really wanted one of those. She had always wanted to be a full-time mother, and she didn’t see why she should have to defend that decision. So she didn’t. And most people, on meeting her, realised there was no point in confronting her with some post-feminist inquisition. She was clearly popped on this earth to worry about not much more than flower-arranging and canapés and what to choose from the Boden catalogue.
And she was busy busy busy. She was the undisputed queen of the social scene, for ever organising drinks, dinner parties, soirées, ‘girls” lunches. Hallowe’en, Bonfire Night, Valentine’s Day - she rarely passed up an opportunity for a social function. Anything, quite frankly, that enabled her to slug back her ration in the company of others, so she wouldn’t feel like the dependent drinker that she knew deep down she was.
She knew she hadn’t fooled anybody, not really. She knew they spoke about her behind her back, that there were raised eyebrows and knowing nudges. But nobody had the balls to come out and say it.
‘Fiona. You’re an alcoholic. And you need help.’
And so she just carried blithely on. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t function. She worked hard to make sure she never forgot anything, that the children looked immaculate, that the house was perfect, that she was the best turned-out mother in the playground. On paper, she was the epitome of respectability. The headmaster phoned her to discuss playground politics (she was chairman of the PTA, and her first action had been to introduce wine to the dreary never-ending meetings - everyone agreed that it made the hideous back-biting and sniping bearable). The vicar never missed her post-carol service mulled wine and mince pies (she was in charge of the church’s annual shoe-box-to-war-torn-country collection). She was on the tennis club committee (although she was usually too half-cut to pick up a racket, she was ace at organising their social events), two charity committees, she was a member of a book club. You couldn’t accuse Fiona of having time on her hands.
When the wake-up call came, it was a shock to her, but nobody else.
By the time the school run came, Fiona would usually have drunk three large glasses of wine. Using the maths of the delusional, she calculated that one and a half of those would be out of her system by then, going by one unit an hour, and the remaining glass and a half was - well, only a glass and a half. Not over the limit in anyone’s book. She honestly believed herself when she told herself she was all right to drive. After all, she was a responsible parent, a loving mother. She wasn’t going to put her own children’s life at risk, or jeopardise anyone else’s.
The twisted wreck that had once been her Porsche Cayenne said otherwise. And thank God she had been on her way to school, not on her way back, so the children weren’t in the car. It happened in the middle of Wimbledon Village. Right outside Daylesford Organics. She sat in the police car waiting to be breathalysed and watched practically everyone she knew drive past her car and clock it, their heads snapping round in astonishment. Although actually, none of them was astonished. They all agreed it was only a matter of time.
It hadn’t even been her fault. She had swerved to avoid someone who had stepped out from the pavement, only then they had thought better of it and stepped back but by then it was too late - Fiona was on course for the lamp-post.
The noise had been the strangest thing. A crumping sound, very loud, but without the reverberation you always heard on the television. She hadn’t panicked at first. She told herself it was going to be fine, no one was hurt, the car was insured. It was only when the breathalyser went red, and the policeman looked at her gravely and told her she was going to be arrested because she was nearly twice over the legal limit that she felt the first claws of panic.
Tim collected her from the
And she was busy busy busy. She was the undisputed queen of the social scene, for ever organising drinks, dinner parties, soirées, ‘girls” lunches. Hallowe’en, Bonfire Night, Valentine’s Day - she rarely passed up an opportunity for a social function. Anything, quite frankly, that enabled her to slug back her ration in the company of others, so she wouldn’t feel like the dependent drinker that she knew deep down she was.
She knew she hadn’t fooled anybody, not really. She knew they spoke about her behind her back, that there were raised eyebrows and knowing nudges. But nobody had the balls to come out and say it.
‘Fiona. You’re an alcoholic. And you need help.’
And so she just carried blithely on. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t function. She worked hard to make sure she never forgot anything, that the children looked immaculate, that the house was perfect, that she was the best turned-out mother in the playground. On paper, she was the epitome of respectability. The headmaster phoned her to discuss playground politics (she was chairman of the PTA, and her first action had been to introduce wine to the dreary never-ending meetings - everyone agreed that it made the hideous back-biting and sniping bearable). The vicar never missed her post-carol service mulled wine and mince pies (she was in charge of the church’s annual shoe-box-to-war-torn-country collection). She was on the tennis club committee (although she was usually too half-cut to pick up a racket, she was ace at organising their social events), two charity committees, she was a member of a book club. You couldn’t accuse Fiona of having time on her hands.
When the wake-up call came, it was a shock to her, but nobody else.
By the time the school run came, Fiona would usually have drunk three large glasses of wine. Using the maths of the delusional, she calculated that one and a half of those would be out of her system by then, going by one unit an hour, and the remaining glass and a half was - well, only a glass and a half. Not over the limit in anyone’s book. She honestly believed herself when she told herself she was all right to drive. After all, she was a responsible parent, a loving mother. She wasn’t going to put her own children’s life at risk, or jeopardise anyone else’s.
The twisted wreck that had once been her Porsche Cayenne said otherwise. And thank God she had been on her way to school, not on her way back, so the children weren’t in the car. It happened in the middle of Wimbledon Village. Right outside Daylesford Organics. She sat in the police car waiting to be breathalysed and watched practically everyone she knew drive past her car and clock it, their heads snapping round in astonishment. Although actually, none of them was astonished. They all agreed it was only a matter of time.
It hadn’t even been her fault. She had swerved to avoid someone who had stepped out from the pavement, only then they had thought better of it and stepped back but by then it was too late - Fiona was on course for the lamp-post.
The noise had been the strangest thing. A crumping sound, very loud, but without the reverberation you always heard on the television. She hadn’t panicked at first. She told herself it was going to be fine, no one was hurt, the car was insured. It was only when the breathalyser went red, and the policeman looked at her gravely and told her she was going to be arrested because she was nearly twice over the legal limit that she felt the first claws of panic.
Tim collected her from the
Similar Books
