She paced the floor of Michelle's flat, steadying herself occasionally against the sofa, attempting to appear as sober as it's possible to appear when you've just come from a police cell in a pair of ripped tights and bruises all over your arms.
The dirt and grime still clung to her, the smell of things she'd rather not think about seemingly following her around. She scratched her arms subconsciously, as though she could claw away the inches of slime that existed only in her mind.
"D'ya want a coffee?" Michelle's tone said it all: She was appalled. She had no idea what to say or how to treat this drunken mess in front of her. She was resenting being woken at this ungodly hour and resenting the current situation even more, and Carla didn't blame her at all. She merely shook her head, scared to speak in case her words were still slurred, and not wanting to admit that the mere though of consuming anything right now brought bile to her throat.
Her former sister-in-law sighed, disappearing into the bedroom for a few moments before returning with a blanket, which she threw half-halfheartedly onto the sofa. "It's not all that warm I'm afraid but..."
"I'm sorry, 'Chelle" Carla heard herself croak. She barely recognised the voice she was hearing as her own.
The other woman perched on the arm of the sofa, gesturing Carla to sit. "Drunk and disorderly Carla, I mean... What happened?"
She flopped herself down onto the sofa, causing the room to spin wildly as she did so. Her stomach churned, she was going to be sick. "They just..." She sighed, trying to distract herself from the violent urge to heave. "I dunno I... I didn't get into a fight or anything, it..." Her head pounded now, her urge to hurl slowly being overcome by a desire to pass out.
How could she tell the one person who'd stood by her throughout this last year of hell that merely being here was driving her mad? That every cobble and every piece of furniture in the flat or the office reminded her of him in one way or other? How could she explain that she heard his voice echoing around every room and saw his face every time she dares to try to sleep for even a moment? And most importantly right now, how could she possibly tell her that she had absolutely no memory of anything past sitting in a back alley with a bottle of Jack Daniels like some out of control teenager?
'So mature. She scolded herself in her head. 'things go wrong so you drown yourself in booze as per. You're not 18 any more, time to get a grip, time to move on. It was over a year ago, so much has happened since then. It's time to move on.
And she had done, back in LA. When she was away from all those memories, when there was enough sea and sand and cityscape to distract her, when she could throw herself into helping Peter recover and forget about her own excuse for a life. But from the moment Peter had eagerly announced a trip home for Christmas, she'd been right back there again. It may as well have been the day after it had happened, it all felt suddenly so fresh and so vivid. Memories she'd suppressed for months, feelings she'd hidden, pushed away for so long had all just hit her all over again, and she felt paralyzed by the sheer force.
And how could she tell her that simply by doing what she'd relied on her to do, looking after her business, taking charge, she'd left her feeling isolated and adrift, as though there was no place for her there anymore, as if the world had just moved on and forgotten about her?
Michelle moved closer, taking hold her of hand, and Carla hated herself for the bolt of fear that shot through her as she felt herself being held. She felt her hand shaking and wondered if she could blame the booze, and which would be worse. "Well...You must've done something to end up in the back of a police car".
"I was just walking, I don't..." She sighed, "Apparently being drunk in a public place after a certain time is frowned upon. I told them they should take a trip to our old estate with a couple of vans and arrest half the population!" She tried to joke but she Michelle didn't react. "Anyway, next thing I know I'm being physically thrown into a scummy cell like some kind of..." She ran her free hand through her hair, lost for words. "I don't even know what. And I'm just sat there wondering how I ever got here. Michelle I was mortified!"
"We found the vodka bottle in the office" Michelle replied bluntly.
"It weren't full!" She tried to defend herself, as though it mattered which side of a sporadic excuse for a night's sleep she'd started and finished the bottle. She leaned her head back against the sofa: the room was spinning again.
There was an awkward pause as both women sat, unable to think of a single word that might make any of this better, before Michelle eventually broke the silence. "Do you want me to phone Peter?"
"No!" She barely skipped a beat. "No please, look... He's fuming at me as it is, not that I blame him. Oh god those things I said to Leanne... To Simon...". She saw Michelle's eyes dart awkwardly downwards and squirmed at the memory. Fighting in the street with your boyfriend's ex-wife, how classy. Saying anything and everything to provoke a reaction. And a reaction she'd got. 'Oh god...' she murmured. 'They all saw, didn't they? The factory lot, Rob, Peter, Steve... Mr Packham... That's me banned from the school, then," A tremor of panic shot through her as she wondered how she would ever explain any of this to Peter. He'd go mad. He'd wonder why he ever left his saint of a wife to shack up with some selfish, car crash of a lush.
"Don't worry about that, now" Michelle tried to soothe her. "Look," she stood up, moving a cushion from the chair in the corner onto the sofa to be used as a pillow. "Get some rest. We'll sort everything else out tomorrow".
Carla looked up through watery eyes as Michelle turned to walk to her bedroom. "Thank you". Her host didn't reply, merely turning her head to offer a weak smile in return.
