On Tuesdays at the clinic I run a group session for parents of addicts. Dragging our chairs into a makeshift circle, the eight of us sit down, and I take a moment to look at each one of them. The longest-serving member is Jackie Clack. She’s been coming to these meetings for five years, ever since she found her son injecting himself in their downstairs bathroom. Though Seth’s fallen on and off the wagon more times than a drunken cowboy, Jackie has remained consistent throughout that time.
She’s like everybody’s grandma. When a new member joins, she takes them under her wings, coddling them, telling them that though things may not ever get better, they will definitely become more bearable.
Next to Jackie is Peter Stanhope. He’s only been with us a few weeks. His daughter, Kate, is a meth addict and her two children have been taken into foster care. Every time Pete comes to a meeting he shows us their photos, holding them with a shaking hand, telling us that this week he hopes he’ll get to see them.
The saddest member of all is Carla Dean. She’s not that much older than me, though the furrowed lines that have made a home across her brow make her look at least a decade more advanced than she is. She had her only son—Connor—at the age of seventeen. He’s now fifteen and addicted to smack. She hasn’t seen him for three months; the last she heard, he was seen in a drug den in Wandsworth. Since then, she’s been walking the streets every night, questioning the homeless, searching for a sign of him.
It’s as if the streets have swallowed him whole. It never fails to amaze me how a fifteen-year-old can disappear into thin air. In this day and age, it’s still possible to lose a child.
“I thought I saw him last week,” Carla tells us. She won’t catch any of our eyes, and simply stares down at the floor. From my position opposite her, I can see the grey roots of her hair have grown in, giving her a pale white stripe across her parting line. “But it wasn’t him. It was some kid with bleached blond hair. I tried to get him to come home with me for a decent meal but he told me to fuck off.” She wrings her hands nervously together. “I told him that his mum must be worried sick, as I am. But he told me his mum chucked him out.” Finally, she looks up. “I mean, who would do that? Throw their kid out?”
“I threw Kate out when I found out about her drugs,” Pete says, with a thin smile. “Fat lot of good that did. She shacked up with her deadbeat boyfriend instead. The one who got her hooked in the first place.”
“You did what you thought was right.” Jackie pats his hand. “None of this is your fault.”
There’s silence for a minute, and I turn my attention on our newest member. Laurence Baines is fifty-something and a headmaster of an up-and-coming school in East London. In the past two weeks that he’s attended the group he’s been nothing but perfectly turned out. Suit jacket still on, not a single hair out of place; he looks like the ultimate professional.
“How’s your week been, Laurence?” I ask.
“I visited Tom yesterday. He cried for an hour.” Laurence catches my eye. “I cried, too. For the first time since my mother died twenty years ago.”
Tom was convicted for dealing while studying at Oxford University. Unlike many others, he had everything going for him from the start. Wealthy parents, a middle-class upbringing, an education people would kill to get, and yet now he’s serving time in a prison surrounded by thieves and murderers. A different type of education altogether.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask him.
“Exhausted. Depleted. I spent most of the night holding Julie while she cried herself to sleep.” Julie is Laurence’s wife. She’s taken her son’s incarceration badly. Understandably so. “All she kept asking me was ‘why’? I couldn’t tell her I want to know that, too. That I don’t have the answers.”
“Do you find not having the answers difficult?” Jackie asks that question.
Laurence turns to look at her. “I’ve never felt this helpless before. I’m always the one with the answers. At home I’ve looked after the money and the house. Julie relies on me to keep things straight. It’s the same at school. I’m the one who gets to make all the decisions. The one people look up to. But now I’ve no idea what to do. I hate feeling so bloody useless.”
“Sometimes there isn’t an answer,” I point out, gently. “Life throws a curveball and we either duck or get hit.”
These sessions are always tough. It’s hard enough when it’s one on one. But in a group setting there are so many desperately sad stories, they never fail to touch me. The worst thing about them is the inevitability of it all. Even when one of their children has finally kicked the habit, we all know that around 90% of them will return to drugs within the next twelve months. That’s why so few of them stop coming even during a sober period.
I think of Max and the way he actually waved me goodbye this morning when I dropped him off at nursery, lifting up his tiny hand and flapping his fingers as I left him playing with Holly. I can’t imagine going through what these people have endured. To see the child they love stolen away by an addiction so cruel nobody can escape from it.
Once, Laurence watched Tom learn to crawl. Saw his first tiny wave with a chubby little fist. I can’t imagine he ever thought that one day that baby would grow up and be a convicted criminal, imprisoned at the age of twenty.
What happened to these kids? Were there a series of tiny choices that led to their addictions, or were they doomed from the start. I find myself listening closer, looking for answers, hoping to avoid making the same mistakes they did.
