Gone Viking Page 3

  I can see the headline now:

  ‘Drunk mother of two vomits on breakfast buffet in front of dozens of startled diners. “I’m a disgrace,” Alice Rat, a dentist from Streatham, admits …’

  ‘Oh god, I’m so sorry.’ I cast around for things to mop up with, taking it upon myself to dab at the spatters of sick nicely coagulating on cufflink man’s suede loafers. Bet he wishes he’d stuck with the cereal now, I think. Probably rues the day he offered Araminta a fruit parfait … ‘I’m a horrible human being,’ I mutter, to no one, as I clasp a hand over my mouth and realise the ordeal isn’t over. There’s more? And then, I confirm, decisively: There’s more.

  ‘I think perhaps you should leave, madam,’ a weedy man in a too-big suit and a badge that reads ‘Here to help!’ suggests.

  I agree, wholeheartedly, then flee for the lifts – hoping to make it back up to my room before the next bile-a-thon makes its presence felt.

  I’m back in the privacy of my own en suite, holding my hair back to execute what I hope is a final heave over porcelain, when I hear a familiar voice.

  ‘Well, this is cosy.’

  No. My. God. You have got to be kidding me …

  Wiping my mouth on the back of my sleeve, I turn around.

  A broad brunette in wellington boots is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, smelling strongly of the outdoors and judging me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I croak, pushing back hair and attempting to make myself presentable. I had been in such a hurry to hurl, I realise now, that I may have ever so slightly forgotten to shut the door. Or rather, forgotten that it was likely to remain wedged open by the complimentary copy of the Daily Mail looped over the door handle in a see-through plastic bag (damn you, terror threats and new pictures of Helen Mirren on holiday!)

  ‘You sound rough!’ the short, dark-haired woman broadcasts.

  ‘You sound loud.’ I wince at the throbbing in my skull.

  ‘Greg called.’

  I stand, unsteadily, and try very hard not to breathe booze-’n’-bile on her as she envelops me in a non-consensual and extremely vigorous bear hug before punching my arm in a gesture that presumably passes for an appropriate salutation in her world, but that really hurts in mine. She is only five foot two inches tall, but the woman has arms like a butcher and guns of steel. For someone who subsists solely on Shepherd’s Pie and sponge pudding, she’s in surprisingly good shape. Her hug-’n’-left-hook combo takes the wind out of me and the heady aroma of ‘horse’ she habitually carries around with her sends me right back to the toilet bowl.

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ she says as I hurl, again.

  I don’t like people seeing me like this. Ever. Even her. She knows this and I suspect that a part of her is enjoying it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, and then, ‘How are you?’

  Her mouth twitches at this. ‘Better than you. Come on, let’s sort you out.’

  Mortified, I am hoisted up and a flannel is flung at me to ‘mop up’.

  This isn’t right … I’m the grown-up. I’m the one who makes sure everyone’s been to the loo before they leave the house. I keep four Sainsbury’s bags-for-life in my car. At All Times! I’m the in-charge-person. Not her …

  Once we’re both satisfied that I’m unlikely to puke again – or indeed have anything left to throw up, save perhaps a kidney – she tells me to get packed so we can ‘hit the road’.

  ‘I can’t leave!’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got another day of conference left. I’m booked in to “Combat Cake Culture” and “Take My Breath Away: Giving Halitosis The Heave Ho” …’ I hear myself saying this out loud and realise there’s no way I am spending the morning in an airless room surrounded by dental practitioners. ‘OK, so maybe that bit’s not happening. But I don’t need a lift, thanks. I’m getting the train.’

  ‘Not until tomorrow you’re not: cancelled.’

  Bollocks. I had forgotten this, what with all the hands-free wine and Mr Teeth and the sick … Oh god, Mr Teeth ….

  ‘Well, lucky for you,’ she goes on, ‘I’m heading down south today.’ It grates the way she always says ‘down south’ as though I’ve abandoned our northern roots. I haven’t: we’re from Leamington Spa.

  And this is Melissa. My sister.

  ‘I’m seeing a man about a dog,’ she goes on. I don’t doubt for a moment that she means this literally. ‘So what happened last night? Get drunk all by yourself?’

