To my mother I was a sob story, an excuse to get blind drunk, an outlet for her irrational anger. I thanked my lucky stars she was often too out of it to throw her fists around often because I took every single hit she hurled at me when she did. The words were harmful enough, the fists I could do without.
She may not have loved me, but I did her, she was my mother and we were all each other had. I stuck around against my better judgement.
“Do you want me to fix you dinner before I get off to work?”
“Soup,” she slurred. “In a cup.”
Which was about as much as she could hold down these days. Tomorrow, an intervention was required, a doctor’s appointment I’d mention in the morning once I figured out if I could get one or not, even if it meant going on my own for some advice, to discuss options. We couldn’t continue down this road any longer.
With a mug of soup in hand, I traipsed back to the living room, spying a new, unopened bottle of whisky, a brand she rarely drank because it was expensive, tucked up beside her chair. Slamming the cup down on the coffee table, I pointed to the bottle she hadn’t even bothered to hide. “Who the hell is buying you more booze?”
“Fuck off. You’re not my mother.”
I stared impudently at the awful woman. “No, I’m not. I’m the one looking after you. Where did you get it?”
“None of your business.”
“It was fucking Jared, wasn’t it?”
My ex was in the flat far too often and if the shithead was buying her bottles of alcohol while I was out working, he was going to get it tight. He damn well knew the situation and exactly how I felt about it, I bought her an allowance of alcohol I thought was sufficient because I was all too aware if she was to suddenly stop, it could very well be a death sentence. I hated doing it and I needed better advice than the shit I’d found online. For Jared to top up her alcohol consumption just made me livid.
“He’s such a good lad. Why you have to be a bitch to him? Best you’re ever gonna get,” she cackled.
“Lovely,” I huffed. “Just fucking lovely. He slept with someone else. I have a little more self-respect than to roll over and pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Always did think you were miss high and mighty, didn’t you?”
“You’re sticking up for him?” Why was I not surprised in the slightest?
“He’s a good boy.”
“Because he buys you booze?”
“I said,” she ground out. “Fuck off, Jolie.”
I did just that, and fucked off, feeling good about it until I sat my arse down on the only available seat I could find on the busy Tube. Window shopping, until it was time for my shift, briefly crossed my mind, but I couldn’t see past the constant shimmer of tears in my eyes, or the hollow feeling in my chest making it difficult to breathe, so I sat on a bench a street away from work and people watched. For more than an hour, I imagined how others lived their lives and wondered if anyone else walking by had a mother like mine and if they wrestled with their conscience daily.
By half past four, I was cold and already tired, my energy zapped, and the thought of work nowhere near as enticing as it had been before. I considered calling Bill to pull a sicky, which would mean going home, the last place I wanted to be anytime soon. Up I got and trudged around the corner, letting myself in through the side door with a smile I’d plastered on my face a second before.
“Ah. Jolie.”
I jumped, not expecting Bill to be right there the minute I closed the door behind me. “Shit, Bill. You gave me a bloody fright.”
“Sorry, sorry, you’re the first in. Think you could do me a favour and nip to the Indian and grab me a chicken bhuna and some sag aloo?” He lifted my hand and shoved twenty pounds in my palm, curling my fingers around the note. “You’ve got VIP again tonight, but Mr Ischmov is already on the premises and could do with some food.”
“Just him?”
“Just him. I think his friends will join him later but for now, he’s alone.”
“A bhuna?”
“Yes, and sag aloo.”
“Um… Okay. I might have to wait for it.”
“That’s fine. Carol shouldn’t be far behind you. She can start the prep for opening.” He shooed me back towards the door I’d just come in through. “You’ll get paid for this time, consider it work.”
Bill was acting weird. The bar made canapes and stuff occasionally, he could have grabbed food from the big walk-in fridge or gone to get the food himself. I had VIP again, and I wondered if it was going to become a habit, though I wasn’t going to complain about it. The VIP bonus bolstered the bar wages I took home each week, money that went a long way to keeping the roof over our heads or paying for unbudgeted taxi fares.
“When you get back, plate it and take it to Mr Ischmov. I’ll keep everyone out of the bar so he can eat in peace.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, bewildered. Why was Yannick already at the bar and having his dinner in VIP?
“I think Mr Ischmov is reconsidering his life,” he muttered, then took off, leaving me staring after him.
Twenty minutes
