the letters Mark had received back in England. Theo had not been taken in by Mark’s attempt to make light of it, or his denial that he was on edge. ‘I’m tired, that’s all,’ he had said, ‘in need of a holiday, so please, give me a break, will you, and cut the patronising pep talk? You’re making me out to be some kind of convalescing invalid.’ He had taken the same tone just a moment ago when Theo had asked if he minded him joining Max and Laura for the day: ‘Of course I don’t. I’ve got plenty of work to occupy me here. I’d rather have the peace and quiet.’
‘Very well, I shall leave you to your writing. You will find plenty to eat in the — ’
‘Yes, I know where to look for food if I’m hungry. Just stop worrying about me.’
Helping Max to launch the boat, Theo untied the rope from the post on the jetty, and stepped lightly into the back of the small craft. He had offered the use of his own boat, but Max had laughed, telling him that it would do him good to rough it in theirs for a change. ‘You English,’ Theo had joked, ‘you are so hung up on the concept that size does not matter!’
There was only one seat left for him and it was next to Izzy. ‘Do you mind if I sit here with you?’ he asked.
She smiled and shifted along the bench to make room for him. As he sat down he noticed the looks that passed between Max and Laura. Ah, so they were watching his every move, were they? They were playing a little game with him. He smiled to himself. Well, he could either go along with their expectations or he could play the game his own way.
Alone on the terrace in the shade of the vine-covered pergola that stretched from one end of Theo’s house to the other, Mark was reading through the notes he had made late last night, long after Theo had gone to bed. He was underlining those he thought worthy of being added to the manuscript of his latest book, and crossing out with a single neat stroke anything he thought superfluous. The notebook was nearly full, yet there wasn’t one page of messy scribble within its pristine pages. It always amazed people that he was so orderly. They tended to regard his unimaginative dress code — faded jeans, T-shirt and CAT boots — as an indication of how he ran his life, that it would be as casual and thoughtlessly thrown together. In the chaotic mind-blown days of his addiction, this had certainly been the case, but not now. Now he was obsessively organised. His home was ruthlessly cleansed of all irrelevant clutter; his days were planned meticulously; his every hour was accounted for. ‘A tidy mind is a happy mind’ was a stupid maxim, but as trite as it was, it was a theory that held sufficient water for him to believe it. In the early days of his recovery he had been comforted by the petty rituals he had contrived for himself, using them to ground his mental state in the real world and not the hell he had inhabited previously. Now they were a matter of routine.
The desire to be so regulated and orderly was a side-effect of his brief spell in the clinic that had helped him to overcome his addiction, which had encompassed a variety of substances, but predominantly cocaine and alcohol. Hand in hand, they had been his partners in crime, partners that had taken him to the brink, convincing him, with each deadly, deceitful step they took him towards his downfall, that they were the only friends he needed, that they, and they alone, would give him the confidence and sense of worth he lacked.
By his mid-twenties he had been drinking with a determined vengeance that had nothing to do with social drinking. It was warfare. A war against himself. It wasn’t the taste he craved, it was the obliterating effect he needed: the desire to drink was as strong as the need to eat, if not stronger. Seeking refuge in sleep — and a sleep in which he wasn’t jerked awake by nightmares — he would fill himself with beer and whisky chasers until he collapsed on the
‘Very well, I shall leave you to your writing. You will find plenty to eat in the — ’
‘Yes, I know where to look for food if I’m hungry. Just stop worrying about me.’
Helping Max to launch the boat, Theo untied the rope from the post on the jetty, and stepped lightly into the back of the small craft. He had offered the use of his own boat, but Max had laughed, telling him that it would do him good to rough it in theirs for a change. ‘You English,’ Theo had joked, ‘you are so hung up on the concept that size does not matter!’
There was only one seat left for him and it was next to Izzy. ‘Do you mind if I sit here with you?’ he asked.
She smiled and shifted along the bench to make room for him. As he sat down he noticed the looks that passed between Max and Laura. Ah, so they were watching his every move, were they? They were playing a little game with him. He smiled to himself. Well, he could either go along with their expectations or he could play the game his own way.
Alone on the terrace in the shade of the vine-covered pergola that stretched from one end of Theo’s house to the other, Mark was reading through the notes he had made late last night, long after Theo had gone to bed. He was underlining those he thought worthy of being added to the manuscript of his latest book, and crossing out with a single neat stroke anything he thought superfluous. The notebook was nearly full, yet there wasn’t one page of messy scribble within its pristine pages. It always amazed people that he was so orderly. They tended to regard his unimaginative dress code — faded jeans, T-shirt and CAT boots — as an indication of how he ran his life, that it would be as casual and thoughtlessly thrown together. In the chaotic mind-blown days of his addiction, this had certainly been the case, but not now. Now he was obsessively organised. His home was ruthlessly cleansed of all irrelevant clutter; his days were planned meticulously; his every hour was accounted for. ‘A tidy mind is a happy mind’ was a stupid maxim, but as trite as it was, it was a theory that held sufficient water for him to believe it. In the early days of his recovery he had been comforted by the petty rituals he had contrived for himself, using them to ground his mental state in the real world and not the hell he had inhabited previously. Now they were a matter of routine.
The desire to be so regulated and orderly was a side-effect of his brief spell in the clinic that had helped him to overcome his addiction, which had encompassed a variety of substances, but predominantly cocaine and alcohol. Hand in hand, they had been his partners in crime, partners that had taken him to the brink, convincing him, with each deadly, deceitful step they took him towards his downfall, that they were the only friends he needed, that they, and they alone, would give him the confidence and sense of worth he lacked.
By his mid-twenties he had been drinking with a determined vengeance that had nothing to do with social drinking. It was warfare. A war against himself. It wasn’t the taste he craved, it was the obliterating effect he needed: the desire to drink was as strong as the need to eat, if not stronger. Seeking refuge in sleep — and a sleep in which he wasn’t jerked awake by nightmares — he would fill himself with beer and whisky chasers until he collapsed on the
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