  ‘No,’ I say, far too quickly. ‘With a friend.’

  ‘Was your “friend” tequila?’

  ‘No!’ I snap again, then add in a very small voice. ‘Shiraz …’

  She gives a hint of a smile, flashing her dimples.

  ‘What?’

  ‘“What?”’ She mocks me, looking as innocent as a Botticelli cherub. ‘By the way –’ she points ‘– your shirt’s on inside out and you’ve got carrot chunks where your cleavage should be.’ She gestures to her own impressive décolletage to underline my failings in this area.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ I begin scooping out chunks of … I can’t say what exactly. ‘I’m very slightly hangover, that’s all.’

  ‘Really? Because the man on the front desk said I was “welcome to remove the crazy lady from room 204”, and those rings around your eyes say this isn’t a one-night thing. They say –’ here she adopts a high pitched voice ‘– “Oh hi! My name’s Alice and I work all the time and I may or may not be losing it … ”’

  ‘That’s what my eyes say?’

  ‘That’s what they say.’ She nods as though she can’t be held responsible for my eyes betraying the current state of my mental health. If I was a photograph, she’d be drawing a moustache and a monocle on me round about now … I pinch the bridge of my nose, unsure whether I’m going to be sick or cry. ‘Listen,’ she goes on, ‘how about you get dressed properly and have your existential crisis on the road? Parking costs a bomb round here …’

  Feeling too rough to object, I change out of my vomit-stained clothes into my only other outfit, the ten-year-old skirt suit from the night before. Then I draw on as much make-up/camouflage as is seemly before, in a moment of madness, asking Melissa if I look OK.

  ‘You look like someone who wants to share “How you too can make money in real estate … ”’ she tells me in an American infomercial voice.

  ‘Thank you. I now feel far more confident about going back downstairs and facing the world,’ I mutter back. Just because I haven’t started shopping at the ‘I’ve given up’ clothes shop of elasticated waistbands and body warmers. Who died and made her the mayor of fashion town?

  I pack up my right-angle arranged toiletries and stuff each sick-stained garment in one of the complimentary shower caps provided in the en suite to avoid cross contamination in my overnight bag. Then, wrapping a few extra tissues around each bundle of disgrace, just in case, I zip up the holdall and leave.

  I avoid eye contact – with anyone – until I’ve completed my walk of shame and we’re safely ensconced in the underground car park. I’m led towards a once-white pick-up truck that is apparently to be my chariot and clear the passenger seat of sweet wrappers, old newspaper (‘the dogs like to ride up front …’), and a half-eaten pasty.

  ‘Oh god, that stinks,’ I reel, repulsed.

  ‘Of deliciousness, you mean!’ is her response.

  ‘—of type two diabetes …’ I murmur.

  ‘I’ll have that thanks. Waste not want not …’ She crams the Cornish pasty in her mouth. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. You’re looking … well …’

  ‘Thanks. It’s my post-break-up revenge body,’ she mumbles through a mouthful of flaky pastry, dry mouth clicking slightly. ‘I’m eating like Elvis after Ramadan.’

  I nod as though this explains everything. I don’t tend to ask about her love life any more. I rationalise that if there’s anyone important, she’ll tell me. If there’s anyone important, she’ll tell everyone, I think. So I’m presuming the ‘reveng
e’ is for a minor fling who doubtlessly failed to treat the dogs with adequate reverence or was allergic to the horse. Or the ‘house bunnies’. I shudder at the thought. (‘You know rabbits eat their own poo?’ I once told her after reading an article about them online.fn3 ‘So?’ was her response).

  Melissa reaches an arm behind the passenger seat headrest to reverse and we judder backwards. As we’re queuing to exit the car park, I become conscious of her looking at me. Really looking.

  ‘What? Why are you staring?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes!’ I shrill, at a higher pitch than intended. ‘I’m fine! Absolutely fine!’

  This shuts down the conversation and so we drive, out of the car park and blinking into the light. I paw at my bag until I can locate sunglasses – huge bug-eye-lensed affairs that thankfully conceal half my face but look rather as though I’m being whisked away from an illicit encounter to avoid paparazzi. I couldn’t look more out of place in a muddy white pick-up truck if I tried.

