In Search of Lost Time

Consciousness comes upon me like I’m being dragged out of a tar pit. My mouth is dry. As I open my eyes, a judgemental glare of sunlight that permeates a gap in the curtains pierces my retinas. I close them immediately and jolt at the sound of a clang, then metal rolling on wood where my hand has scraped across the table beside the bed. A little thud on the carpet. Reticently, I open my eyes again to see what it was. Ah - just the copper coin I had engraved for Kate three months ago as a gift for our seventh wedding anniversary.

I collapse back onto the pillow and close my eyes again. Thunder crashes repeatedly somewhere in the depths of my brain. I need water, but I don’t think I can move; lifting my head was painful enough. I don’t remember what happened last night but a heavy swell of foreboding rises up into my chest and tries to suffocate me. I gag. I sense what’s going to happen early enough. Instinctively it seems, I am emerging from the depths of the bedspread and now I find myself crawling across the carpet toward the en-suite (thank God Kate insisted on that one). I make it to the toilet.

Tears start to form in the corners of my eye as I retch repeatedly over the basin. I am in complete darkness; I am numb. My head empties and my body shivers as I expel the sour poison from my stomach, and hear it slosh into the water below. Again. I shiver. I retch.

I am fully clothed but the bathroom tiles chill my feet and the cold basin of the toilet my hands and arms.

Though the retching has stopped, I am reluctant to lift my head up and instead rest it on my arms. From somewhere guttural, I hear myself groan as I try in vain to scramble together my thoughts.

Ah, Friday night. Work party.

I remember getting dressed. I remember leaving.

More recollections trickle slowly back through my mind. A function room. A bar. Music. These images are flashing across my pounding head like one of those slide shows people used to make using a projector in their living room.

What the fuck happened last night?

If yesterday was Friday then that means today must be Saturday.

So where is Kate? Where the fuck is Kate?

What time is it?

Move.

Come on Adrian, you have to move.

An involuntary noise escapes my lips as I use the basin slowly and painfully to pick myself up off the floor.

I stumble to the light switch.

My own reflection momentarily alarms me. Not looking good.

Where is Kate?

She would usually be here at – a look at my watch –

10:17.

Saturday. I know in the depths of myself that something bad happened last night. I know instinctively that it was my fault. But what did I do?

My brain is splintered, still hammering inside my skull. Fragments of memories emerge but I can’t turn them into anything cohesive - the front door of the flat slamming shut. Thudding music. Faces. The bitter taste of tequila; salty, sour lime. The sound of a car engine revving up outside.

What the fuck did I do?

I need coffee. Flick on the kettle. Run the tap, fill a glass with water. Drink. Drink.

The hissing and spluttering of the water inside the kettle intensifies and finally drops off. Click. Pour some coffee into the bottom of a mug. Fill it up. Sip. Sip. Even though it’s far too hot. Sip.

I notice through the window that it has started to rain.

Assuming a seat at the breakfast bar, I feel in my pocket for my phone. With dread, I stare down at the screen. No calls. No messages.

Anything last night? No.

With a sigh I open it up and dial Kate’s number.

Straight to voicemail. I knew it would be before I pressed the button.

I groan involuntarily.

Greg then.

A ring. A ring.

‘Sup dude?’ he answers blearily.

‘Man, I’m fucked.’

‘Yeah. Great night.’

‘Was it?’

He laughs ominously down the line.

‘Certainly for you. You and Jules looked pretty… cosy.’

For fuck's sake. Fuck.

I can see it in my mind. She is rubbing against my crotch. Pounding music blares, my hands on her hips.

I can taste sweet, bitter alcohol and ashy fags on her breath when I kiss her.

Fuck.

‘Kate’s not here.’

‘Ah shit, sorry man.’

‘What time did I leave?’

‘I don’t know Ade… it was late. And you went with her.’

Fuck.

I sigh.

‘Alright, thanks man. I’ll let you get back to your morning.’

‘Cheers dude, catch you later.’

‘Cheers, bye man.’

My head slumps onto my arms resting on the surface of the breakfast bar.

After some unmeasurable quantity of time, I lift it up again to sup on my coffee and try to figure out what to do.

11:04.

Still no Kate.

*****

12:13.

After finishing my coffee and forcing myself into the shower I find myself now driving along Abbott’s Road toward the Old Town. It is raining. Though I had not consciously considered my route, I know where I am headed, and my instincts tell me why.

Self-loathing and dismay churn in my stomach as I pull in to Hunter’s Rise. Within seconds my suspicions are confirmed as I see Kate’s silver Fiesta parked on the left hand side of the street. A sharp swell of panic rises within me; I pull over myself and swallow the sharp bile that tries to project upward into my mouth.

Andy’s. She’s come to Andy’s.

Fuck.

I check in the glove box for a pen, and scrawl a note for her on the back of a receipt. I dash quickly from my seat – the engine still running – and lift one of her windscreen wipers to accommodate the paper. I hope it doesn’t perish before she is able to read it.

