Page 61 of Forgive Me Not
Emma:So is sober sex to be recommended?
Rachel:Oh definitely. You know… I cried afterwards. I’d experienced such an emotional connection. I never knew that was possible.
Emma:<3 <3
Rachel:So yes. Go for it. When you meet the right person. And that’s my last word on the matter. It wouldn’t be fair on Rick to talk about our sex life again. Oh God. Listen to me. I’ve developed a sense of integrity
Emma:We’re changing – I think it’s called growing up
Despite all the smiley faces, Emma still felt low hours later, as she got into bed. She was genuinely happy for Rachel, but her friend’s news just added to her dwelling on how selfish she’d been with Bligh and Joe. She couldn’t stop fidgeting. Didn’t meditate; didn’t fill in her gratitude journal or do her nightly reading. Didn’t do any of the things that kept her safe.
She closed her eyes tight and threw off the covers as if to get up, but then pulled them back. There was one thing she hadn’t told Rachel. On the way home today, she had stopped off at the off-licence. She hadn’t meant to, but they’d had a three-for-two sale. She’d hovered outside for a while, the fuck-it button looming large and bright, then decided it wouldn’t hurt just to go in and look. And now a bag by the front door contained a trio of white wine bottles calling her name.
3 months before going back
It was the end of March and Mother’s Day. This date was always going to be a hard one. Emma wished she hadn’t been rostered to go into work. The charity shop was humming with families who had been out for a celebratory lunch. Grandmas and daughters, grandkids in buggies…
Over the months, babies, prams had slowly become less prominent as she’d strolled around Manchester. The sharp yearning to have something of her own to look after had turned into a dull ache. She could appreciate now how tough it would have been to bring up a small child on her own during early sobriety – but none of that stopped today’s what ifs and if onlys.
Josephine would have been two months old and smiling.
She took an afternoon break but couldn’t manage a hot drink or a biscuit. All she could think about was those three bottles she still had at home, still unopened.
She said goodbye to her colleagues and hurried back to her flat with only one intention. She hardly felt the spray of water from a car speeding through a puddle near the kerb. When she got inside, she threw down her bag, shook off her jacket and went into her room. She pulled the bottles out from under the bed – proof that the old insanity had already started: where was the logic in hiding them from herself? She put two in the fridge and almost laughed at her sophistication. Then she grabbed a glass and put it, and the third bottle, on the coffee table. She sat on the sofa and stared at her two accomplices. The wine bottle winked.
Go on. Unscrew my top. You know you want to.
She leant forward, picked it up and ran her fingers down the smooth glass. Then she placed it back down on the table and put her head in her hands. That rambling narrative had already started in her head.
Go on, just have one, it really won’t hurt. You can start your resolutions again tomorrow. Yes, but then I’ll have lost all of these months’ hard work. No you won’t, it’s just a slip. But then what does that say about the new person I’m becoming – has it all been a sham?
Cue the identity crisis she hadn’t felt for a while. Who was she? Which was the real Emma – the drunk or the meditating charity worker?
A car backfired outside and she sat up. The bottle winked again and Emma began to unscrew the lid. She’d not gone to as many meetings recently, convinced that friends would see that she was almost tipping over the edge.
She twisted the lid shut again and put the bottle under the table, then jumped up and paced up and down. She knocked back a large glass of water. Flicked on the telly, then flicked it off. Ate a biscuit. Scanned a magazine. Finally she retrieved the bottle and carried it into the bedroom. The mattress creaked as she dropped onto the bed.
The bottle felt seductive. Inviting. Like an intimate friend. She crashed it down onto her bedside table and held her head in her hands again.
Fuck it. She deserved a drink for getting sober.
Tears trickled down her face as she acknowledged the insanity of that sentiment.
Teeth clenched, she grabbed her phone and went into WhatsApp.
Emma:Rachel?
Rachel:Hi, Emma? How are you doing?
How could she admit the truth?
Emma:You first. Things better today?
Rachel:A bit. Thanks again for the chat last night. You helped me realise that me and Rick splitting up… it’s for the best. I should never have started a relationship until my recovery was really concrete.
Emma:You sure you’re okay? How was it at work today? Was he still understanding about you needing to just focus on yourself?
Rachel:Awkward. He apologised. Said the last thing he’d want is to jeopardise my health. He didn’t realise about all my routines. It’s my fault I let them slip because of our relationship. I really like him still, Emma, but I can’t afford to risk going back to old habits. Not when things are finally getting back on track with Mum.
