Page 54 of The Art of Loving You

Downstairs I opened and closed the cupboards until I found a bottle of vodka. I’d heard somewhere that alcohol helps accelerate the process.

Process.

My hands shook as I filled a pint glass with water to sip. If I drank too much vodka too quickly I’d be sick and then I’d have to start again.

I counted out the tablets onto the table. How many would I need? Half of them? All of them? I wouldn’t know until I tried.

Filled with a strong sense of calm and feeling more certain than I had in weeks, I pressed out the first tablet, placed it on my tongue.

Chapter Nineteen

Ididn’t want to be here any more, I wanted to be with Jack.

The tablet felt dry in my mouth.

Bitter.

My hand shook as I unscrewed the bottle of vodka. I was crying as I pushed thoughts of Alice and Mum away. I told myself they’d understand that I had to be with Jack. I told myself that although they’d be sad, in a strange way they might also be happy for me.

I told myself lies.

The bottle was cold against my lips.

For a moment the only sound that filled my ears was the frantic pounding of my own heart, but then I heard it.

A noise I couldn’t identify and then one I could.

I plucked the tablet off my tongue and rested it on the table.

As I crossed the room I could see the old cat flap in the bottom of the door lifting before dropping once more. I opened the back door and there it was.

A black cat, mewing pitifully.

He bumped his head against my legs, tail high, purring happily before he padded confidently into the kitchen like he belonged there.

With one leap, he settled himself on the table, studying me as I studied him. Licking his white paws.

‘What sort of cat would you like?’ Jack had asked me on our anniversary.

‘Black with white feet. We could call him Socks,’ I had replied.

‘And then you’d want a second called Shoes.’

‘No. One is enough. What do you say?’

‘I say if you can find a black cat with white socks then it’s meant to be.’

Meant to be.

I didn’t believe in meant to be. I didn’t think that what happened to Jack was fate, part of some great universal grand plan.

I didn’t believe in miracles and yet … I tentatively stroked Socks’ fur, warm and silky under my fingers. He batted my hand with his head, tilting his chin up so I could scratch underneath it. He was real and solid and part of me wondered whether my imagination had conjured him up.

I hurriedly scraped some tuna into a bowl before Socks could run away and while he ate, unashamedly, the sound of his chewing loud and unselfconscious, I fetched my camera. It felt heavy in my hands, strange, belonging to my before life, not to now, but I took several shots of Socks before I viewed them on the screen. It was reassuring to see he was real.

I pushed the pills back into the box, screwed the lid back on to the vodka bottle.

Not today.

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