Matt’s voice was icy. “Maudie–”

I sighed. The waiter came up with another champagne flute. I wondered whether he’d mention my sudden flight from the restaurant and my sheepish return. Of course he didn’t; he’d been too well trained.

“Matt–”

“Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

I picked up my new glass and took a sip. Now my breathing had returning to normal, I was beginning to feel foolish. The shot of adrenaline that had propelled me down the street was ebbing away and in its place was only embarrassment. I had ruined our night out. I made up my mind not to make things worse.

“I’m sorry, darling,” I said, managing a real smile at last. I even laughed a little. “I just thought I saw someone I knew go past the restaurant. Someone from where I used to work.”

Matt looked unconvinced.              “Who?”

“Katy,” I said, improvising wildly. “Actually, I still have a book of hers and I suddenly remembered that and thought I might just catch her and explain...” My voice trailed off into silence.

Matt made a sound of disbelief. “Sometimes I think you do it on purpose,” he said. I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw, almost hidden by his dark stubble.

I shook my head. “No, that’s not–”

Matt withdrew his hand and picked up his fork. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s leave it.”

“I’ll get dinner,” I said on impulse, hoping that would help.

“Thanks,” said Matt, grimly. He kept his eyes on his plate.

I nodded again and we sat in silence, until the waiter came with the bill for me to pay.

Chapter Nine

"You look fine," said Matt. "Stop fidgeting."

Immediately I put my hand back on my lap, having just reached for the windscreen visor mirror.

"I'm not."

Matt glanced over at me and smiled. "I don't know why you're so nervous. It's only a little gathering. A get-together to celebrate Bob’s book. That’s all."

"I'm not nervous."

"So why do you keep fidgeting?"

We were driving through an area of South London I didn’t recognise, somewhere beyond the borders of Brixton.

We drove in silence.

“What’s Bob’s book about?” I finally asked.

Matt breathed out sharply through his nose. “Semiotics.”

“Oh,” I said. I opened my mouth to say something of what I knew about semiotics, realised it was nothing, and shut it again.

“I’m surprised you don’t write a book,” I said, after a moment. “Why don’t you?”

Matt gave me a pained glance. “Because, Maudie...” he began and then sighed and didn’t say any more.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“Oh, just leave it, for God’s sake. We’re here now, anyway.”

I’d been feeling anger, rather than anxiety, but at this announcement my heart rate leapt up a notch. I wasn’t very good with crowds of strangers. I’d managed to sink a couple of glasses of wine before we left the flat but it wasn’t enough; I could still feel everything. I needed more to drink. I needed numbness.

“Maudie, there’s nothing to worry about,” said Matt, taking pity on me. “They’re all perfectly nice, normal people. They won’t eat you.”

“I know,” I said. Anxiety made my voice shriller than normal. I sounded ridiculous.

“You’ll be fine.”

The author, Bob, was throwing the party, along with his wife Carla. This much I’d managed to ascertain from Matt but as to the dress code, the number of people there and other such vital pieces of information, I’d drawn a complete blank. I’d ended up wearing my red silk dress and my new heels, but was it too much? Too formal? Would everyone be laughing at me behind my back? I found myself clenching my fists.

The woman who opened the door was short and dumpy. She wore the sort of glasses you saw on actresses playing secretaries in films from the 1950s, jeans and a black shirt. No jewellery. I began to feel a slow sinking feeling. I was completely overdressed.

“Matt!” she said. She smiled at me. “I’m Carla and you must be Maudie. It’s so nice to meet you finally. Do come in.”

We followed her into the narrow hallway. I could smell cigarette smoke and dog. The place was a mess; comfortable and homely, but a mess all the same. I thought about keeping my coat on but knew I’d never get away with it.

“What a gorgeous dress!” said Carla. “Come through and meet everyone.” She must have realised how nervous I was. “It’s alright, we don’t bite!”

I should have been grateful for her understanding but I felt like punching her. I put on a weak smile and followed Matt. I was soon swallowed up in what seemed to be a crowd of about fifty people; all in their forties and fifties, all dressed in jeans and shirts and casual shoes. I stood out like a beacon. I quickly lost track of people’s names and inter-relationships. I was too busy fixing the smile on my face and trying to hold onto Matt’s hand.

They were all what Matt had said they were – kind, nice people. It wasn’t their fault that I found their topics of conversation by turns incomprehensible or boring. There was a lot of talk about teaching, about living a middle-class life in London, a little about various current topics of news. I didn’t say much, really; I didn’t feel there was much I could contribute.

I was introduced to Bob, who looked like Merlin and wore a tweed jacket even more decrepit than Matt’s. I managed to say “Well done on the book,” which drew from him extravagant thanks.

The one thing I could do was drink. In my defence, the wine was flowing freely and my glass was constantly being refilled, so it wasn’t as if I actually set out to get drunk, but I did. My trips to the downstairs loo became ever more wobbly. I started to join in conversations with comments that I thought were witty and hilarious. At first people responded, but as my voice became louder and more slurred, their smiles began to be a little more fixed and their glances at Matt became ever more frequent. I’d stopped waiting for my glass to be filled by our hosts and simply helped myself from the big fridge in the messy kitchen. Carla kept bringing round little plates of food; rough, handmade canapés, and bowls of crisps and bits of cheese, and I had a few handfuls, but after a while I didn’t feel so hungry any more.

I have a vague recollection of being in the hallway and watching Carla's glasses winking in the light from the ceiling. She seemed to have three pairs of glasses, on three heads and I tried to focus on one by shutting one eye and squinting. Matt was saying something and I knew I had to say something too, but nothing was coming out properly; all I could manage was a garbled mess of words. There was the shock of cold air outside the door and the dreadful, inexorable feeling of vomit travelling upwards towards my mouth. I didn't make it to the street; I was sick on the pathway. I was too drunk to feel any shame - my overriding sensation was one of relief. I vomited again by the car and again by the side of the road after Matt pulled over. I could feel his hands gripping me about the waist as I heaved and choked. Then there was nothing but a few scraps of tattered memory left in my head and a merciful, inky blackness that saw me through to the next morning.

Death would have been a merciful release compared to the effort and horror of having to wake up, get up, of dealing with the torment of having to face Matt again. What I could remember of the evening made me want to curl into a ball and scream into the pillow, except I couldn't have made that sort of level of noise without my head exploding, so I merely lay in a foetal position with my face in my hands. I moaned quietly to myself until that hurt too much and then I just lay there.

The door to the bedroom opened and I froze. How could I deal with this? Would it be best to be sobbingly remorseful or should I try to joke it off? I hadn’t lost control like that in front of Matt for a long time.