Addicted to . . . Love

 

He drank three times as much as me during our first date.

‘Yes please,’ I replied when twice he asked if I wanted crisps or nuts with my wine.

He suggested a film, followed by more drinks the next time we met.

I enjoyed the popcorn as well as the pub snacks.

We ate a take-away fish supper whilst walking home. The cod was fresh and lightly battered, the chips were just the right combination of fat and starch. He wiped his hands on a tissue but surprised and delighted me by sucking the grease from my fingers one by one.

I was lost. I was his.

A generous boyfriend he often paid for us to eat out. He never had pudding but enjoyed a liqueur, or a shot of whisky. I wondered how he could down a pint in just a few seconds.

‘I open my throat and it just slips down.' He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with his hand.

He drank the whisky slowly; ‘to enjoy the hot, fiery kick.’

I always tasted his starter and ended my meal with something sweet; preferably chocolatey.  He indulged me and reassured me.

‘I love your curves.’ He proved it with his hands and his lips.

Many a morning after I’d cook us a big fry-up.

‘Soaks up the booze,’ he’d say.

Amsterdam was his choice for a stag weekend. There weren't any sexual exploits, I'm sure of that, but plenty of drink was taken and varieties of smoking. It took him a few days to recover from the trip.

A spa hotel was the location of my pre-wedding treat. We all had a beauty treatment or two and swam, read and gossiped. The food was plentiful and delicious. I had to eat leanly between the hen party and the main event in order to get into my dress.

After making such a beautiful speech he deserved to relax. But I wish he'd stopped at the champagne. After our first dance he propped up the bar with his mates and my brother.

I’d been looking forward to our first night of pleasure as husband and wife but the consummation of our marriage lacked vitality; a waste of the four-poster bed. As soon as it was over he fell asleep, although I was still wide awake. As part of our wedding package of goodies there was a good sized box of melt-in-the-mouth chocolates. I ate the lot.

He made it up to me on the honeymoon. More attentive than ever he hired a boat and we sailed to secluded beaches. As we sunbathed he lazily stroked my back and my thighs, in the water we explored each other's bodies.

‘I want you,’ he whispered. ‘I love you so much I want to bite you, to gobble you up.’

My body responded to his touch and to his words. I had never felt so desired. The evenings and the nights were the best. We ordered local specialties at dinner and with his bare hands he fed me succulent fish, juicy meats and fruit dripping in syrup. In bed as he licked the excesses off my lips and from my mouth I could taste the wine in his. I drank him in. We were never so in tune again, our senses alive, our individual indulgences merged. We were as one.

Back home he worked and played hard keeping up his nights out with the boys and finding new restaurants for us to go to. He drank the pudding wine whilst I ate the pudding. At home he kept beer in the fridge along with a jug of water so he could add a splash to his whisky. For his birthday I treated him to a peaty single malt. Our weekly food bill was a 50/50 split between alcohol and food.

I loved to cook. I roasted and baked and chipped and fried. I folded and mixed and whisked. I was adventurous with spices. For my birthday he bought me a cookery book; a best seller from the latest celebrity chef. My pastry was light, my sauces smooth. More often than not he didn’t finish his portion, sometimes leaving as much as he ate. As he carried our glasses (his third or fourth since returning from work, almost always my first) through to the lounge I would spoon the remains from his plate into my mouth rather than scraping it into the bin. Still, we always found something to talk and laugh about and our indulgence of each other's eating and drinking habits was mirrored by a concern for each other's sexual wellbeing. He liked sex with the lights on. I adored it when he quietly sang to me during lovemaking.  

He was promoted, several times.  Sometimes we ate out with his colleagues and bosses. A little shy in such company, aware of his status as a working-class-boy-done-good, he was happier after a couple and drank a ‘quick one’ before we left home. I hated the corporate entertainment. The women seemed to get thinner each time we met, shrinking as I grew. They managed to look as if they were eating the wonderfully cooked and carefully presented food whilst not actually consuming anything. I couldn't resist the delicious offerings but their snide observation of me turned the food to cardboard in my mouth.

His work pressure increased. Some mornings I could taste alcohol mingled with mint during our goodbye kiss. I found a cheap bottle of vodka at the back of the cupboard that hadn't been in the shopping trolley.

 ‘Where did this come from, did you buy it?’

‘I must have; don't remember,’ he shrugged.

He kissed me less and went straight upstairs when he returned home. I'd hear him moving around, opening cupboards, finding hiding places for his not so secret stash.

I still shopped and cooked trying new recipes in an attempt to win him back from his liquid mistress. I made meals fit for the Gods, rich in flavour and high in calories. He was less and less interested, pushing his plate away, re-filling his glass. Eventually I gave up and moved to two-for-the-price-of-one microwave meals. They weren't enough for me and I’d fill up with extra creamy potatoes or with toast, dripping with butter and topped thickly with cheese or chocolate spread. I ate off and on all day when I was alone, when he was asleep.

Half-heartedly we tried for a baby clinging to the hope that a child might make things better. The lights were off and there was no singing. Nothing happened. We lied to the GP when asked about our sexual activity, embarrassed and distressed at the lack of passion in our relationship. He lied about his drinking too.

‘Well, a little more than I should I guess, I know I should cut down, but you know how it is?’

He glanced at me, smiled at the male doctor and shrugged.

I hated him then as he failed to admit that he had a problem, as he duped the GP and won the other man's sympathy. I could guess what the doctor was thinking. Who wouldn't need a drink when married to a woman like me, a woman who’d given in to greed. I couldn't lie about MY addiction. It lay heavy on my bones. I left the surgery with a diet sheet and a red face. When he shook the doctor's hand I turned away in misery and disgust.

We drove home with the radio on to cover the silence. He tried to take my hand but I pulled away.

I went to the kitchen. He went upstairs. I cut some bread and turned on the toaster. He reached into the back of his shirt drawer and pulled out a bottle.

One night soon after he took me in his arms, as much of me as he could, holding on tight even as I tried to push him away.

‘Let's do something. Anything,’ he pleaded. ‘What about a holiday? Please darling, let’s try.’

Nodding, I relaxed into him, my bulk against his sharp hips.

I packed my optimism along with his shorts and my super-size trousers and dresses but my tentative happiness didn't last long. I couldn't do up the seatbelt in standard class and our upgrade was because of my size rather than our celebrity. For once I wasn't hungry. We tried hard to recreate our more heady days but the break was not what either of us wished for. He drank heavily on the return journey, swigging back spirits in the way he once had pints. I closed my eyes to block out the pitying stares.

He drank more. He ate even less. He lost his job.

I heard him retching in the toilet every morning. He threw his vices up, I kept mine deep inside. The irony of HIS morning sickness not lost on either of us. As he flushed the toilet I went into the kitchen to cook and eat the fried breakfast he couldn’t face anymore. 

He went out most days, to the pub or the off-license.

I stayed in, shopping online for groceries. 

He started to smell. He slept fitfully and snored loudly when he did sleep. He never touched me, unable to make love to me even if either of us had wanted it. When he wasn't sleeping he was drinking.

I outgrew my clothes again so I lived in t-shirts and joggers and ordered groceries online. I stuffed the food in as soon as it arrived but it didn't comfort me anymore.

He collapsed.

 I let him go to the hospital alone.

He came home. He didn't pour himself a drink but packed a bag instead. ‘I think I should go, don't you?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ I didn’t look at him. The tears running down my face.

He turned just as he was leaving. ‘Do you think there's a way back for us, we were so good together once?’

 ‘I don't know.’ I replied not turning around.

  He left, closing the door quietly. 

  I opened the fridge door.