“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.
"I thought you might need a coffee," said Matt.
I tried to gauge his tone but my head hurt too much. I took a deep breath and hauled myself into a sitting position. My head thumped painfully.
"Thanks," I said. I took the mug from him, not daring to look up.
"How are you feeling?"
Was he being sarcastic? I risked a glance. He looked fairly neutral.
"Not too bad," I muttered. "Bit of a headache."
"I'm not surprised."
I thought I'd be able to make a joke of it but I felt so bad, in all ways, that the tears suddenly welled up. I started to cry.
"Oh Matt," I wailed. "I'm sorry. I made such an idiot of myself. I'm so sorry."
He didn't say anything. He didn't make a move towards me. But he didn't turn on his heel and leave. I started stammering out excuses, promises, anything to make him react in the way that I wanted.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry - I don't know how I could have made such a fool of myself." I flung myself back down on the pillows and pushed my wet face against the cool cotton surface of the pillowcase. "I'm sorry."
Still he said nothing.
"I'm sorry, sometimes I just can't cope with things and I know it's not a solution, but I find things really hard sometimes. You know I've been ill and sometimes it just comes back and I can't do anything about it."
Silence still from Matt. I cried a little bit louder. "I'm sorry. It's just - sometimes things are so hard." I wiped my hand under my running nose. “I’m still grieving. I’ve just lost my father.”
I heard him sigh and then the creak of the bed and the dip to the mattress as he sat down beside me. "Maudie..."
I wriggled round to look at him. A small part of me was aghast at presenting my tear and snot-soaked face to him, but if it would get me off the hook, it needed to be done.
"I'm sorry," I said, sniffing.
"I just don't get why you needed to get that drunk," he said. "Did you mean to? Honestly, Maudie, it was a stupid thing to do. Completely childish. You're not a teenager anymore."
"I know,” I said, eyes downcast. "It's just-”
"Just what?"
"Oh, nothing," I said. My voice caught again. "I just - sometimes, it's just too much."
"What is?"
I lay back down again, staring into the white cotton of the pillowcase. "Everything. Angus and Jessica and – everything."
Matt was quiet for a moment. I heard him draw in a breath. "You can't blame every bit of bad behaviour on what's gone wrong in your life, Maudie," he said. "Sooner or later you have to take responsibility for yourself."
I said nothing. I could feel anger and self-pity sweeping over me in a giant, poisonous rage.
There was a short silence. Then Matt got up off the bed. "I think I'll let you sleep it off," he said. "Then later you can ring Bob and Carla and apologise. Yes, Maudie-" I made a sound of protest. ”That's only fair."