Page 24 of The Story of Me
“Well, the only way that’s gonna happen is if I drive us there. This ain’t London, George; the cab drivers are all in bed at this time, even on a Saturday night.” He leans in, takes my chin between his thumb and index finger and lifts it so my eyes meet his. “I shouldn’t have let you have that coke; I’m sorry.” I feel like the bitch I am; I’m behaving like an arsehole and he’s the one apologising.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m being a bitch; I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He licks his lips and shakes his head. “The coke, that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“I’ve done coke before, Rome; I’ve been doing coke since I was twenty. You do remember who I was married to?” My heart hurts as I saythosewords…
Wasmarried to.
Sean,I wasmarried to Sean.
I stillammarried to Sean.
Except Sean’s dead and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life right now. I appreciate what Roman is trying to do, and he has helped me, massively. He’s proved that I can feel again, pleasure, at least.
“Well, George, am I driving or are we sleeping in the truck?”
“Just drive,” I reply. He kisses my mouth, pulls back out onto the road and we drive home in silence.
* * *
I decline Roman’s offer to come in. I apologise for my behaviour and explain I just want to be on my own. I’m not actually sure I do; I don’t know what I want, and I’m not sure of anything. My body is exhausted, but my heart is racing because of the coke.
I take a shower, pull on a pair of sleep shorts and a vest and take a couple of Valium to try and calm my heart rate. I know I shouldn’t drink with them, but they’re only a low dose, so I should be fine. I pour myself a glass of wine, and then go and sit out on the balcony. It’s almost four in the morning, but I know I won’t sleep if I go to bed, and I’m hoping the wine will relax me and undo the effects of the coke. I light a cigarette and make a conscious decision, there and then, that I won’t touch that shit again. I don’t like the person I become when I’m taking it. My face burns with embarrassment as I think about what I did earlier, what I let her do to me, someone I don’t even know. I’m pissed off with myself and Roman; he shouldn’t have let that happen, but then again, neither should I.
I stretch my legs out and rest my feet on the chair in front of me, but I’m twitchy; my heart and brain still racing. I go inside and find my phone; I have a number of text messages from Jim and Ash, apologising for their antics Friday night. I smile to myself as I read them and pour myself another wine while scrolling through all my messages until I find the one I want. I put my phone down on the table, drink my wine and light another cigarette. Other than the weed I’ve smoked lately, I’ve barely smoked the last couple of years. I’ve either been pregnant or trying for a baby, but since I’ve been in Australia, I haven’t stopped. It’s living on my own that does it. I’m not allowed to smoke at my mum’s; she just won’t have it. We all sneak out to the studio when we’re together, but if it’s just me, I don’t bother.
Just me.
On my own.
By myself.
That’s my life.
Alone.
I go back to the kitchen and bring the wine bottle back to the balcony. I pour another glass, emptying it, hoping the contents will help me forget the fucked-up circumstances of my life, just for a few hours.
I sit myself down in the chair. Drugs, smoking, drinking; the first two I need to stop completely. The last one I need to cut back on, and I will. Once I’m back in England, I will, but in the meantime, I light another as I sip my wine. I feel more relaxed now; in fact, I feel quite pissed. I’ve drunk almost a whole bottle of wine in less than an hour…
“Bad Georgia; bad, bad, Georgia,” I say aloud, then giggle to myself. The Valium’s obviously kicking in as I’m starting to feel fuzzy. I pick up my phone and look again at the message I received on my birthday; our conversation had been cut short by Sean’s flowers arriving, and I hadn’t gotten back to him since. I put out my cigarette and text one word…
Tiger
I check the time; it’ll be almost six on a Saturday evening in England. He’s probably busy, or he might be at football; I know he likes to go and watch West Ham play when he can. He could be with a woman; my stomach rolls and my heart feels like it’s being squeezed at that thought. I light another cigarette to try to calm myself. My phone vibrates on the table, and I give out a little girly shriek as I jump, then giggle to myself. I smoke the rest of my cigarette before picking up my phone and opening the message.
Fuck, Kitten.
How are you, baby?
I burst into tears, finish my drink, and then go and climb into bed.
I’m a mess
I stagger into the bathroom, get the toilet roll and bring it back to bed with me. My phone buzzes.
Where the fuck are you?