  ‘Bit bright, is it, Jackie O?’ Melissa asks. Loudly.

  I merely whimper in response.

  The low humming sound interspersed with warbling – a noise I had taken to be the ancient engine – becomes amplified once were clear of the multi-storey car park and reveals itself to be none other than Celine Dion.

  Melissa assures me that this isn’t her choosing. ‘Local radio.’ She nods at the stereo as we stop and start, jerking our way through congested city streets, livid with traffic and alive with car horns that do nothing to salve my hangover. I retrieve my phone, realising I haven’t checked it since sobering up enough to remember that I have a phone.

  It’s switched off. Switched! Off! I never switch my phone off ordinarily. Never. I shudder, holding down the tiny doll-sized button to turn it on again and waiting for the black apple icon to appear, silhouetted against a bright white background. I enter my password with fumbling fingers, then feel my stomach sink yet further with each missed call notification.

  Ping!

  Ping!

  Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!

  A torrent of new alerts come through, notifying me of voicemails.

  ‘You have … TWELVE … new ….messages. First message, sent yesterday at four sixteen pm …’

  Nooooooo …

  That’s the thing about making yourself the kind of person who’s always in control – the kind of person people can depend on: you become eminently dependable. Indispensable, even. People rely on you – at least, that’s what I tell myself. And then on the (very) rare occasions when things aren’t running entirely to schedule or, just for example, you go AWOL at a dentistry conference, people notice. Had I married a man who could locate the Hoover and knew his way around a Tupperware drawer, I very much doubt I’d have had three missed calls from home already this morning. Had I delegated rather more at work, I’m fairly confident that the nine memos from the surgery could have been dealt with by colleagues (albeit to an inferior standard …). But, as it is, they’ve come through to me. All of them …

  I hit the red button to hang up, unable to face the onslaught yet. Ordinarily, I have one-to-two days to decompress from all the ‘talking’ that is apparently necessary as a functioning professional in the field of dentistry. Usually, I spend at least twenty-four hours restoring order to my home after the working week in virtual silence – ignoring my husband and merely conversing with teenage-esque monosyllabic children. This means that by the time Monday rolls around, I have built up reserves of energy to embark upon yet another week of human interaction. But it’s only Saturday. I more than fulfilled my ‘chat’ quota yesterday and haven’t got anything left in the tank, as it were, apart from a flitting, choking anxiety. In short: I can’t face it.

  If they want me to do an extra shift today, they can whistle, I think, nursing my head. If Mark’s got a bad back again, it’s his hard cheese; I can’t cover for him. I’m in no fit state to breathe Shiraz on patients at close range today …

  If it’s important, they can text me. Or email. Or send a blimp. Really, anything but the ‘talking’ …

  I check my email and fire off replies to as many work-related memos as I can, to make me feel marginally more useful and in control of my life – dealing with admin during ‘dead time’ like a productivity machine. But this ushers in an unwelcome return of the churning sensation in my stomach.

  Mmm, car-sickness on top of a hangover? Lucky me …

  I wind down the old-school window to gasp at some not-at-all-fresh city air as Celine’s ‘Think Twice’ belts out. At full volume …

  ‘Do you mind?’ I point at the radio dial. ‘I’m not feeling great.’

  ‘No shit …’

  ‘I just mean, couldn’t we listen to something less shrieky.’

  ‘We can have Celine, UB40 or Ronan Keating.’

  ‘Or “nothing”?’

  ‘Nuh-uh.’ She shakes her head and gives the ancient stereo a firm shunt with the heel of her hand until UB40 starts up. ‘The off button’s missing and you can only get local stations.’

  ‘How do you know what they’ll be playing?

  She looks at me as if I’m a fool. ‘It’s always Celine, UB40, or Ronan Keating.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We don’t all have digital …’

  I respond with a spontaneous sneezing fit, thanks to all the animal hair in the car. My eyes start to water and my breathing becomes shallow and I can’t quite tell whether I’m about to suffocate or spontaneously combust. Or both? I’m grateful for the sunglasses concealing my reddening eyes and then my phone starts up again.

