theatre to it, a sense of drama. She had her hands wrapped around a mug, the very picture of wifely patience. It fucked him off. Her patience – or at least her show of it – her acceptance, her constant understanding, it all fucked him off. Because it wasn’t real. It wasn’t her. He didn’t believe it. Not anymore. It would be more real if she showed she was angry. He wanted her to be angry. Like him.

He was swaying, ever so slightly. He needed to sit down. Just as he was about to do so, his body collapsed below him. He sent a wooden kitchen chair toppling, his head thumped against the corner of a unit. The pain was blunted by his state, but in the morning there would be a bump. His body relaxed into the pain, working through it. He’d learnt this technique now. Sometimes when he was drinking he hurt himself by accident. One evening, he fell down some steps in town, another time he walked into the closed patio doors thinking they were open. It was best to roll with the pain. Not to fight it.

‘Oh Simon.’ He could hear pity and despair in Daisy’s voice.

He felt warm and then cold, his thighs. He could smell something beneath the puke and sweat. It was a dark and acidic smell. It was piss. He’d pissed himself.

He woke up, he was in bed. He was relieved. Sometimes, he didn’t get to bed. He fell to sleep on a chair in the sitting room, on a bench in the street, or on the train home. That was the worst. He’d be carried to the last stop on the route and then woken up by a ticket inspector. He couldn’t always get an Uber. Occasionally he’d slept on stations, caught the first train home in the morning. Waking up in his own bed was a bonus. He put his fingers to the back of his head where it ached, not just the usual hangover ache, something more specific; there was a lump, but he couldn’t feel any stickiness, no blood. There weren’t any bottles next to his bed. He was naked but smelt clean. It didn’t add up.

Daisy was not in bed. As he sat up he noticed she was dozing on the chair in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was normally covered in discarded clothes. She heard him stir and her eyes sprung open. Always a light sleeper. Instantly, her face was awash with anxiety, resentment, disappointment.

‘Morning,’ Simon said brightly. Best to style this out. Clearly there had been something but as yet he couldn’t recall exactly what that something was, so he wasn’t worried. He was in his own bed, there wasn’t a bucket or any bottles by his side. He was good. ‘What time is it? I need to get to work.’ As he asked this, he swung his legs out of bed. The movement was too sudden, too energetic. He felt like crap. His body ached and shook but he was good at ignoring that, good at hiding how awful he felt, how awful he was.

Daisy checked her watch. ‘It’s noon, just after,’ she muttered tonelessly.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I took a personal day.’

Simon snorted. ‘Is that a thing now?’

She ignored his sarcasm. It was unusual for Daisy to take time off work, unprecedented actually. Simon was not sure he wanted to know why she’d done so. He asked the more pressing question instead, ‘Did you call my boss too?’ Simon calling in sick was not unprecedented and although Daisy didn’t like doing it for him – made a big fuss about how she hated lying – she had done so in the past. The truth was, she was a better liar than she made out.

‘You really can’t remember, can you?’ she asked.

‘Remember what?’

Another sigh, more of a puff. She really was honestly a tornado of regret and dissatisfaction. ‘You don’t have a job. You were fired yesterday.’

‘What the fu— What are you talking about? Fired? No.’

‘You turned up late and drunk, again. But this time you were aggressive with the client and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Your boss has been looking for an excuse for a while. You know he has.’

She was wrong. She was being a bitch. Dramatic. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.

‘You didn’t tell me. Luke did.’

‘Oh, Saint Luke,’ Simon snapped, snidely.

‘I don’t know why you are being like that. He’s your best friend. I called him last night when you came home legless and making no sense. He filled me in on the details.’

Simon dropped his head into his hands and tried, really fucking hard, to remember what she was going on about. But he couldn’t. Nothing. Yesterday was nothing. The last thing he remembered was leaving home, catching the tube into Covent Garden. But he did that most days, he wasn’t sure if that was a specific memory or just something that he knew happened.

