About Last Night - Chapter 7
A lonely tear makes its way down my cheek. I stride to the kitchen and pour whatever is left of the whiskey down the sink. Whatever the answer I am looking for, I will not find it in the bottle.
Catch-up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 and Chapter 6.
February 2018
The sun warms my face, and the ice-cream melts down my hand. I lick it off and it tastes of vanilla. The second most expensive spice. Produced by an orchid whose flower remains open for only 24 hours. If not pollinated during that time, it wilts and dies. Even when successfully pollinated, it takes nine months for the pods to ripen. I’ve always wondered why people use vanilla to describe something that is unexciting. I can’t think of a more inaccurate comparison.
Ma takes me by my sticky hand and walks me towards the sea. She takes off my sun dress and says: ‘Go on, get into the water, don’t be afraid,’ but I am afraid. Afraid that she would die if I took my eyes off of her for even one second. Afraid that she would leave me all alone in the world.
‘It’s okay, Helena, I’m right here with you,’ she says and I wake up to find that I’ve been crying in my sleep. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes and somebody is banging on the door of the toilet cubicle where I have apparently spent the night.
‘Anyone in there?’ says a voice I don’t recognise. I peer through a crack in the door to catch a glimpse of the cleaning trolley.
‘I am not feeling well,’ I say. ‘I’ll be out in a moment.’
‘Okay, miss,’ says the voice and moves over to the next cubicle. I take advantage of her momentary displeasure with the state of the toilet seat to slip out without looking at myself in the mirror.
Once I’m on the service staircase, I fish out my phone to check the time. Thank God it’s early and my colleagues are too lazy to climb stairs. Though there are always a few health freaks who enjoy the feeling of being out of breath by the time they’ve reached the seventh floor. A series of pings informs me I’ve got incoming text messages. They’re all from Jim.
6:43: ’You’ll be glad to know I convinced Damian not to press charges. For now.’
6:55: ‘Better to lay low for a few days until it blows over. Gary’s covering the Japanese pitch this afternoon. Send over the presentation as soon as you can.’
7:02: ‘Hope you’re not too fragile. Janine told me she saw you throwing up in the toilets at some point. Sign of a good party, I always say ;) J’
I decide not to reply until I get home. I wait for my Uber by the delivery door, like a criminal. Once safely inside my flat, I promptly fall asleep on the sofa. When I wake up three hours later, I’m in a panic, remembering the deck I am supposed to send Gary. Waiting for the slides to upload, I drift on the internet. My stomach is making gurgling noises. I should eat something. I pour myself a glass of wine instead.
A ping startles me. It’s another text from Jim. ‘Still waiting for the slides! :)’ Hold you your horses, Jim, I think, lightheaded. The wine is working its way fast into my bloodstream. I should be furious. I’ve spent weeks working on the pitch (a premium brand of Japanese whiskey coveted by the entire advertising industry), and now somebody else is going to present my work. Gary of all people. That snotty public school boy who skipped a few stages straight into middle management. I slaved for years as an Account Executive until Jim finally decided to promote me. I should be more furious, but I am strangely unmoored, drifting further and further away from the shore.
I must have passed out because the clock is showing 7pm and my phone is full of missed calls and text messages from Jim. The last one, a more formal way of letting me know I’ve screwed up royally.
14.51: ‘We need to have a serious talk!!!’
I check my computer, the email staring at me as an unsent draft. Fuck! I don’t remember anything after the second bottle of wine. I don’t remember the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table either, and I certainly don’t remember the bathrobe cord around my neck. I shuffle to the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror and notice a purple line around my neck and burst little veins on the white of my eyes. A sense of disappointment shots through me like an electric shock, but I can’t tell why I’m disappointed. Is it because I did what I did, or is it because I failed?
I walk back to the sofa and sit down, eyes fixed on the bottle of whiskey, the exquisite Japanese single malt we are (were?) pitching for. Made with melted snow from Mount Fuji. A rare and precious liquid, not to be shared and certainly not to be wasted. They called it “the closest thing to ambrosia” and I can’t even remember the taste. I pick up the bottle and trace the label with my fingers. It is rough, real, like a true product from the forest where the distillery is located. I feel the coldness of the glass and the round curves like a woman’s body. I unscrew the top and bring the bottle to my lips. I stop for a moment, smelling the aroma from the bottle, expecting a genie to appear in front of me and grant me the ability to turn back time? If that were to happen, where would I chose to go? Before I embarrassed Amy in front of her fiancée? Before I lost my mother? Before the night in the woods?
A lonely tear makes its way down my cheek. I stride to the kitchen and pour whatever is left of the whiskey down the sink. Whatever the answer I am looking for, I will not find it in the bottle. Not anymore.
Stay tuned for next week’s episode!
