Page 127 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
‘Oh dear. Well, put some lipstick on and smile, darling. It will detract from the puffy eyes.’
‘I don’t feel like smiling.’
‘That’s precisely when you need to,’ said Mum briskly. ‘Now pull yourself together, grab those bottles and load up Roger’s car.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘Drunk Stephen’s been at the paddock for the last hour with Dad, getting it ready. He’s a treasure. Worked like a Trojan all day. Unlike you, Alice. Arrie’s fed the boys and they’ve just set off on foot with Astrid and Aziz. So, all we need to do is load up the last few things and drive down with Roger.’
‘I need water.’ I went over to the sink. As soon as my back was safely turned towards her I asked, ‘What about Matthew?’
‘I don’t know if Astrid’s managed to persuade him to come. We’ve barely seen him recently.’
I closed my eyes, and tried to block out the dull pain.
‘Right,’ said Roger, ‘the Landy’s nearly full. How much more, Nell?’
‘Just these bottles, Roger darling,’ said Mum. ‘And the pink napkins. And ice! We need more ice. Thank goodness we went for an early evening party – hottest day of the year so far. Did you know that, Alice?’
‘I suspected,’ I said, sweat blooming already.
We’d just pulled out of the driveway when Mum remembered her mobile phone. ‘It’s charging in the sitting room. On the bureau. I left it when I picked up the cards.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I said, climbing out the back, ‘and catch you up.’
‘Be quick,’ said Mum. ‘The other guests are coming from six.’
And it was only when I was reaching behind the bureau to retrieve Mum’s phone, which had fallen behind, that I started remembering little snippets from the night before…
Last night, whilst everyone was sleeping (not Drunk Stephen) I’d crept down and sat at the bureau, swaying slightly from my cocktails, and hunted through the cubbyholes for paper. I was set on cream paper. BecauseThe Guidetold me it was best. I couldn’t find cream paper – only white A4. Oh god, with the bent genius of the thoroughly inebriated, I’d decided to craft cream paper myself: I’d gone to the kitchen, brewed some Earl Grey and daubed the paper like I did at school for my pirate project in Year 5. And then I’d had to dry the paper so I’d put it in the oven. I put my hands to my eyes in shame. Me in the state I was, dicking around with combustibles; it was like the start of aWhat’s Your Emergency? Then what did I do? I looked at my hands; there were blotches of purple on the palms. Purple ink. I used purple ink because that was all we had although I wanted blue to symbolise the ‘endless bounty of the Universe’. I’d wanted cream paper and ink because I was totally and utterly set on writing a letter.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Suddenly I remembered everything with horrific clarity: I was totally and utterly set on writing an entire letter. To Matthew Lloyd.
And then, once I’d written it, I let myself out the back door. Oh shit on a brick. I’d folded the letter and stuffed it into an envelope out on the lawn, trying to stare up at the moon, which was weirdly big and pink and becauseThe Guidesaidto. I was so pissed I’d fallen over and then I’d lain there, on the grass, trying to focus on the moon and talking to it about Matthew until the dew had chilled me, and then I’d finally stumbled indoors, not shutting the door behind me and put the letter back in the bureau, ready to give to him.
. . . I opened the bureau, my heart tripping over itself in panic. There was the bottle of ink and the ink pen. And envelopes. I sifted through them frantically. Where was my letter? I checked again and then through all the little cubbyholes, pulling everything out and searching. I checked behind the actual bureau. And under it. And under the sofas and the sofa cushions and in the drawers and under the drawers. I yanked everything out and checked everywhere.
Then, I stood, staring at the bureau, amidst the chaos I’d created, a cold trickle of realisation running down through my spine. The letter was no longer here. If it was no longer here, logically it must be somewhere else. What if, though, it was with someoneelse? Mum said she picked up the cards from the bureau; what if my envelope had been taken to the paddock by accident? What if Mum was there, right now, handing my drunken, desperate letter to Matthew?
I’ve not really run full speed since Year 11 and the 200 metre on sports day, but despite a horrific hangover and the searingly hot June temperature, I got to the paddock in under seven minutes. It was a cavalcade of sprinting, limping and weeping, a distillation of sports relief. I nearly collapsed before the paddock gate but managed to collapse onto it, feeling the relief as it took my weight for a moment, whilst I tried to catch my breath. In between rasps, I noticed the bunting strung between tree branches and the trestle table,slightly bowed under the weight of pitchers and bottles and glasses, the hay bales, the floral cushions, jam jars with tea lights. The hedgerows were verdant; cornflowers joined the poppies and clouds of cow parsley, gently rolling hills of yellow and green beyond the paddock giving way to clear blue sky. There was a hive of activity and they were all there, Dad and Mum, Roger and Arrie and the twins, Astrid, Aziz, Drunk Stephen and… oh.
Matthew Lloyd.
My breathing hitched up a notch again.
Ernie saw me first. ‘She’s here, Aunty Alice is here.’
‘Get a wriggle on,’ shouted Arrie, from by the table. ‘As soon as Matthew and Aziz have done the last lanterns we’re having a family toast before all the guests arrive.’
I tried to speak but it came out as a wheeze, and then I got an excruciating pain in my side. So I held up an arm and stayed there, bent double.
Dad came over to me, full of concern. ‘What’s wrong, darling? You look dreadful. Astrid! Is Alice having a heart attack? Darling?’
Astrid took one look at me. ‘Did you run, Alice?’
I managed to nod through the agony.
‘Stitch?’
