Rachel's Holiday
By Marian KeyesPerennial
ISBN: 0-06-009038-3
Chapter One
They said I was a drug addict. I found that hard to come toterms with - I was a middle-class, convent-educated girlwhose drug use was strictly recreational. And surely drugaddicts were thinner? It was true that I took drugs, but whatno one seemed to understand was that my drug use wasn't anydifferent from their having a drink or two on a Friday nightafter work. They might have a few vodkas and tonic and let offa bit of steam. I had a couple of lines of cocaine and didlikewise. As I said to my father and my sister and my sister'shusband and eventually the therapists of the Cloisters, "Ifcocaine was sold in liquid form, in a bottle, would youcomplain about me taking it? Well, would you? No, I bet youwouldn't!"I was offended by the drug-addict allegation, because I wasnothing like one. Apart from the track marks on their arms,they had dirty hair, constantly seemed cold, did a lot ofshoulder-hunching, wore cheap sneakers that looked like they'dbeen bought in Woolworth's, and were, as I've alreadymentioned, thin.
I wasn't thin.
Although it wasn't for the want of trying. I spent plenty oftimeon the Stairmaster at the gym. But no matter how much Istairmastered, genetics had the final say. If my father hadmarried a dainty little woman, I might have had a verydifferent life. Very different thighs, certainly.
Instead, like my two older sisters, Claire and Margaret, I wasdoomed for people always to describe me by saying, "She's abig girl." Then they always added really quickly "Now, I'm notsaying she's fat."
The implication being that if I was fat, I could at least dosomething about it.
"No," they would continue, "she's a fine, big, tall girl. Youknow, strong."
I was often described as strong.
It really pissed me off.
My boyfriend, Luke, sometimes described me as magnificent.(When the light was behind me and he'd had several beers.) Atleast that was what he said to me. Then he probably went backto his friends and said, "Now, I'm not saying she's fat ..."
The whole drug-addict allegation came about one Februarymorning when I was living in New York.
It wasn't the first time I felt as if I was on Cosmic CandidCamera. My life was prone to veering out of control and I hadlong stopped believing that the God who had been assigned tome was a benign old guy with long hair and a beard. He wasmore like a celestial stand-up comic, and my life was theshowcase he used to amuse the other Gods.
"Wa-atch," he laughingly invites, "as Rachel thinks she's gota new job and that it's safe to hand in her notice on the old.Little does she know that her new firm is just about to gobankrupt!"
Roars of laughter from all the other gods.
"Now, wa-atch," he chuckles, "as Rachel hurries to meet hernew boyfriend. See how she catches the heel of her shoe in agrating? See how it comes clean off? Little did Rachel knowthat we had tampered with it. See how she limps the rest ofthe way?" More sniggers from the assembled gods.
"But the best bit of all," he laughs, "is that the man she wasmeeting never turns up! He only asked her out for a bet. Watchas Rachel squirms with embarrassment in the stylish bar. Seethe looks of pity the other women give her? See how the waitergives her the extortionate bill for a glass of wine, and bestof all, see how Rachel discovers she's left her purse athome?"
Uncontrollable guffaws.
The events that led to me being called a drug addict had thesame element of celestial farce that the rest of my life had.What happened was, one night I'd sort of overdone it on theenlivening drugs and I couldn't get to sleep. (I hadn't meantto overdo it, I had simply underestimated the quality of thecocaine that I had taken.) I knew I had to get up for work thefollowing morning, so I took a couple of sleeping pills. Afterabout ten minutes, they hadn't worked, so I took a couplemore. And still my head was buzzing, so in desperation,thinking of how badly I needed my sleep, thinking of how alertI had to be at work, I took a few more.
I eventually got to sleep. A lovely deep sleep. So lovely anddeep that when the morning came, and my alarm clock went off,I neglected to wake up.
Brigit, my roommate, knocked on my door, then came into myroom and shouted at me, then shook me, then, at her wit's end,slapped me. (I didn't really buy the "wit's end" bit. She musthave known that slapping wouldn't wake me, but no one is ingood form on a Monday morning.)
But then Brigit stumbled across a piece of paper that I'd beenattempting to write on just before I fell asleep. It was justthe usual maudlin, mawkish, self-indulgent poetry-type stuff Ioften wrote when I was under the influence. Stuff that seemedreally profound at the time, where I thought I'd discoveredthe secret of the universe, but that caused me to blush withshame when I read it in the cold light of day - the partsthat I could read, that is.
The poem went something like "Mumble, mumble, life ..."something indecipherable, "bowl of cherries, mumble, all I getis the pits ..." Then - and I vaguely remembered writing thispart - I thought of a really good title for ...
(Continues...)
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‘No one can make us feel anything,’ interrupted Clarence. ‘Our feelings are our own responsibility.’Highlighted by 331 Kindle readers