If only I could shelter Max from harm. Wrap him up in cotton wool and chase the world away. I hate the thought he’s going to experience sadness. Heartache and rejection. Perhaps that’s the cruellest part of being a parent. Knowing as hard as you try, you can’t protect them from everything.
“It isn’t your fault,” Jackie joins in. I can tell by the way she’s wriggling on her seat that she’s desperate to get up and give Laurence a hug. Not that he looks like the hugging type. I expect he’d endure it politely, trying desperately not to look at Jackie’s more than ample bosom, but I don’t think it would give him much comfort.
At this point I’m not even sure there’s comfort to be had.
“We’ve reached the end of our hour,” I say, reluctantly. It took us all a while to warm up today, and the first twenty minutes were filled with pointed silence and quiet mumbles. It’s always a shame when we get only forty minutes of quality discussion time. “I’ll see you here the same time next week?”
A few nods, a couple of thanks, and the loud noise of chairs scraping against the floor fill the air. I start to stack them in the corner and Laurence comes over to help me, working silently beside me as everybody else troops out.
“Thank you for today,” he says quietly. “It’s good to know I’m not alone out there.”
Now I’m the one who wants to hug him. I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands, reminding myself I’m a therapist, not a cuddler.
“I’m glad you came. I know we don’t have all the answers, but we do want to listen. And everybody wants to help.”
“Even Jackie,” Laurence says, and the ghost of a smile crosses his lips.
“Especially Jackie.”
After Laurence leaves, I take a moment to grab my phone from my bag. I’ve been trying to call Alex since yesterday, desperate to tell him about Max’s first crawl. I left a voicemail first thing this morning, asking Stuart to get Alex to call me back, but I’ve heard nothing since. Of course, I haven’t had a chance to try again since I got to work.
Predictably, there’s a missed call and a voicemail. I press on the icon, then listen to the automated voice as she tells me I have one new message.
“Hey, I can’t believe I’ve missed you again. The reception out here’s crap. We’re about to get on a bus to Chicago in five minutes, but you can try and call me when you get the message. Or I’ll call you when we get to the hotel some time tonight. Love you, babe.”
Frustrated, I delete the message and try the number again, but all I hear is Stuart’s recorded voice. I leave a low-key message, telling Alex I’ll try him again later, wishing him luck in tomorrow’s concert. Then I go back to my office, ready for my final counselling session of the day, hoping at some point this week, I’ll actually get a chance to talk to my husband.
Max goes to sleep quickly this evening. It's as if he knows I've had a hard day and wants to make my life easy. I stand and watch him for a while, as his bow-lips pucker in his sleep, looking like his daddy when he sings softly into a microphone.
Pouring myself a cup of tea, I call Beth, needing to hear a friendly voice. If I'm brutally honest, as nice as it is to get some peace and quiet, I can't help but feel lonely on nights like this. There's an Alex-shaped hole in the flat, his absence making everything seem a bit less vibrant.
“Hello, stranger.” As soon as I hear her voice it makes me smile. “How's things?”
I can't tell you how good it is to hear her voice. All the frustrations of the day seem to quieten inside me. Beth has a way of bringing inner peace.
“Different day, same problems,” I say. “It's been a long week.”
“It's only Monday.” Her laugh is soft. “What's up?”
Where do I start? Taking a sip of my lukewarm tea, I lean back in my chair, letting my eyes fall shut. “Ugh, I don't know. I've been playing voicemail tennis with Alex for days, and he missed Max's first crawl yesterday. I haven't even had a chance to tell him.”
“Aww, he'll be gutted to have missed it. Maybe you can video it for him or something?”
“I suppose so. But I want him to see it for himself, not on a stupid phone screen. I feel like a single parent. It's not fair.” I know I sound spoiled, but I also know Beth understands me. I need to vent, to let it out.
It's either that or stew all night.
“It's not for long. He'll be back before you know it. Leaving the toilet seat up. Filling up the laundry basket. You'll ache for these days, believe me.”
“I miss him so much.” I wrinkle my nose. “More than I thought I would.”
“Of course you miss him. I miss Niall when he goes away, too. But the reunions kind of make up for it.”
Beth makes it sound so easy. I know Niall often has to travel for his work. Being an artist, he has exhibitions and commissions across the world. But the two of them—and Allegra, Beth's adopted daughter—make it work somehow.
That's another thing that worries me. We were already having problems before Alex left on tour, add that to his absence and it's a recipe for misery. It feels as if we're climbing a mountain wearing an iron shawl. An uphill struggle.
“It all seems so hard, you know?” I rub my face wearily. “The lack of sleep. The lack of husband. I don't know how single mums survive.”
