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Frazzled mum Alice Ray likes to think she’s on top of everything – she has FOUR bags-for-life in the boot of her car for heaven’s sake. But after spectacularly embarrassing herself at work, she finally gives in to her sister’s pleas to take a much needed break.

But this is not the luxury spa holiday Alice hoped for – instead, she finds herself in Denmark, in the middle of nowhere, on a ‘How to be a Viking’ getaway.

Can the two sisters finally learn to get along or will learning to embrace their inner warrior just make them better at fighting?

About the Author

Helen Russell is a British journalist, author and speaker. Helen has previously worked for the Sunday Times, Take a Break, Top Santé and on new launches for Tatler Asia, Grazia India and Sky. She joined Marie Claire as editor of marieclaire.co.uk in 2010 and was BSME-shortlisted in 2011 and 2012.

Helen now writes for magazines and newspapers around the world, including Stylist, The Times, Grazia, Metro, and The Wall Street Journal. Helen is a columnist for the Telegraph, a correspondent for the Guardian and author of Leap Year. Her first book, The Year of Living Danishly, is now a bestseller.

Author note

Purists: I have played fast and loose with Viking heritage – from a place of love – to convey the essence of Viking culture in modern-day Scandinavia. Deal with it and put your ‘proud face’ on.

For everyone else: come on in, the water’s lovely (if cold, see: ‘Scandinavia’) – and get ready to go berserk …

Prologue

Twigs snap beneath my feet as I bat away branches and run. Really run. Heart pounding so hard it’s threatening to break free from my chest and outstrip me at any moment. The rain is relentless and I’m wet through. The kind of wet that would normally chafe, but I’m so cold I have no sensation below the waist. What I am conscious of is my brain rattling around in my skull with every bare foot hitting bracken and I’ve been tangled in the limbs of so many trees that I’m carrying a campfire’s-worth of kindling in my hair.

A mist descends and I hear an eerie noise as I hurtle through the semi-darkness. Crows caw and thunder rumbles. This isn’t the sort of woodland populated by princesses and talking creatures keen to lend a hand. Less Snow White, more Blair Witch Project, I think.

Let it be a slug, let it be a slug, please let it be a slug, I beg, but don’t stop to analyse. Must get to the clearing, I think, limbs pumping. I reach peak adrenaline and feel as though I’m – almost – flying. Then I trip on an exposed tree root that sends me crashing down with a thud.

So this is how I die, I muse, face full of mud. So long, world, it’s been quite a ride.

Some ancient self-preservation instinct kicks in and I summon the strength to move. Nothing appears to be broken (apart from, perhaps, my nose …) so I scramble up. Touching my lip, I realise it’s bleeding a vivid red. But that doesn’t matter right now, and I keep moving, towards the flickering light.

I hear a voice in the distance and redouble my efforts before another wail sounds out.

I stagger on, until the verdant canopy becomes patchy and light dapples a carpet of leaves. Fire-lit torches give off a welcome heat and my clothes start to steam.

‘Hello?’ I haven’t spoken for twelve hours and I’m not entirely sure I remember how. I try again, voice like porridge.

Two muddied, feral-looking women emerge from behind the foliage and scream back. ‘Arghhhhhh!’ One is short, dark-haired and heavy set. The other is tall, model-esque and offensively young – sporting glossy, caramel-coloured hair that seems to shine, despite the mud.

We lock eyes and an understanding passes between us: whatever happens next, life is never going to be the same again. After a few seconds of guttural screaming, a third figure limps into view – an older blonde, hair backcombed by bushes, skin the colour of mahogany.

She gives a half-hearted growl before flopping down and holding on to her knees to steady herself. ‘Oh god, cramp …’ She grasps at a calf, heaving to get more air in her lungs. ‘I need …’ I worry she’s about to say ‘medical attention’ and I’ll be called upon to do something, but then she gasps ‘gin’, and we hear a slow hand clap.

A barrel-chested man wearing nothing but harem pants deftly descends from a tree. He swings down branches with simian grace, then strides across the clearing. His hair is in a bun and he readjusts an ill-advised fishhook necklace.

I have long been distrustful of men sporting buns, placing them in the same category as women who wear bandanas and moan a lot.

‘Well run, Vikings,’ Man-bun says now in softly accented English. ‘So, who’s feeling fantastic?’

My legs are shaking like a shitting dog, I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack, and there’s a strange tingling sensation spreading from my scalp.

‘Oh, you have insects in your hair!’ the younger model-esque woman pipes up, helpfully. ‘Awww, a spider! He thinks it’s a web!’

