Jealousy prickles my skin.

‘She never told me.’

Adrienne sighs. ‘Darling, she was having fun. It wasn’t a big thing, just something she did occasionally. And, anyway, you hadn’t really been talking for a while.’

She’s right. Not about anything that really mattered, I guess. There’s another wave of nausea.

‘What if the man who killed her was someone she met online?’

‘The police know what she was doing. I’m sure they’re looking into it.’

Are they? I think. I can’t focus on it, now. I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. I open my mouth to speak, but the words still won’t come.

‘Darling, are you all right?’

She knows, I think. She’s my oldest friend and she can just tell. I lower my voice, even though the house is empty.

‘Julia, what is it?’

‘I had a drink.’

I hear her sigh. I can’t bear her disapproval, but I hear her sigh.

‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, I wasn’t going to, but …’

I stop myself. I’m making excuses. Not taking responsibility. Not admitting that I’m powerless over alcohol. Basic stuff.

I take a deep breath. I say it again.

‘I had a drink.’

‘Okay. Just one?’

‘No.’

Please don’t tell me it’s a slippery slope. I know that. Please don’t make me feel worse than I already do.

‘Oh, darling,’ she says.

‘I feel pretty bad. Awful, in fact.’

Another pause. Please don’t tell me it’s nothing and I ought to forget it.

‘Adrienne?’

‘You’re going through a lot,’ she says. ‘It happened. It’s a slip, a relapse, but you need to forgive yourself … Have you thought about what we talked about?’

She means therapy. She agrees with Hugh, and like everyone in therapy she thinks I should go too, or see a counsellor. She’s even recommended someone. Martin Somebody-or-other.

But the truth is, I don’t want it. Not now, not yet. Not while I’m like this. I think it would fail, and then it would no longer be something I can have in reserve.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Okay, well, I won’t say any more, but I wish you would. Think about it at least.’

I tell her I have, and I will. But I’m beginning to wonder if I deserve this pain, if somehow I owe it to my sister to live through it. I couldn’t save her. I took her son.

‘Have you told Hugh?’

I don’t answer.

‘About having a drink. Have you told him?’

I close my eyes. I don’t want to. I can’t.

‘Julia—?’

‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘There’s no need. It won’t happen again—’

She interrupts me. ‘Darling. Listen. You’re my oldest, dearest friend. I love you. Unconditionally. But I think you need to tell Hugh.’ She waits for me to speak, but I don’t. ‘I know it’s entirely up to you, but I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.’

She’s being tender, kind-hearted; yet still it feels brutal. I tell her I’ll do it tonight.

Hugh is out for the evening. He’s playing squash, then there’ll be drinks afterwards. He isn’t late, though, and Connor has only just gone to bed when he gets in. Almost straight away I decide I’m going to tell him.

I wait until we’re sitting in the living room, watching television. At the first ad break I pause the screen then turn to him, as if I’m going to ask if he wants a cup of tea.

‘Darling?’

‘Uh-huh?’

I stumble over the words.

‘I’ve had a relapse.’

I don’t say any more. I don’t have to. He knows what it means. He hasn’t been through the programme, or even to a meeting, but he’s read the literature. He knows enough. He knows what a relapse is, just like he knows he mustn’t try to control my behaviour by modifying his own, that he can’t stop me drinking by never drinking himself.

He also knows better than to ask how many drinks I had, or when, or why. It’s pointless. The answers are irrelevant. I had a drink. Whether it was the tiniest sip or a whole bottle makes no difference at all.

He takes my hand. I thought he was going to be angry, but he’s not. It’s worse. He’s disappointed. I can tell, from his eyes.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologize to me.’

It’s not what I want to hear. But what do I want to hear? What can he say? Addiction is a sickness unlike those Hugh is used to facing. He’s someone who cuts the bad parts out, sends them to the incinerator. The patient is cured, or not.

I look at him. I want him to tell me he loves me. I don’t want him to tell me he knows what I’m going through. I want him to remind me that a lapse doesn’t have to be a relapse, or tell me that I can start going to meetings again, or make me feel that we’re in it together.

‘I won’t drink again,’ I say.

He smiles, and tells me he hopes not, for my sake, and for Connor’s. He tells me he’s here for me, always, but it’s too late. He layered the guilt on first, and now I’m hardly listening. Instead, I’m thinking of my sponsor, Rachel. I wish I could ring her, but she’s moved away, it’s been too long. And I’m thinking of Kate.

Finally he’s silent. I wait for a moment then thank him. We sit for a few more minutes, then I tell him I need to go to bed. He kisses me, and says he’ll be up in a minute.

I’m on my own, but I won’t let this happen again, I tell myself. I’ll be vigilant. Whatever happens, whatever it takes, I won’t drink again.

Chapter Six

I wake early. My eyes flick open. Another bad night. It’s June, two months since I went to Paris, four since Kate died. It’s still dark. It’s the middle of the night.

The room is hot and airless, the sheets soaked. Hugh has kicked the duvet off and lies next to me, snoring gently. The clock on my side of the bed ticks, too loud. Four forty. The same time I woke up last night, and the night before that.

I’ve been dreaming of Kate. This time she was about four, it was summer, we were in the garden. She was wearing a yellow dress, angel wings made out of yellow paper, black tights. She wanted me to chase her; she was making a buzzing sound, pretending to be a bee. ‘Come on!’ she was saying, over and over, but I was bored, I wanted to stop. I wanted to get back to my book. ‘Come on, Julia!’ she was saying, ‘Come on!’ then she turned and ran, towards a wood. I wanted to tell her not to go in there, but I didn’t. I was too hot, too lazy. I just let her run away from me, and then turned to go back to the house. As I did the dream morphed, we were adults now, something terrible was happening, and suddenly it was me who was running, running after her, calling her name, and she who was disappearing into an alleyway. It was dark, I was desperate to catch up with her, to save her. I ran round a corner and she was there, slumped on the floor. I was too late.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Every night it’s the same, a dream of Kate, bleeding to death, and then in a dream behind a dream there’s Marcus, always Marcus, his mouth open and accusing. I know I won’t sleep again, I never do.

Tonight I’m weak. I can’t help it. And so I let myself think of him. Of Marcus. For the first time in years I think of the day we met. I close my eyes and I can see it. I’m back there. Marcus is sitting opposite me, the other side of the circle. It’s his first meeting. We’re in a church hall, it’s draughty, a tea urn fizzes in one of the corners. The chair – a guy called Keith – has already outlined the programme and introduced the first speaker, a woman whose name I’ve forgotten. I barely listen as she speaks; I’ve been coming for a while, ever since I caved in and admitted I’ve been drinking too much for too long. Plus, I’m watching Marcus. He’s the same age as me, and we’re both much younger than the others in the group. He sits forward in his chair. He looks eager, attentive, yet at the same time he doesn’t seem wholly interested. Something about him is wrong. I wonder if he’s here for himself, or for someone else. I picture a girlfriend, someone who he’d hoped to persuade here tonight but who refused to come. Perhaps he wants to go home, back to her, and tell her what he’s learned. It’s not so bad, he might say. These people want to help. Next week come with me.