“They survive because they have to,” she says gently. “And you will, too. You're stronger than you know.” She pauses and I take another mouthful of tea. “How are you feeling, anyway? What does the doctor say about the post natal depression?”
I shrug, even though she can't see me. “He says I should keep going to the PND group. He wants to keep an eye on me, but he doesn’t think I need medication.”
“That's good, right? And we have this weekend to look forward to. Allegra's so excited you and Max are coming to stay.”
Her enthusiasm makes me smile. I'm so excited about this weekend, too. Max and I are taking the train to Brighton on Friday night and spending the whole weekend with Beth and Niall. To say I can't wait would be an understatement.
“Oh God, I'm like a kid counting down to Christmas. I'm looking forward to seeing you all.”
“So am I. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for the weather. And on Saturday night Niall's offered to babysit while we hit the town.”
“Really?” I sound incredulous. As much as I love Niall, I can't picture him being excited about that. “He doesn't have to do that.”
“Yes, he bloody does. You deserve a break and so do I. Anyway, we don't have to go out for long. We can put the kids to bed first then sneak out for a couple of drinks. And don't say no, I've been looking forward to this so much.”
She sounds as desperate as I am for some child-free entertainment. I love Max to death, but I also miss the times when I could go out and paint the town red. “I won't say no.”
“Good. Because I've bought a dress and everything. And I've booked the taxi.”
“In that case, how can I refuse?”
“You can't,” she says happily. “A couple of drinks, a bit of a boogie and you'll forget all about your worries.”
“I hope so,” I sigh.
Even if I don't forget about my worries, at least I'll be able to spend some time with my best friend, something almost as rare as a conversation with my husband. When we finish our call and I hang up, there's a small smile on my face.
Friday can't come quick enough.
I'm lying in bed, scrolling through the updates on my phone when I remember my conversation with Amy at the picnic. Pressing on the touch-screen, I open up Facebook, and type in the search box. The Fear of Flying fan page is first in the results, and I'm kicking myself for not checking it before. It looks like Stuart and Alfie are keeping it updated regularly, with news of their progress, and posts about each gig they've performed.
There are photos, too. Excited, I scroll through them. Smiling when I see the ones of Alex mid-set, his slicked-back hair shining beneath the stage lights, his eyes dark and intense in the hazy atmosphere.
There are ones of the band sitting on their tour bus, laughing, Alex clutching a guitar, a pen tucked behind his ear as he strums.
Seeing him makes my chest feel tight. The sense of loss I felt earlier intensifies, growing into a black hole that fills my body. I spend long minutes staring at his face, taking in the way his brow furrows and his lips purse as he listens to something Stuart is telling him.
Later on in the album, I find photos of last night's gig in Austin, and scroll through them greedily, excited that I've nearly caught up to him. I follow the progress of their day; the sound check, an early dinner, the four of them holding bottles of beer as they toast that night's gig.
Then there are the ones of Alex performing. Like in the earlier pictures, he looks glorious. Strutting sexily across the stage, leaning forward as he sings into the microphone, a smirk on his face as fans in the front row try to touch him.
God, he looks so natural. A star in waiting.
Finally, we get to the after-party. Some dingy bar with threadbare seats. They are surrounded by fans. There are photos of Stuart signing a pair of boobs, and Alfie rolling his eyes at the sight.
And then... and then...
My heart stops.
Alex is sitting down, a pretty blonde perched on his lap. Her arm is looped around his neck, while his is casually slung around her waist.
He's laughing.
Staring into her eyes and laughing.
There's something so intimate about it I feel as though I'm intruding. As if I'm the interloper, staring at him and a girlfriend.
Opening my mouth, I take a ragged breath. It catches in my throat, my chest too tight to let it in. And for a moment it feels as though I'm drowning in oxygen.
Last night, my husband let a pretty girl sit on his lap. He let her put her arms around him. While I slept in our bed, and our baby slept in his cot, Alex wrapped his own arm around her waist.
I don't care if she's a fan, or a friend. I don't care if there's nothing in it, or it's simply an awkward snapshot of a passing moment. At one point last night, that girl sat on his lap and made him laugh.
The tightness in my chest starts to burn. Though I turn off my phone, the image lingers in my mind. I can't ignore the nasty thoughts lingering there no matter how hard I try. Even if it was nothing more than a passing embrace, the bitter taste it leaves in my mouth makes me feel nauseous, angry. And I want to hit out at something.
I don't know what to do. Should I call him, demand answers? Laugh it off like I would have done previously? Seeing that picture has mixed up everything, making it hard for me to think straight.
It makes it impossible for me to sleep, too. In spite of my exhaustion, I toss and turn all night. Feeling angry, jealous, and lonely. When Max wakes up at four in the morning, crying softly for some milk, I'm feeling as miserable as he sounds.