Daisy looked disbelieving. She thought his memory – or lack of it – was convenient, that he blanked out what he wanted. Right now, Simon thought the blackout was inconvenient. He wanted to know how and why he’d lost his job. Or at least, he probably wanted to know.

So, she told him. Her version, or Luke’s version, some bloody version but he couldn’t imagine it was the truth. He wasn’t drunk when he turned up at the office. Maybe, they could smell alcohol on his breath. Occasionally, he had a nip from his flask as he walked to the station. It was no big deal. Not drunk. And a nip in his coffee, too. Sometimes. Some people like maple syrup in their coffee, he liked whisky. It didn’t mean anything. It certainly wasn’t a dependency. What the hell? No. He was a creative, an interior designer, no one could expect him to work to a rigid schedule, he needed space. He needed freedom. Who puts a meeting in a diary at 10 a.m. anyway? It was uncivilised. And the client was a dick. OK, Simon could see that it wasn’t perhaps his wisest move, calling him the c-word for suggesting mushroom for the colour palette. Maybe that was hard to come back from. Simon didn’t really know why he had been so against mushroom, except he’d been thinking something brave, something bold. That’s what they pay him for, right? His ideas. Why wouldn’t they listen to him? He did not believe that he wasn’t able to stand up properly. They felt threatened. By him? That was just bullshit.

She made a big thing about saying she couldn’t account for his afternoon. Apparently, he stormed out of the agency or maybe security threw him out; she wasn’t totally clear on this point. Someone who knew that they were mates had called Luke, who had spent his afternoon looking for Simon. And that made him some sort of god in Daisy’s eyes. She kept going on about how good it was of him, how inconvenient. ‘He has a job of his own, you know, besides being your babysitter,’ she snapped bitterly. ‘Can you imagine how embarrassing it was for him? Since he’s the one that introduced the client to your firm in the first place. He is always putting work your way. If you ask me it’s the main reason the agency have kept you on as long as they have.’

‘That’s just bullshit. I’m good at what I do and they know it.’ Simon was sitting naked on the edge of the bed. His penis flaccid, his head is in his hands. What did this woman want from him? She was stripping away his manhood with her tongue. If what she was saying was true, he’d just lost his fucking job, how about some support please? Some sympathy. She told him that he came home at midnight, that he was ‘awkward’. He fell over in the kitchen and wouldn’t come to bed. He couldn’t remember any of this, but he believed her on that last point. He didn’t want to go to bed with Daisy. The thought was a hideous one. After what Martell had told him. Besides, sex is nothing compared to booze. Sex was messy and demanding, it came with secrets, never-articulated caveats and demands. It lied. Booze was pure. Generous. Easy.

‘You threw up on yourself. I stayed up all night, checking on you every thirty minutes to see you hadn’t choked,’ added Daisy. Simon tutted. Her martyrdom was boring. What did she want? A medal? ‘You peed yourself,’ she added, exasperated.

‘Then how come I’m clean now?’ Simon challenged. He couldn’t believe Daisy had dragged him upstairs if he was in the state she said he was.

‘I called Luke. He came around at four in the morning. He helped me get you upstairs and into the shower. We hosed you down.’

She was a lying bitch. He knew she was.

Chapter 13, Daisy

Saturday, 23rd July 2016

I have never been so desperate to get to the end of a term. It breaks my heart to close the door behind me every morning, knowing Simon is most likely going to spend the day in bed drinking, or slouched in front of the TV drinking. Without the pretence that he’s going into work, I fear the ‘functioning’ part of the label ‘functioning alcoholic’ is null and void. It’s desperate. He isn’t shaving, or even showering. He’s barely speaking. Still, I’ve kept it together. I have responsibilities. Millie, Elsie and my job. I’ve told Millie that Daddy is a bit poorly which is why he isn’t going to work.

