New start competition - Winner

‘Pissed again?’
‘Oh, charming. Welcome home to you too. And no, by the way. I’m not.’  
‘I can smell it.’
‘I’ve had a glass of wine, after a hard day. My mother’s arm is broken. Like I owe you an explanation.’
‘You were drunk yesterday, Kate. She didn’t have a broken arm then.’
‘You know, you don’t have to be here. You still have a beautiful flat and a beautiful ex-girlfriend. I’m sure if you explained. And don’t shake your head at me like that.’
‘I can’t keep doing this.’
‘Well then don’t. And close the door on your way out, Stefan.’
After she had filled carrier bags with angry bundles of his things, she had uploaded freshly cut flowers to Insta. A muted background, an eye for colour. If Stefan checked later, he would see a woman moving on. There were plenty more young men where he came from.
That night, like the others, she had smoked and finished the bottle and cried with shame over her fantasy shell-pink midi gown (ideal for hiding sagging tummy flesh); over the peonies and simple reception ideas she had saved to her secret board; over her deleted search history (dating in later life: how to keep him interested).  
Pissed again?
In the mirror that night she had spat ‘no one does for ME. Who does for ME?’ at the streaked mascara clown-face looking back at her. The next morning she had woken to a voicemail from her mother, who needed her hair washing. Her sister didn’t work, and lived closer. But Kate would not ask Sally. Instead Kate’s eyes widened cheerfully, like a big silly plastic dolly and she hummed while she swallowed painkillers for her throbbing head.
Her mother had complained about the temperature of the water and criticised Kate’s skirt.
‘It pulls across the hips. Makes you look even heavier.’
Kate had smiled and said thanks for the advice, ignoring the hateful slant of her mother’s eyes and her own bubbling insides. She wasn’t sure it was the crisp sandwich she had ripped and pushed into her face while she had cried the night before, tears soaking into the bread, hoping to avoid vomiting. Either way it felt like regret.
What are your values? What matters to you, Kate? Gerald will say in the hazy future of chemically assisted recuperation, in his private office, his sandal dangling from his big toe with supreme, unthinking confidence.
After her breakdown – during which she will drink so much she will threaten to stab Sally in the eye with a fucking fork if she doesn’t mind her own fucking business and get admitted to hospital for drying out – she will book a holiday to Spain.
An excellent idea, seriously. A fresh start. Time for yourself. Have you ever asked yourself what you need? He will sit back, to give her space to reflect. He will sip rooibos tea.
She will use all her savings.
She will buy paper and a new fountain pen. She will continue to smoke. Be kind to yourself, always. She will swim in the sea and delight in her body. The deep heat of the Spanish sun will sink into her bones. Her muscles will be languid and liquid. She will feel no need to fuck the waiters. She will feel grown-up, poised to recover. Rediscover, reacquaint, reset.
Crisis is an opportunity for change, Gerald had said and she had seen a look of condescending mystery on his face, heard it in his voice. It had made her feel like a stupid child.
On her balcony at night, the light will be peaches and amber and the breeze will be soothing on her bare shoulders while she writes a letter home to Sally to tell her sorry about the fork thing. She wasn’t herself, she was ill. I’m better now. The evening will be scented with burnt candles and roasting meats from the tapas place down the cobbled alley below, alive with unfamiliar bird calls. She will lick her envelope carefully, and see Future Kate, as compassionate to her imperfect sister as she is to herself. Future Kate will honour her own boundaries. Inviolable.
Perhaps we should talk about your mother. It’s ok to be angry. It’s what you do that matters. How you act. It’s okay to say no. Can we talk about how you can say no to her?
‘Yes, we can talk,’ Kate had agreed. And then they had role-played. Gerald had even pretended to have a broken arm and had asked her to make a cup of tea. Kate thought this was unfair. Gerald had come out of character and reminded her she had an important appointment. Kate wondered why she would visit her invalid mother right when she had an important appointment but instead of arguing she had compromised with make-believe instant coffee. Because it’s quicker than tea done in the pot. Fantastic, Gerald had said. Why? Kate had thought, and went home to take the lorazepam with which she’d been discharged.
