"It's the drink or me. I can't do this any more," I say to R as I lean against the mantelpiece, hand on hip, wondering how I have ended up in a down-at-heel, south London version of Dynasty. "For chrissakes. Do what any more? I'm not drinking," R says.
"I know. I'm just saying. It's something I've been thinking about, and it's important that you know," I reply.
I'm telling him. There. It's been said. But within seconds, this certainty is replaced with a queasy sensation: now that I've made an ultimatum, I'll have to stick to my guns.
The house is quiet, the children are asleep and R and I are standing in the half-light of our messy living room. What is keeping us from holding each other?
I've accepted that it's hard to trust R, especially since his relapse a few weeks ago, but I really struggle with the notion that I should carry on life as normal and detach with love.
In my support group, a woman once said: "Don't worry about the individual relapses. If an addict tries to hide the fact that they are drinking again, then you won't need to do any sort of detective work at all. Within a short time, it will be obvious. Everything will start to fall apart." The only time I've heard this said before was when someone described the behaviour of a serial killer. Hardly edifying stuff.
Staring at the living-room wall, wondering what to say next, I recall a picture that my sister once had hanging on her wall. It said: "Don't Worry. Everything that happens happens mostly without you." I liked it a lot. I sound the words out in my head, like a spiritual mantra. If R is drinking, then why is it any of my business? No amount of worry or intervention will stop him doing what he was going to do anyway.
In the past when I've snooped into R's private affairs, it's only landed me in one place: misery. R never stooped this low, and it makes me feel ashamed. On the occasions I confirmed my beliefs that he had been drinking again, I would usually fall into a pattern of fretting, shouting and accusing. R would continue to slide further into his secret world that I was no closer to understanding, despite having gathered all the evidence.
This time, I have refrained from doing certain things that I did before: I haven't rifled through R's bag to see if I can uncover a drained bottle of rum, or slipped out all the credit cards in his wallet to see if an empty wrap of cocaine is wedged into one of the pockets. Or receipts: I've been known to painstakingly unfold crumpled pieces of faded till paper, just to see if he's been spending in the pub. I looked for the date, and the amount. Over £50 per transaction and I called it a binge, but I'm not sure how or why I set these silly limits.
For now, I go for simple instinct: R's behaviour is the most significant indicator of this, but my changeable moods – affectionate and loving one day, and angry and vindictive the next – won't reveal his best side to me.
As I move to draw the curtains, R yawns loud and wide. I walk quickly over to where he is standing, ready to catch his significant out breath. I go in for a kiss, so my sudden movement has a purpose. And just as I guessed, I can't tell if what I'm smelling is alcohol or something else (he chews menthol gum regularly).
I imagine that the "not knowing" is the thing that is driving me mad, but in reality the knowing might be worse.
R cottons on to what I'm doing almost immediately, and does not fall into the comfort of my kiss. Instead, he places his hands just above my elbows and stands back, eyes directed straight at mine. "You have really got to stop this. When you feel anxious, try to avoid the things that will hurt you. Rather look for the things that will help you," he says.
"I'm trying," I say after him, as he leaves the room.
R goes to bed early and I sit in the kitchen, looking at flights on the computer. I want to take the children to see my parents. I love it where they live: the countryside, freedom and constant company. I need a break from R – some physical distance – and I know he would relish some space away from me too: time to live without the pressure of attempting to be good and responsible at all times of the day.
When I'm hundreds of miles across the sea, not even my keen sense of smell will be able to detect whether R's had a drink or not, and that will do us all the world of good.