Three of us give him a look as though we might wallop him but the model-esque spider-informer obliges.

‘Come on, the rest of you!’ Man-bun moves towards me until he’s almost touching my face and bellows, ‘Arghhhh!’

I just want to commune with a hot shower right now … I think, looking down at my soiled clothes, bruised limbs and bloodied knees. How did I end up here? Life used to be so … clean. So ordered. So … insect-free, I muse, scratching at my head. And yet …

I look over at the shorter woman with the scraped-back brown hair, the girl I’ve known forever. Her eyes narrow as she approaches me, dimples on show, betraying just how much she’s loving this. Cheeks flushed, fists clenched, she opens her mouth and lets out a primal wail. Thirty-five years’ worth of primal wail. A wail so loud that I recoil slightly and have to take a moment to compose myself before I can muster the strength to scream back. But then I muster. Hard. And all the tension and fear and pain of the last few days – as well as the past few years – is expelled from my lungs in one, long, warrior cry.

I may not have her lung capacity but I’ve given birth. Twice. I’ll be damned if I’m letting her win at wailing …

Her roar morphs into a growl, then a splutter and shoulders heave as she shakes out her arms, spent.

With more roar in me than I’d ever have thought possible, with nearly four decades’ worth of berserk to unleash, I yowl:

As I scream into the empty woodland, my vision begins to blur from the periphery.

My head starts to swim and soon it feels as though the top has flipped off my skull like the lid of a boiled egg.

And then I’m floating. Up and up, higher and higher, until I can see our assembled grouping from above. Trees turn into blobs. People: to ants. Until finally … my knees buckle and my head hits the ground with a thud.

One

Three weeks earlier …

A thunderously bored woman scratches the top of her head with a pen as I argue my case and the strip lighting hums. My ‘smart shoes’ are pinching and I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket (not unpleasant), reminding me with each new pulse that there are important messages I may be missing while wasting literally seconds on this exchange.

‘This says “Rat”.’ I dangle the laminated rectangle to illustrate. ‘My name is Alice Ray.’

‘Huh …’ She scratches again, then inspects the end of her pen for any excavated treasure. ‘Couldn’t you just make do?’

‘You want me to walk around for two days wearing a lanyard that says “Alice Rat”?’

She adjusts her weight in the plastic chair and then, without looking at me, extends an arm in my direction.

‘Thank you.’ I offer up the badge, softening my tone. ‘I don’t want to be difficult; it’s just these are my colleagues – my professional peers – and I’m speaking …’

My voice trails off as I watch her select a permanent marker from a Tupperware container. She bites off the cap and crosses out the letter ‘t’. Then she adds a ‘y’, followed by :)

She gives me a look of such hatred that I feel myself repelled as though by a force field. Reluctantly, I back off, but not before retaliating with a death-stare that I hope implies ‘you’re going on my mental list of Total Arseholes who deserve to step in puddles and have doors slam in their faces.’ She scratches her head again. ‘And get nits.’

There’s time to spare before I’m due to join my panel discussion and I swore to myself that I’d make an effort and mingle, rather than looking longingly at the sugar-free biscuit table while mainlining carrot sticks and overpriced Paleo bars, like I’ve done every other year.

I should network, I tell myself; I should smile at people and appear ‘approachable’. It’s not that I’m scared of interacting with other human beings … it’s just that—

‘Alice?’ A man in glasses squints at the lanyard now grazing my breasts, and I remember reason #142 why I hate conferences: some joker always makes it so that the name badge hangs conveniently at mammary-height. This gives CSPs (‘conference sex pests’ – reason #141) the perfect excuse for a gawp, and, occasionally, a fondle (reason #143fn1). Now, Glasses Man performs a strange sort of squat, bending his knees so that he is on eye-level with my A-cups before looking up at me quizzically. ‘Alice … Rat?’

After one of those handshakes that last about five minutes, he starts telling me about some new dental floss his company is promoting (‘Flossed in Space was developed by NASA! It’s the future of hygiene filaments!’). I nod politely, before feeling my phone quiver in my pocket and taking it as my cue to escape. ‘I’m so sorry, would you excuse me? I have to take this, then my session’s about to start.’

In fact, ‘How Do You Solve a Problem like Major Root Canal Surgery?’ isn’t for another half an hour, but there are only so many aspartame-laden Rich Tea biscuits a woman can not eat. Plus I’m a social leper trapped in the body of a dentist.