‘Has he got a poorly head again or is his tummy upset?’ she asks innocently. ‘Poor Daddy. He’s often ill. He needs to see a doctor.’ Out of the mouths of babes. I don’t want to leave him alone more than I have to, but I honour my commitment to visit Elsie. Despite what Simon says, I think Elsie does enjoy our visits; maybe she can’t anticipate them or even remember them but when she’s in the moment, they seem to bring her some ease. Usually. Unfortunately, this week, she’s picked up a urinary tract infection which is common in dementia sufferers, and she’s had bouts of terrible hallucinations and intense paranoia. She threw things at me when I went into her room, she thought I was an undertaker and had come to measure her up. I’ve tried to concentrate on my class, who are all excitedly looking forward to their summer holidays and to the idea of going to big school after that. I busy myself writing reports and rehearsing for the end of year assembly. I manage to warmly thank my students and their parents for their thank you gifts of chocolate and cava but all the time I’m at school, my mind and heart are with Simon.

What are we going to do? My first thought is his health but I’m also concerned about money. How will we pay the mortgage with only my salary? Who will give him a job now? No one in their right mind.

Thank goodness it’s the holidays and I can have some breathing space. I’m only just holding on and I know I need to do more than that. I need to hold us together.

The last thing I want to do is go to Connie and Luke’s anniversary party. I had not expected Simon to so much as remember it, let alone want to attend. I thought shame would keep him away. I can barely stand the idea of facing Luke, but Simon doesn’t have the same sensitivities. He wakes up on Saturday morning and is buoyant about the idea of going.

‘We’re going, Daisy. We promised Connie and Luke,’ he says. As though he’s a regular guy and keeping his word is important to him. The fact is, parties mean alcohol. Lots of free-flowing alcohol. They also mean dancing, catching up with old friends and eating gorgeous nibbles, but none of that is important to Simon. For him a party only means alcohol. Lots of people will be drinking to get drunk. He’ll fit right in.

I haven’t seen my friends since Simon was sacked. I’m avoiding them. My sister Rose called as soon as she heard but I fobbed her off. ‘Connie has exaggerated things wildly,’ I told her. ‘You know how she is.’ In fact, the account of Simon’s dismissal that Rose relayed to me, gifted to her from Connie, was less sensational than what really occurred. I guess Luke did us a favour of playing down how dreadful the whole episode was. ‘The truth is Simon and his boss came to a mutually agreeable decision to part ways. Simon is looking for new creative challenges,’ I insisted.

‘Really, Daisy?’ my sister asked, concern oozing from her voice.

‘Rose, I’d tell you if there was anything seriously wrong.’

‘Would you?’

I’d want to. That’s almost the same thing. My sister and I used to confide everything in each other. Then that stopped being possible. I no longer believe a problem shared is a problem halved. I know it for what it is, double the trouble. Some secrets must stay just that. I don’t want to go to this party. The thought leaves me feeling panicky and breathless. Even before Simon’s humiliating dismissal, I’d had no intention of going. Throughout the day I try to persuade Simon that we shouldn’t bother.

‘Let’s just stay in, have a quiet night,’ I suggest.

‘What’s the matter, Daisy? Are you afraid everyone will be gossiping about us?’

‘I just don’t like parties. You know I don’t.’

‘The sooner you start to behave as though nothing is wrong, the sooner everyone else will believe that is the case,’ he replies smugly, unrepentant, as though it was me who soiled my clothes and had been hosed down by my best friend. I know what he says is true, but it smacks of wallpapering over the cracks, rather than fixing the problem. Something I can do and have done for a long time. I just don’t think I want to anymore. I get the feeling that if I carry on that way, the whole house might fall down around me.

‘My parents can’t babysit. They are going to a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. They already have tickets.’ I offer up this problem, but I didn’t expect it to matter to Simon.

‘Why haven’t you sorted out a sitter sooner?’ he asks crossly, then adds, ‘We can take her along.’

