Putting Alice Back Together

It wasn’t even nine, but I followed him to the door, determined not to push him to stay again, and I accepted his hug and kiss goodnight.

‘Think about it,’ Dan said.

‘Think about what?’

‘What we spoke about the other week—you really need to think about going back to your studies.’

‘I could never afford it.’ I thought of my credit cards, the rent, the car payments, but Dan disagreed.

‘You can’t afford not to, Alice. You’ve got talent. Don’t waste it. Take a package if one’s offered and get yourself to university.’

I knew he was right. I guess he’d said what I wanted deep down to hear, even if I didn’t really want to hear it now.

I tried to ring Mum but the line was busy, so I tried Bonny, but her line was busy too.

I tried Mum again and guessed she must be talking to Bonny.

I even contemplated ringing Eleanor, but she was so much older, we just weren’t that close and it was always awkward when I called.

So I tried Bonny again and I got Lex.

‘Oh, hi.’ I was surprised. Normally Bonny answered the landline.

‘Bonny’s in the bath,’ Lex said. ‘Do you want me to get her to call you?’

‘It’s nothing important. How are the kids?’

‘Feral! Look, while I’ve got you…’ And then there was a pause. ‘Let me just close the door.’ I felt my insides turn to liquid. ‘Sorry, I don’t want her to hear.’

My hand was shaking so much I could barely get my drink to my mouth. ‘You haven’t forgotten about next Saturday.’

‘Of course not.’

‘It’s just…’ And then I heard Bonny’s voice in the background and Lex lowered his. ‘Can you make a special effort?’ And then his voice was back to normal. ‘It’s your sister.’

I chatted to Bonny, but my heart wouldn’t stop thumping and thankfully, given she was dripping wet, we didn’t talk for long.

I was all unsettled. I took the blender over to the computer and filled up my glass. I searched universities and entrance criteria and it was just too confusing so I checked my horoscope, which said now was a good time to give up bad habits but there was nothing about my finances or love life improving.

So I checked another and I checked another and then something caught my eye.

Cosmic Love by Yasmin Boland.

A step-by-step guide to cosmic-ordering the perfect guy.

It was all about manifesting, apparently.

Build it and they will come sort of thing.

It was an eBook, which was just as well, because I’d have been too embarrassed to go into a shop and buy it. I typed in my details and waited for my credit card to be declined, but—well, the universe must have wanted me to have it because, despite my late payment, or rather no payment, there it was in my inbox.

I loved it.

It was so positive. All I had to do was write lists (well, there was a bit more to it than that, but I went straight to the good stuff) and tell the universe what I wanted in a partner.

And not some vague wants either, a specific order.

So I did.

I did everything Yasmin told me.

Well, except the clearing-out stuff part, but Nicole had had a big tidy before she left. And I didn’t bother with the cleansing shower to get rid of past loves, and visualising and snipping the threads that bound and letting them go and all that mumbo-jumbo crap.

Be sure that you are ready, Yasmin warned, and that you’ve done your preparation.

Oh, I was ready.

I loved this book—I toddled off to the kitchen and made another jug and got some scissors so I could cut out the pyramid that came with it.

If I had ink in the printer.

I did.

It was all aligning that night.

I had to write what I wanted—I could be as specific as I liked and for a second there my mind did flick to Dan, though Yasmin had warned me not to manipulate—and really, even if I could turn Dan straight, would I want to? I mean, you’d never relax, would you? Anyway, Yasmin said it was better to trust the universe, that the right guy would always come back if he was the one.

I had to print out the pyramid again because when I was cutting it out I chopped off the end.

God, I was pissed.

And, yes, I trusted the universe and everything, but not completely.

I wanted blond or raven, not someone with my affliction. I mean, I had to think of our children and, anyway, people might think we were brother and sister when we went out. So I knew it couldn’t be Hugh. Nicole’s cousin held no charm for me, but perhaps he was a means to an end. One look at me, and Hugh’s eyes would widen. ‘There’s the type of girl to take to the neurosurgeons’ Christmas party. That’s the type of girl who would look marvellous at the Kids with Cancer Christmas fundraising ball.’

Well, maybe not Kids with Cancer, just underprivileged or burn victims or something and I’d be there, radiant and smiling all ready to meet the love of my life.

I added a few little extra requests, and then I wrote MR.

It stood for Mr and Massive Ring.

Clever, huh? No one, if they found my list, would work that out.

I followed the instructions as best as I could, but I didn’t have a compass, so I guessed as to the south-west corner of the flat. And then, given I was sorting out my love life, I decided I might as well go the whole hog so I went back to the computer and read again the application procedures and the qualifications required to be a music teacher. I even filled in some forms to ask for them to send me some forms. It was all so daunting—the more I looked, the more overwhelming it seemed. Impossible, actually.

I had barely scraped through my exams at school. Even if by some miracle I was accepted, how could I give up my job? I was in debt to the eyeballs as it was.

I thought of the pile of unopened envelopes stuffed in my drawers and under my mattress, the credit-card statements that were too scary to open—let alone think about—so I didn’t.

While my credit card was behaving I bought an online tarot reading and then poured another margarita instead.

Ten

I woke at two.

Just shot awake, wondering what had woken me, my heart racing and trying to catch my breath, sure that I must have had a nightmare—except I still couldn’t breathe.

I was soaked in sweat, and I dragged myself into the bathroom, gulped icy water from the tap—it didn’t help. I had to concentrate on breathing. It wasn’t happening. Every breath was an effort and I couldn’t seem to get enough in.

I rang Roz—I knew she was on a date, but surely she’d be home by now. I didn’t even care at that point.

