ChapterForty-Nine
‘You’re drunk.’
Owen staggered against the open door of his marital home. Yes, he was drunk. Not quite at the passing out stage, but definitely drunk, having consumed an almost full bottle of his ex-wife’s excellent single malt in the two hours since George left.
Lexie pushed past him, firing questions as she went. ‘What are you doing here, Owen? Where are Margaret and Emi? Why are you drinking again?’
Owen leaned against the door and searched for answers. He could say: my daughter’s in a coma, she may die, she may never come round, but if she does, she’s most likely brain damaged, I love you, Lex – but I can’t marry you, I still love you and I always will though my life is in ruins. All valid reasons for getting wasted. He attempted to marshal the thoughts into speech, but the words were stuck inside his head.
Lexie glanced around the hall, taking in her surroundings, then placed herself in front of him. ‘Owen, you promised me. Look at the state of you.’ She slapped his shoulder. Clearly, she was angry. ‘Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?’ She paced away from him again, taking a few steps into the hall. Then turned and glared at him, obviously waiting for him to say something.
Owen shut the door: ‘Has George spoken to you?’ He slumped against the wall. What an idiot I am. How else would Lexie know to come here?
‘He told me where you were.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes …. What do you mean, is that all?’ Lexie threw up her arms in exasperation. ‘Why do you ask that? What more could there be? You go AWOL. I tried your phone, left messages – lots of messages. Then this morning, when I hadn’t slept a wink for worrying, George phoned, telling me I’d better get to this address quick and here you are out of your mind on booze. Why, Owen? Why?’
‘For old time’s sake?’
She strode back to him and hit his shoulder again with even more force.
‘Ow! That hurt.’
‘Don’t make light of this, Owen.’ Her frown deepened, but she still looked adorable. He lunged towards her, knowing the joke he’d tried and the kiss he was planning were both inappropriate. But she was so beautiful. He wanted to take her to his old marital bed, or maybe the guest room would be better, but either way he wanted to take her to bed and assert himself just one last time.
The conflict between his last remaining fragment of still functioning intelligence and basic instinct ended with an unexpected gut reaction. As he was about to press his lips to hers, he changed course and stumbled hurriedly down the corridor. He was going to be sick.
‘Where are you going?’ she called after him.
‘Kitchen,’ he mumbled through firmly closed lips.
Lexie followed him. ‘Why are you here?’
He got to the sink just in time. Lexie was behind him, but an answer to her question was impossible while his body was ejecting all the expensive whisky.
He hung over the sink, vomiting until the back of his throat was raw.
When it seemed his stomach had done its worst, Owen stayed in place, trembling and staring at the plughole where the obnoxious fluid was seeping. He turned the tap and watched the last of the mess swirl into the drain. If only life’s problems could be so easily washed away, he thought, and cupping his hands under the cold water, he splashed his face.
He could hear Lexie moving behind him, opening and closing cupboards loudly. Straightening, he turned to look at her. She was making coffee. A pain like a red-hot poker shot between his eyes, and he groaned.
Lexie looked across at him as she poured boiling water into two mugs.
‘You ought to sit down before you fall down,’ she said.
Owen silently obeyed and sat at the large deal table, which was more show than purpose nowadays. He’d bought it in the early days in Hampstead, before Margaret. It was where he had learned to cook good meals and where later, when the house had become a family home, he’d sat with his toddler daughter, showing her the letters of the alphabet, helping her handle her first crayon, but then Margaret had chucked him out, and the table became just another piece of furniture.
‘Only instant, I’m afraid,’ Lexie said, taking a seat opposite Owen and pushing his coffee across the table.
‘Margaret wasn’t much into the little domestic luxuries.’ Owen accepted the mug and stared into it, wondering where to start.
Lexie took that problem away from him, with another question: ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
He looked up and was trapped by Lexie’s trusting violet-blue eyes. The first detail of her that had caught his heart. And he was about to annihilate her trust. He couldn’t do it. He shook his head, and from the confused jumble of thoughts, Owen remembered George saying: ‘Man up, you bastard. Either break her heart yourself or ask her what she thinks. Your choice. Your action’.
‘I’m sorry, Lex. I should have called you yesterday, but I lost my phone and I—’