‘You hanging around after? There were rumours they’d got Malala for the keynote but I just saw that magician we had last year so we might be in for Cavity-In-A-Hat 2.0 …’

The fluorescent tube above my head flickers and the idea of another twenty-four hours in a venue totally lacking in natural light, where delegates subsist purely on processed food and dentistry puns, makes me weary. I promise to try and make his ‘Return of the Plaque’ session, then leave. I’ve missed the phone call, but that’s OK. I don’t like talking on the phone any more than I relish ‘a natter’ in real life.

I wasn’t always like this. But lately I’ve become worn out. As though I’ve used up all my ‘nice’ in the consultation room or on parenting, until there’s nothing left. That’s what almost eight years of childrearing along with fifteen years at the plaque-face of dentistry can do to a person. Not to mention a life-sentence of marriage …

‘Excuse me?’ I ask a large man with an already sweaty moustache guarding the entrance to the hallowed back stage area where, I’ve been assured, privacy, Wi-Fi, and ‘the good coffee’ are located. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Rat?’ He frowns at me and then at an iPad, dabbing at it with fleshy fingers. ‘No “Rat” on my list …’

He has a long hard stare at my chest, presumably to verify this, then stands aside to let me pass through to the inner sanctum. It smells strongly of sandwiches and the pheromones of several other ‘experts’ enacting various rituals to see them through the next ninety minutes.

A woman click-clacks past in full, precise make-up and trousers so tight they almost certainly necessitate a cranberry juice drip afterwards.

‘Are you … ?’ she asks, then tries to frown through Botoxed brows and points instead at my name badge.

‘Oh! Lovely. You’re on the panel I’m chairing.’ She claps her hands together but her fingers don’t touch.

‘Oh, great.’ Say more, I tell myself, say something else. Quickly. Do ‘talking’ like normal people. ‘Umm …’ I try to think of something to say. ‘Are those Viennese Whirls over there?’

‘Thanks.’ I won’t. I would no sooner eat a Viennese Whirl than I would the plate they’re arranged on.

You see, officially at least, I don’t eat sugar. Or bread. Or potatoes. Or pasta. Or rice. Or dairy. Or trans fats. Or saturated fat. Or meat. Our canines may have been designed for tearing the flesh of animals from their bones, but I’ve dealt with enough oral cavities to be put off the stench of rotting meat wedged between teeth for life. Mainly though, I kept reading about how it might be making my gut sluggish – and I haven’t got time to be sluggish. In any department. Of course, there’s the occasional blip. Like last month, with the quarter-pounder … but that was under the cover of darkness and the kids weren’t with me. And if you eat it in your car, with no one watching, it doesn’t count. Everyone knows that. That’s how I like my meal deals: with a side order of shame.

‘Right. Well, lovely to meet you,’ Cranberry Pants says, bringing me back from my reverie.

She tilts her head to one side and purses her lips, as though I’m a stray cat that’s just dragged something dead into the house. ‘And good luck, OK? We’ve got fifteen more minutes of “The Only Way Is Airflow”, then a loo break before your session.’ She pats my arm and scissors off.

‘Lovely …’ I repeat, scanning for the quietest, darkest corner where I won’t have to interact with anyone. I wedge myself between a black curtain and a wall to watch the editor of Dentistry Magazine karate chop the air to get in the zone, while a celebrity hygienist I’ve seen on This Morning hops up and down on a mini trampette. The speakers from ‘New Trends in Sinus Care’ come off the adjacent stage and an ‘alternative oral therapist’ opens his mouth like a baby bird, tilting his head back so that his miniature assistant (Child? Wife? Child-wife?) can dispense a pipette of some magical unction.

Just another day at the office, I think, keeping my head down and willing my fellow speakers to keep their distance. But in reality, this is an honour. A privilege, I remind myself: I’m representing the surgery – as well as speaking on behalf of grassroots dental practitioners at the gravel pit of oral care. It was a coup to be asked. This is what all the hard work – all those hours overtime and putting myself forward for extra training and more responsibility – has been aiming for. I’m finally being taken seriously in my field, I tell myself.

I don’t react straight away as my daughter’s game of ‘changing Mum’s ringtone to something different every day’ means that I can’t be sure it’s me who’s blasting out Elsa (last week it was Little Mix). But then the editor stops air-fighting and baby bird pipette man is looking over and I realise that the only person the sound can be coming from is … me.

‘Hi,’ says the Eeyore-like voice on the end of the line. ‘It’s just me.’

‘Hi. I’m about to go in to my session; I can’t really talk now. Everything OK?’