  Oh, shit off, Elsa!

  The caller ID announces that the ‘Surgery’ is summoning me, so I switch it to silent mode.

  I’m already feeling guilty that I haven’t checked in as promised after the panel discussion yesterday. But seriously? On a Saturday? I bet it’s Steve, the practice manager. Get a life, Steve …

  A third call rings through, from a mobile number I don’t recognise.

  At first I worry that it’s from him. Not Steve, but him. Mr Teeth.

  I didn’t give him my number, did I? What am I? Sixteen? Although when I was sixteen, mobiles had barely been invented so it would have been Melissa or Dad picking up on the landline. I cringe at the recollection – both of last night and the years of social awkwardness when I was ‘supposed’ to be getting into boys. It’s little wonder I remained remarkably chaste until leaving home.

  The caller gives up after a few flashes of green and I allow myself to exhale.

  It was Steve, wasn’t it? I bet he was calling from his wife’s phone. Or his personal one that none of us are supposed to know about for all the Tinder he Definitely. Doesn’t. Do. Despite Beverley on reception catching him swiping right at least twice last week …

  But then the number flashes up again. I press ‘End call’ as a cool panic trickles through me – that not only have I made such a massive error of judgement last night, but that it can still haunt me. That it might … follow me. Home.

  Let him not text, let him not text, I pray – to whoever it is I believe in since I stopped believing in … well, anything … sometime in the mid-1990s.

  I check the messages on my phone and am further alarmed to see the familiar dot, dot, dot to suggest that someone is composing a message.

  He’s typing something …

  ‘You OK?’ is all it says. I look up at the horizon to quell my mounting queasiness before glancing back at the phone and studying the mystery number.

  ‘Who is this?’ I type back.

  Nothing.

  Then the dot dot dot starts up again and keeps going, pulsating ominously. I have another horizon break to stop the bile coming up again, before looking back down at my phone.

  They’re still typing? That can’t be good, I think. But then it stops.

  They’ve gone. And I am left in peace. Or as close to an approximation of ‘peace’ as a married mother of two who has just done something
horrendously stupid and is now regretting it is ever likely to achieve.

  At the next traffic lights, Melissa, seeing that I’m finally off the phone, gives me a dead arm by way of appreciation and tells me to help myself to a Fondant Fancy from the glove box. This, to her, is love.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘There might be a Scotch egg in there, if you’d prefer?’

  ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

  ‘Your loss,’ she mutters. ‘You’ve still got some sick on your neck by the way.’

  Oh brilliant …

  ‘Well, you’ve got minced beef on your cheek from the pasty,’ I respond. But it’s a shallow victory. Melissa probably doesn’t care that she’s walking around covered in meat. Probably thinks it makes her whacky and eccentric in her enormous truck. Whereas I’m a dentist. With sick on her … I put a hand to my collarbone and press to ease the uncomfortable sensation.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I manage, voice thin. ‘It’s just … my chest feels a bit tight.’

  ‘Is your bra on the wrong hook? I get that.’

  ‘No. My bra’s fine.’ I don’t tell her about the four heart scares in the past two years. Apparently that’s not normal for a woman in her thirties. So said the male consultant in his fifties. I’d like to see him get two kids out of the door, on time, with shoes on, after five hours’ sleep and then put in a sixteen-hour shift before collapsing in bed with a man who thinks Stonehenge is hotter than she is. Then we’ll see whose heart’s under strain …

  Another volley of sneezes takes over and I become convinced that my insides are about to burst. Again. Either that, or I’m about to have another of those panic attacks where it feels like I’m drowning and falling all at the same time.

  I haven’t got time for this …

  There is nowhere in my schedule – a colour-coded rolling spreadsheet covering every conceivable area of modern life – that says, ‘self-sabotage by getting drunk and then ending up at the mercy of your little sister.’ I’ve got things to do. The kids have swimming. Which I bet Greg’s forgotten about … Then there’s piano. And possibly a play date. I can’t remember whether it’s today or tomorrow … bugger … I’m just looking at my phone to check when the unknown number calls again. I press ‘End call’. Again. But then another call comes through that reads ‘Surgery’.