‘Roz…’ I could barely get the word out as her voice came on the phone. ‘I can’t…’

‘It’s okay…’ I could hear she was groggy and asleep but just the sound of her voice calmed me. At least someone knew, I mean, if I collapsed this second Roz would send for help. ‘I’m on my way.’

She didn’t even dress—mind you, Roz’s sleepwear is pretty much the same as her day wear: tracksuit bottoms and a vast T-shirt, except, horror of horrors, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

All this I noticed as she bundled me into her little car. My breathing was a bit better. Since I had known help was on the way, it had improved a fraction. And as we drove to the hospital I managed to get my breathing into some sort of a rhythm right till we got to the doors. Security was waving her on.

‘You can’t park here, love.’

‘She can’t breathe!’ Roz said.

‘Then she’s in the right place, but patient drop-off is down there.’

Roz was muttering and swearing and then I saw my hands do this strange thing: they were tingling but it was like my hands were spastic, my fingers all curling up, and I couldn’t straighten them.

‘She’s going unconscious…’ I could hear Roz panicking, but the security didn’t panic, he rolled his eyes and got a nurse, who helped me out of the car. She didn’t seem to be particularly worried either.

They took me straight into the triage room; the nurse put a little probe on my finger and told me to calm down.

‘I can’t breathe…’

‘Your oxygen saturation is ninety-nine per cent’ There was a bored note to her voice which infuriated me as she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around my arm. Did she have any idea how hard it was to get it to that? Breathing should be natural, you shouldn’t have to think about it, but I did. I had to pull in air and hold it in, and it still didn’t go deep enough. My hands were doing strange things, and she was giving me a bloody paper bag and telling me to breathe in and out slowly.

‘You’re having a panic attack.’

‘No!’ I pushed the bag away.

‘How much have you had to drink tonight, Alice?’

What did that have to do with anything? ‘I’m allergic…’

‘To what?’

‘Hazelnuts.’

‘Okay…’ the nurse said, ‘you can wait in the waiting room. Just keep breathing into your paper bag.’

‘I can’t.’ I couldn’t. I could not face going out there, but the fucking nurse wouldn’t budge. ‘Your girlfriend can let us know if you get worse.’

Now, a quick explanation here. In Australia, and it took me a while to get used to this, but a friend who’s a girl is called your girlfriend. I’ve been back to London and it’s used more that way there too now, but there was something about the way she said girlfriend that had me frown. I looked over at Roz, who was blushing bright red and then she led me out.

‘She thinks we’re…’

‘I know,’ Roz mumbled, blushing to her roots. ‘Just breathe into the bag.’

It wasn’t helping. My lips were tingling, there was just so much noise, so much going on, I couldn’t stand it. I stood up and paced. I honestly didn’t feel safer in the hospital. I actually thought I might die here, and then they’d be bloody sorry. Panic attack indeed!

I was up at the big plastic shield that separated the staff from the waiting room now, and the nurse was refusing to look over. I could see stars and spots and I was like a cartoon character then, pressed to the glass. I thought I was dying and Roz was calling for help. Finally they realised that I wasn’t putting it on, that their stupid paper bag wasn’t going to work, because a buzzer went and a nurse came with a wheelchair and I was sped through.

Okay, not sped, and I didn’t end up in Resus with George Clooney saying, ‘On my count…’

Instead I was given a gown and told to get undressed and put it on, and Roz helped. I couldn’t have done it on my own. My lips were completely numb now. Then this twelve-year-old that was dressed up as a male nurse asked me to explain what had happened.

I wheezed away as he put an IV into the back of my hand, which hurt, I might add, as Roz did the talking for me.

‘We were in with the same last week. She’s got a nut allergy…’ And finally I got a response, because the twelve-year-old looked worried. He checked my blood pressure then dashed off to get a doctor as Roz wrapped her arms around me and told me I was going to be fine.

‘Just keep breathing into the bag, Alice.’

‘It’s not helping.’

Well, my ten seconds of concern lasted till the arrival of the emergency registrar, which coincided with the arrival of my old notes. He listened to my chest and confirmed the triage nurse’s diagnosis.

‘She’s having an anxiety attack.’

‘No…’ I shook my head. I was crying, and not able to breathe. ‘I woke up and my lips were swollen and tingling…’ Well, they hadn’t been then but that was what they had asked me last time. The emergency doctor sort of hummed and haaed for a minute before he wrote me up for 10 mg of diazepam and some oral steroids. ‘In case a mild allergic reaction triggered the anxiety attack.’

Bastard.

Still, I didn’t argue, I didn’t have the breath. And in a moment the twelve-year-old had returned with a little plastic cup with six pills. The white ones, he explained, were prednisolone and I would have to take a reducing dose for the next few days. The blue one was Valium.

I took the blue one first.

It took about twenty minutes—actually, maybe a bit less. Roz was so kind and reassuring, and the bright lights and all the equipment were starting to reassure me too, and when twelve-year-old took my pulse and said it was slowing down, I forgot about my breathing for a moment. I lay back and it was such a relief to not have to remember to breathe. Of course, as soon as I remembered, my breathing got harder and I had to remind myself to do it, but gradually it was just happening, even when I thought about it.

I lay there thinking about hypnosis tapes as Roz held my hand.

I’d bought loads, I had the lot, but I hated that they all, at some point, told you to concentrate on your breathing and the natural rise and fall of your chest, or the effortlessness of breathing. As soon as they said that, I swear, it didn’t happen naturally. If I could find a shagging self-hypnosis tape that didn’t tell you to concentrate on your breathing, I would have given up fags and booze and kept all my new year’s resolutions years ago.

‘Better?’

The doctor roused me from my slumber. Roz had just gone to the loo, he explained, and he wanted to have a word with me. Now that I wasn’t dying I noticed that he was actually nice looking, in a sort of Hugh Laurie House

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