Even the quiet clink of her keys hitting kitchen work surface cut through her, startling her as it broke the silence of Carla's empty flat.
On the table were two empty coffee cups, untouched from when they'd sat that morning and talked excitedly about their feelings for each other, before deciding to take a walk in the park. Carla smiled at the memory of Peter's failure to figure out how to use her coffee machine, before the realization that it was all over hit her all over again. The presence of the mugs upset her, but at the same time she was loathe to move them – they were proof that he'd been there, that she hadn't merely imagined the last 24 hours.
Instinctively, Carla pulled a wine glass down from the cupboard and opened the fridge, before remembering that, firstly, it was a wine-free zone, and secondly that she'd promised herself that alcohol would no longer be the answer to her problems.
Damn!
It was only just gone eight, the off license down the street would still be open, ready and waiting to serve her a nice, cold bottle of Rose or two. After the day she'd had she deserved it; needed it. And besides, she'd been sober for five days now with no real problems. She could easily start again tomorrow. This wouldn't be a failure, just a little reward for all her hard work and effort.
No! She scolded herself for being so weak. She'd come this far, she wasn't about to let that lying scumbag destroy all her hard work.
Closing the nearly empty fridge, Carla scanned the kitchen, looking for something but not knowing what.
She'd heard someone in the first meeting she'd been to describe alcoholism as "fear of life". She'd never understood what they meant until tonight when, standing alone in her flat, every inch of it swarming with memories, most of them bad, she realized she had no idea how to cope without a drink. For so long alcohol had been a constant source of comfort and support, now that she'd promised to stay sober it was as if she'd lost a vital organ, been sent downstream in a boat without a paddle. Suddenly, the world seemed like a very scary place.
With alcohol she could block out all those memories, all those negative thoughts and emotions that she couldn't bring herself to face. Now she had no defense, and they were coming thick and fast.
Pouring herself a large glass of water, Carla curled up on the sofa, her back to the kitchen as if that would somehow block the temptation. Starring aimlessly into space, she allowed herself to reflect on the events of that day. She'd been so happy, so at ease last night, this morning. Waking up in Peter's arms, the comforting warmth radiating from him, the subtle smell of cigarette smoke and aftershave still lingering to his skin. She'd slept better than she had in months. Last night had been the first time in she hadn't been woken by flashbacks, the image of Frank's face, twisted in a dangerous rage burned into her mind. She'd slept peacefully, woken content and, for a few moments, even managed to forget the nightmare she currently lived in.
He'd told her everything she'd spent the last year desperately longing to hear, and she'd been naïve enough to believe he'd meant what he said. She took several large gulps of water, almost tasting the whiskey she craved so badly. How could she have been so stupid? Her whole body ached, she needed a drink so badly.
Just get through the night. She told herself, looking at her water in disgust.
Don't let him destroy you. He's not worth your pain.
But the tragedy was, he was. As much as she wanted to hate him for treating her so badly, for knowing how vulnerable she was and yet continuing to hurt her, she couldn't physically do it. The truth was, no matter how much he hurt her, she still loved him.
In her head Carla went over all the possible reasons for his sudden change of heart. It was never going to be easy to tell your wife and child you were leaving, and she felt guilty for underestimating the enormity of what he'd set out to do.
But it wasn't so much the rejection that hurt (although it did), but the complete disregard for her feelings. The way he'd elevated her to this supreme height, only to drop her from it. Not so much as a text message since they'd parted company outside her flat that afternoon. For all he knew, she was still waiting for him at the factory, watching her phone and willing it to ring.
Carla laughed, looking at her phone sat next to her glass on the coffee table. Well, the first part wasn't true at least.
It wasn't even as if she hadn't been here before. Seeing Peter walking with Leanne and Simon had felt like Liam all over again. Why did this keep happening? Had she learned nothing from the heartache of losing Liam? Maybe there was something wrong with her, she mused, or maybe she just didn't deserve anything better than brief flings with married men and controlling relationships with psychos and rapists.
Looking up at the clock, it was barely 8:30, but Carla knew the longer she stayed up going over things, the more likely she was to give in to the drink. And besides, she had to face those sheets at some point. Those sheets still casually strewn over the bed from that morning, the smell of his aftershave still lingering on them.
Leaving the coffee cups still sat on the table, she walked into the bedroom and, still fully clothes, flopped over onto the bed, before turning off the lamp by the bed that neither of them had remembered to turn out before.
Laying in the darkness, Carla realized truly for the first time that day that she was completely, hopelessly alone.