I TOOK A TAXI HOME in the end. It was only once I got indoors that I remembered I had no vodka. I simply went to bed. I awoke early next day and decided to walk to the local shop to buy provisions, having disrupted my usual routine because of the failed attempt to meet the singer yesterday. I picked up some milk, a packet of bread rolls and a tin of spaghetti hoops. I had intended to buy Alphabetti Spaghetti, but, on impulse, chose hoops instead. It’s good to keep an open mind, although I’m well aware that hoops and letters all taste the same. I’m not stupid.
The owner was a charming Bangladeshi man with an interesting birthmark. After all these years, we were of course on cordial terms, which was pleasant. I placed the goods on the counter and scanned the shelves behind him while he rang up the items on the till. He smiled and announced the total.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and pointed to the shelves behind him. ‘May I also please have two of the litre bottles of Glen’s vodka?’
His eyebrows shot to the top of his head momentarily, and then his face became impassive.
‘I’m afraid I can’t sell alcohol to you, Miss Oliphant,’ he said, looking not a little embarrassed. I smiled.
‘Mr Dewan, I’m both extremely flattered and somewhat concerned as to the state of your eyesight,’ I said. ‘I have, in fact, only just entered my thirty-first year.’ I felt a little bubble of pleasure shimmer inside me. Bobbi Brown had said that I had nice skin (the live sections, at any rate), and now Mr Dewan had mistaken me for a teenager!
‘It’s ten past nine in the morning,’ he said, quite curtly – a small queue had built up behind me.
‘I’m well aware of the time,’ I said. ‘Might I be so bold as to suggest that what your customers choose to have for breakfast is none of your concern?’
He spoke so quietly that I had to lean in to hear him.
‘It’s illegal to sell alcohol before 10 a.m., Miss Oliphant. I could lose my licence.’
‘Really?’ I said, fascinated. ‘I had absolutely no idea! I’m afraid my knowledge of licensing law is patchy at best.’ He stared at me.
‘That’ll be £5.49,’ he repeated, took my ten-pound note, and rendered my change, all the while keeping his eyes firmly on his shoes. I sensed a change in our hitherto cordial relationship but was at a loss to understand why. He didn’t even say goodbye.
Annoyingly, it meant that I would have to go out again later to get my vodka. Why couldn’t you just purchase it in the same way that you bought, say, milk – to wit, at any shop at any time that it was open? Ridiculous. I suppose it’s to ensure that alcoholics are protected from themselves for at least a few hours each day; although, rationally, that makes no sense. If I were chemically and psychologically addicted to alcohol, I’d ensure I had a ready supply to hand at all times, buying in bulk and stockpiling. It was an illogical law; really, what was the difference between buying vodka at ten past nine in the morning and at ten past ten?
Vodka is, for me, merely a household necessity, like a loaf of bread or a packet of tea. The very best thing about it is that it helps me to sleep. Sometimes, when night comes, I lie there in the darkness and I can’t prevent myself remembering; fear, and pressure, but mostly fear. On nights like those, Mummy’s voice hisses inside my head, and another voice, a smaller, timid one, nestles in close to my ear, so close that I can feel her hot, panicky breath moving across the tiny hairs that transmit the sound, so close she barely needs to whisper. That small voice; it breaks apart, pleading: Eleanor, please help me, Eleanor … over and over and over again. On those nights I need the vodka, or else I’d break apart too.
I decided to carry on walking towards the big supermarket, which was around twenty minutes away. It would be a more efficient use of my time, allowing me to purchase everything at once, rather than going home and having to go out again. My shopper was feeling rather heavy, and so I put it down and unfolded the collapsible frame that was stored in one of the inside compartments. I built it up, fitted the bag, et voilà! A shopper on wheels. It made a rather inharmonious trundling sound, but
this was more than compensated for by the efficacy with which it transported heavier items.
The supermarket in question carried a wide range of quality goods – not just food and drink, but toasters, sweaters, Frisbees and novels. It wasn’t a Tesco Metro, it was a Tesco Extra. It was, in short, one of my favourite places in the world.