The food will be excellent. She will eat fish and paella and drink sparkling water between every pinot grigio. This is a holiday, after all. She will finish the bottle most nights. The wine will soften yet sharpen her imagined future self: quitting the fags, eating organic, reading every day and getting offline.  
People – women especially – are vulnerable to the toxicity of social media Gerald had said with eyes cynical and apologetic all at once, smoothing his beard. He was sorry, but it was true. Unless you are utterly at peace with yourself, social media can be poison. She felt embarrassed to need that pointing out.
In Spain she will not feel embarrassed, she will allow herself flashes of hope during Yoga on the beach, as she notices her breath passing through, tainted with nicotine.
Kate will nail the rest of her benzos on the flight home, which will leave her with mild cramps and tingly hands and a dry mouth in the pre-booked taxi. The taxi will represent the last of her savings and as it crawls through the middle England drizzle she will ask him to stop at a garage. For a bottle of red and twenty superkings. Fuck it. The future isn’t until tomorrow; she will know that as certainly as she knows that her mother’s voice is behind the flashing red light on her answer phone when she walks through the door. As certainly as she knows that the thick buttery smell is coming from the fridge which she had meant to empty before leaving for Spain.
She will call the community team with a trembling mouth and a very young nurse will visit and explain that the lorazepam whilst useful in the short term cannot be prescribed long term and to confirm that yes, she has been put on the waiting list for therapy and no she cannot guarantee that it will be Gerald that she sees and no, unfortunately she cannot say how long it will be. When the nurse leaves she will light up a cigarette and turn on her laptop. She will see that Stefan has not been online, for some time. There will be a suspicious and upsetting void where his presence was. She will know in an instant that he has no need of it, that he will be living a good life somewhere. Her Instagram flowers will be virtual newspaper for virtual fish and chips by then.
What are your values? Her memory will shove at her.
‘Shut up’ Kate will say to the screen. Her mouth will taste of metal and she will see with a mild kind of horror that she has been home for at least a week without a single down-dog.
The phone will ring and she will answer with a drawn out hello that in her own ears sounds relaxed yet sophisticated.
‘Are you drunk, Katherine?’
What are your values?
‘How are you Mum? No, I’ve stopped drinking, because…’ She will stop abruptly and cock her head to one side, interested to hear the end of the sentence.
‘Well don’t worry about me. I’ve relied on the neighbours while you’ve been sunning yourself in Italy or wherever you went gallivanting off to. The neighbours Katherine. My own children couldn’t care less about me.’
‘I’m not drinking because I don’t need it. And it’s full of empty calories.’
‘You’re drunk. You’re always drunk. You’re slurring.’
Her heart will race while her memory yammers it’s ok to say no it’s ok to say no it’s ok to say no but she will not say no and hang up the phone. She will pour another glass with her free hand instead and say
‘Do you want me to come over?’
It’s ok to say no.
‘Well I’m sure you’re very busy. And God forbid I impose. My doctor said my arm will never be the same. I don’t know how I will put the washing in. And you can’t drive in your condition.’
Kate will open her mouth and close it, knowing that she cannot begin to untangle this conversation let alone navigate it. She will know with the same certainty with which she knows suddenly, forcefully, that she will never stop smoking. She will sink into this thought gratefully and smile her familiar plastic doll-face smile that fits right back into the same folds of her face as before and tell her mother
‘I’ll get a taxi and come over. I’ll wash your hair if you like.’
‘Well, I suppose that would be good of you.’
Something opens up, glowing in her chest. Kate will drain her glass and picture her mother as a child in need of patience and kindness.
‘I don’t mind. Let’s make it a fresh start, shall we?’
As her mother chatters, Kate will go back to her laptop and search for datingoverfifty.com (Now is our time!). She will find her old sleeping profile and click reactivate.
Tomorrow will be different.
Today she will finish the bottle and wait for her taxi.