Already a little wet, I dive back into my seat, wrangle the gear stick with more force than is necessary and pull out as quickly as possible. I need to get away from here. Away from whatever is happening in that house.

13:42

Today the sea is wild. Frantically stirring up bubbling blotches of white foam; turning over and over and over itself in a relentless and futile mêlée. The fierce herring gulls too, circle restlessly above the tussle; swooping and screeching over each other.

I watch on from the driver’s seat of my car. I sift through the contents of the glovebox for a cigarette. I haven’t had one in over a year, but I’m sure there are some in here.

I locate a crumpled old packet of Marlboros, switch on the engine and push down the circular lighter to the left of the dashboard. Three left.

After a moment, pop.

I light one from the glowing orange rings and gag. It is stale and bitter. Nonetheless, I inhale again, and crack the window.

A sort of disconnect falls over me and I feel strangely calm. The rain shows no intention of slowing.

*****

14:56

I am pulled from my stupor by the crunching sound of wheels over gravel as she pulls into the carpark. It is still raining.

Nervousness froths up in my stomach like the last moments before a first date.

Kate and I had our first date here, that’s why I came. It had been an entirely different day – all sunshine, warmth.

I shiver.

My life changed irrevocably that day. Will it change again now? I am unsure whether I am supposed to feel guilty or angry.

What I feel really is exhaustion.

Kate parks her Fiesta beside my car. She turns the engine off and I see her staring out across the sea for a few seconds.

She finally moves, running swiftly to the passenger door to get out of the downpour as quickly as possible. She flings it open, scrambles in, slams the door shut from the inside.

We both stare forward at the vista; the grey of the sky mingling with the grey of the sea, punctuated with those manic herring gulls.

‘Oh Ade,’

She puts her head in her hands.

‘What the fuck are we going to do?’

I want to reply, I am overcome with the urge to give her an answer. Any answer. Every answer.

But I say nothing.

I don’t know what the answer is; I don’t know what to say.

Somehow seeing Kate balances something in my scrambled mind and for the first time today I start to piece together the events of last night.

Flirting, dancing, pouring little glasses of tequila down my throat – another one, another one, another one. Some more dancing, grinding. The flicker of false eyelashes, the nauseating stench of perfume, the swish of blonde hair extensions. Giggling and stumbling. Eventually fucking. A clumsy, thankless fuck.

It is so absurd I almost laugh. What a fucking idiot.

A contrasting image starts to emerge now.

Turning my key in the door of the flat and opening the door to the warm glow of lamplight. A half-drunk glass of red on the coffee table. Kate – all Joy Division t-shirt and fluffy socks – asleep on the sofa, book crumpled beside her. How did I not remember this until now? Even in the state I was, being stricken almost to tears by the look of serenity on her face as she slept. Then the swell of the sickening dread. Then I moved and tripped and she woke up.

I can sense her beside me, watching my face as all of this flashes across my mind.

I turn to meet her gaze.

There is a look of resignation on her face, almost a hint of amusement. God I love this woman.

‘You ridiculous fucker,’

She is laughing and livid together; in a state of rage and hysteria.

Sigh.

‘I know.’

‘Worth it?’

I flash her a look. She knows the answer. She knows me so well; what drives my actions; my idiocy.

‘So what do we do now?’ I ask. ‘Are you leaving me to go back to Andy?’

She laughs.

I can feel bile rising to my throat again.

‘No you idiot.' Her voice rises, her speech quickens. 'What is a girl to do when her husband goes out and bangs some half-wit blonde from the office? Cry? Moan? Beg you not to leave? Hold it against you for months? Leave?'

She is shaking.

'You know that’s not how I operate. You went out and got fucked, I decided the best thing to do was to balance the scales, to do the same thing.'

A thick sigh; resignation.

It’s you and me Ade, isn't it? We understand each other, don't we? You’re desirable, I’m desirable. I just did what I fucking had to do - what you forced me to do - to retain that equilibrium. I think you understand what I mean.’

I am speechless, but I do. I understand her perfectly and somehow love her more than ever. Can a couple recover after a night like this? Is that even possible? I begin to suspect that perhaps we can. Us, with our higher understanding; with our utter rejection of bluster.

I am nodding slowly.

‘You’re fucking amazing Kate.’

‘I know.’

‘You think we’ll be OK after this?’

‘Yeah. It’s us, isn’t it?’

But a sense of sadness, of something lost or broken, lingers in the cold air between us.

*****

Consciousness comes upon me like I’m being dragged out of a tar pit. A judgemental glare of sunlight permeating from the gap in the curtains pierces my retinas.

My hand scrapes across the table beside the bed and I hear a sharp clang followed by the sound of metal rolling on wood.

What was that?

Oh, that anniversary coin I had engraved for Kate a few months ago.

I slump back down into my pillows.

Urgh.

Where the fuck is Kate?

I don’t know what happened last night, but the morning is tainted by an ominous and vaguely suffocating air of familiarity.

To my relief, she has appeared at the bedroom door holding two mugs of coffee, but I can't quite read the look on her face.