That’s not happening. No way. I nip over the road and arrange for Millie to sleep at her friend India’s. Millie and India are in the same class, that and the proximity of their homes means they’re best friends. The pair of them are always in and out of each other’s houses, having meals, watching TV, playing in the garden, but this will be their first official sleepover. Millie is deliriously excited.

Early afternoon, Millie and I nip out and buy popcorn because India tells me her mum has promised sparkly nail varnish and facemasks. I’m not sure that I approve of six-year-olds wearing nail varnish, and they definitely don’t need facemasks, but on the other hand, I once read a feminist book that argued grooming rituals are an important part of female bonding. I don’t want to pour cold water on the plan. What harm can a single at-home-spa-night do? Whenever I feel a tidal wave of fear or shame, and I consider backing out of the party, just staying at home and using looking after Millie as an excuse, I remind myself that Millie would be upset if her sleepover didn’t go ahead.

It’s been a hot, sticky day. The air is thick and heavy. I can almost taste it. It climbs down my throat. Choking me. I start to get dressed without any enthusiasm. I know Connie and Rose have both bought something new to wear tonight. If I judge from the excited frenzy of social media of my friends and acquaintances, it seems as though half of London has done so. Connie’s parties are something people get excited about. I’d rather be doing anything else.

I stand in front of my open wardrobe. I’m currently wearing black linen trousers and my beige seen-better-days bra. The trousers were once fashionable, they no longer are, and it’s always hard to look smart in linen. I half-heartedly flick through the tops that droop unimpressively on hangers, nothing looks especially ‘party’. It surprises me how many of my white T-shirts are stained yellow under the arms. Other tops are bobbled with wear or have faded. Mostly, these things are only fit for gardening or housework. The close, uncomfortable, evening means that although I’ve just showered my skin is already damp and clammy. Still, I’m definitely going to wear trousers. My legs look like they are wearing a mohair jumper. I’m never waxed and ready anymore. I’ve let myself go. The truth is, I couldn’t care less about what I wear tonight, I don’t want to stand out. I’d rather not draw attention, although I fear I will, or Simon will. However, I have my pride. If we must attend, then I need to put my best foot forward. No one can know how bad things are.

I dig out a blue, cotton top, it’s old but reliable. I blow-dry my hair even though my arms are heavy. Reluctantly I put on makeup. I don’t tackle eyeliner because my hands are shaking too much. I think I look OK. I pop across the road with Millie, to drop her off at India’s. The girls are giddy and talk excitedly about their impending manicures and ‘camping’ in India’s bedroom. I must admit, Simon has ignited something with his evening under the stars. It’s certainly a more wholesome activity than a spa night. As Simon isn’t working and we have weeks of holiday stretched out in front of us, I wonder whether there’s any chance that we could do a proper camping trip this summer. It’s not my natural comfort zone but maybe I should make the effort. Another effort. I know Simon has experience, maybe it would be good for him to be able to take charge of something; showcase his strengths. If the weather holds it might be fun. Importantly, if we’re camping, I could ensure there was no booze, or at least limit it. Would a break like that help clear Simon’s head?

I doubt it, but I simultaneously hope for it. Something has to change.

We can’t go on as we are.

I could ask Connie if we could borrow all her camping equipment again, so it wouldn’t have to cost much. A change in our routine might be just what we need. At least we’d find some time to talk. Because, the thing is, whilst I don’t want to talk to Rose or Connie about my troubled marriage, I find I do want to talk to Simon. You see, despite everything, I still love him.

We’ve been through bad patches before. Awful, terrible times. And it has got better before. Surely it can get better again. It has to.

For a moment, I’m brushed with a sense of determination. I can and must turn things around. What I feel is not the same as optimism but I’m a breath closer to being resolved. I kiss Millie goodbye and tell her to be good for India’s mummy, then I cross back over the road to ours. I will drive to the party tonight. I’m certainly not bothered about having a drink and if I have the car with me I can bring back the camping equipment. We could go away somewhere next week. We could press reset. Why not?

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