‘Whisky, please.’
I pause for a moment. Paul hasn’t drunk whisky for a long time now. At one time it was all he drank, but the amber liquid changed him and his dependence on it changed us. It became a part of him. An ugly part. He thought it helped him to write and would stay up in the shed all night, just him, his laptop and a bottle. A nightly literary threesome and a disappointing cliché. We became independent states with liquid borders and I was angry, lonely, scared. He did write, but they were the wrong kind of words; they didn’t belong together. When we couldn’t have a baby, things got worse. It was his drug of choice to heal the hurt and he poured it inside himself in its purest form. Neat. But the result was never tidy. It was like having a front row seat for a slow suicide. When I couldn’t watch any more, I threatened to leave. He said he’d stop, but he didn’t. He just poisoned himself in private. I left for ten days. He stopped then. That was over a year ago and I’m never going back to that.
‘I don’t think we have any, darling . . .’
‘Mum got me some, it’s in the cupboard,’ he replies without looking up. He keeps changing the TV channel, unable to find what he’s looking for.
I walk out to the kitchen and open the fridge. I ignore his request and take out the bottle of champagne I’ve chilled deliberately. I’m going to tell him about the baby, his mood will change once he knows and this will become a Christmas that we’ll never forget. I’ve already had more than I should, but one tiny glass won’t make any difference.
‘Makes you glad we don’t have kids, doesn’t it?’ says Paul from the lounge.
‘What?’
‘The chaos of it all. The whole day taken up with them, can’t have a single conversation without an interruption of some kind or another.’
‘It wasn’t that bad, was it?’ I say coming back into the front room.
A tear escapes my left eye, I can’t stop it.
‘No, the kids are fine. It’s just Claire putting me in a bad mood. I’m sick of her dictating how we should live our lives, she’s always interfering and you never call her on it . . . What’s this for?’ he asks pointing at the champagne.
‘I thought we could celebrate.’
‘We already celebrated my book deal. Are you crying?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘If it’s about Claire saying she doesn’t want you to come to America with me, then I don’t care what she says. She can cope without you for a few weeks, I’m sure.’
‘You told Claire about the book? When?’
‘It just slipped out when you were upstairs reading the twins a bedtime story.’
I understand now why she looked at me that way before we left. It was a warning. Paul carries on, oblivious to what he’s done.
‘Why shouldn’t we tell people anyway? And you’re right, we should be celebrating.’ He takes the bottle from the table and opens it.
‘What exactly did you tell her?’ I ask, hearing my voice shake.
‘Please can we stop talking about your sister, her dull husband and the terrible twins?’
‘What did you tell her, Paul? It’s important.’
‘Why are you getting all bat shit? She was acting nuts too.’
‘Because she’s upset about the idea of me going away, I knew she would be. I told you not to tell her yet.’
‘It wasn’t that, it was her stupid diaries. She asked me why I bought you one and I told her because I’d found hers in the loft, and then she went from nought to psycho in less than a few seconds.’
It’s all getting very loud inside my head.
‘I told you not to tell Claire about the diaries and I told you not to read them.’
‘I didn’t read them, not really. Just one line about you two being peas in a pod. I quoted it back at her, thought it was funny, but she didn’t seem to think so.’
Two peas in a pod.
‘She’ll kill you.’
He laughs. He doesn’t understand that I’m not joking. She won’t let anyone take me away from her, she never has. She’s done terrible things to people over the years – friends, colleagues, lovers, none of them good enough for me in her estimation. She thought I needed saving from every single one. I thought once the twins were born, once she had a family of her own, things might change, but they didn’t, she held on more tightly than ever before. I think she was even a little bit pleased when I couldn’t get pregnant, worried that my love for a child would somehow diminish my love for her. It was different with Paul, the celebrity author. She decided he was good for me and she was delighted when he was happy to live less than a mile away. It was like a test – he passed because he didn’t try to take me away from her. But now he’s failed.
I feel sick. I know what she’s capable of. I walk out of the room, find my phone and dial Claire’s number.
Nothing.
I try again but it still goes straight to voicemail.
‘He hasn’t read them. Don’t do it, you don’t have to,’ I say as quietly as I can.
‘Have you all lost your minds?’ says Paul, appearing in the hallway behind me. ‘We’re talking about a kid’s diaries. Maybe I should have read them,’ he says.
‘If she calls you or turns up here, tell her I already burned them. Don’t open the door and don’t let her in. Where are your car keys?’
‘What are you talking about?’
I run over to the sideboard, opening up the drawers crammed full of odds and ends.
‘Whatever happens you are not to trust her, do you understand?’ I find the spare set of keys, grab my handbag, without even checking what’s inside, and run to the front door.
‘Amber, wait . . .’ He’s too late, I’m already down the path, trying to make out the buttons on the car key through the dark and rain. I’m not wearing a coat and I’m already soaking wet. Paul follows me outside, still in his new Christmas slippers. He holds his phone up to his ear.
‘It’s me. . . your sister is really upset. I think it’s got something to do with you. Can you call me so we can try to sort this—’ I spin around and knock the phone out of his hand. It smashes on the driveway.
He stares at it, his mouth open, then looks up at me. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Stay away from Claire!’
‘Can you hear yourself? You’re acting fucking crazy! You can’t drive. You must be over the limit . . .’
‘I’m fine!’
A light comes on next door and I see our neighbour has come outside. I hadn’t realised we were shouting. I turn to get in the car, and drop the key. My hands are shaking as I bend down to find it, feeling around in the dark. When my fingers find their prize, Paul tries to stop me getting in the driver’s seat. I push him back, get inside and slam the door, trapping his hand in the metal. He screams in agony, yanks it back and I slam the door again. I put the key in the ignition and drive away.
Now
Tuesday, 3rd January, 2017
‘I’m going to go home for a bit, check David hasn’t killed the twins or vice versa,’ says Claire.
‘Sure,’ Paul replies.
‘Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to even mention the twins, let alone . . .’
‘It’s fine.’