‘There’s a replacement bus. I saw it on South East Today after a feature on parking restrictions in Brent.’ We don’t live anywhere near Brent, but my husband likes to have the TV on AT ALL TIMES in case he misses something ‘really important’. Probably parking related. ‘So anyway,’ he goes on, ‘you’re best off getting a lift from someone …’

‘Yes, I know I could call her. But I’d rather not.’ He means Melissa. A woman who doesn’t normally loom large in my life but is, as sod’s law would have it, local. I have no intention of calling Melissa. We’ve barely spoken in months and the last thing I’ll be in the mood for after two days at a dentistry conference is an in-depth analysis of why this might be. Or even worse – having to feign interest in her latest obsession. Or conspiracy theory. Or animal acquisition.

‘OK, if you’re sure,’ he responds – far too quickly – sounding relieved.

‘Yeah. Listen, I’ve got to go. There are people here on trampolines; I should probably be preparing in some way.’

Cranberry Pants is coming towards me with a beanbag in her hand and a rictus grin. She taps her watch to hurry me along.

I’m just about to press the red receiver icon to ‘End Call’ with ‘Greg Mobile’ when I hear a rushed, ‘The kids are fine, thanks for asking.’ And then he hangs up.

I love them. Of course I love THEM. Even though they haven’t let me sleep beyond 5.30am since 2009 …

I add my own name to the Total Arseholes list then feel an overwhelming compulsion to scratch my head. If Ms Itch-a-lot has given me lice, I think … well, then, that’s karma. But then Cranberry Pants is showing me all of her very large teeth and attempting to raise her eyebrows at me in a ‘shall we go?’ expression before frogmarching me out. And we are on.

It should be noted for the record that a panel discussion on root canal surgery is every bit as much fun as it sounds.

Afterwards, it’s hard to say who’s more relieved – audience or panellists.

‘Lovely …’ Cranberry Pants sounds strained now as she attempts to save the celebrity hygienist from the editor of Dentistry Magazine and walk in a way that doesn’t splice herself in two. ‘Now then, lunch?’

She gestures towards several plates packed with neatly arranged cakes and sandwiches, sweating slightly. The backstage area is stuffy and, despite the lack of windows, an alarming number of flies have appeared and are now congregating atop a plate of ‘Tooth Friendly!’ branded fairy cakes. The hygienist bats away a bluebottle as a catering assistant crunches several more with the back of a spoon, flicking them off the plate before she thinks anyone’s noticed.

There’s nothing here I can eat. Or rather that I’ll allow myself to eat. So I don’t. This is a mistake. Because what I do instead is drink. And I soon discover that the warm white wine on offer doesn’t taste so bad after a couple. Then an overly hairsprayed woman gives me a pink ‘Dentists Rule!’ glass suspended on a chord that can be worn around my neck. The larger, beer-glasses on a man-ribbon have presumably been reserved for the male delegates, lest they break my fragile female mouth. But I don’t care. Because now I have WINE to hand At All Times! Not even ‘to hand’, I think, giddy with novelty … hands-free!

This makes the ‘Wave Ta-Ta to Tartar’ seminar much more interesting and even the Cavity-In-A-Hat magician doesn’t seem quite so crap when I’m partially inebriated (‘How does he DO that with the doves?!’). I also find the awards ceremony (‘the pinnacle of the dentistry year!’) less painful than usual, and start a secret game of cliché bingo, drinking every time someone says ‘raising the bar’, ‘recognising excellence’, or ‘giving a hundred and ten per cent …’ It’s like The Apprentice, I marvel, but everyone’s got fractionally flatter hair!

Soon, the comforting blanket of fog descends and wraps itself around me so that my senses are dulled and I feel slower – softer, even – than usual.

I’m a lot more sociable when I’m drunk. But after some surprisingly pleasant exchanges with the celebrity hygienist and a woman who runs a practice in Peckham, I get stuck with a man who looks as though he’s been on a lot of caravan holidays, and another who’s clearly wearing bronzer (and possibly mascara). Mascara Man proceeds to cup his hand around my elbow and tells me he’s a life coach.

‘I specialise in pre-surgery visualisation,’ the melted, latter-day Simon le Bon insists enthusiastically. ‘Close your eyes, I’ll show you!’

When I open them, I pray inwardly, please don’t have your penis out. After some gubbins about ‘pelvic breathing’, I squint to find the male member still, thankfully, concealed beneath some flammable-looking trousers but I’m alarmed to note the white ghost of a wedding ring. This happens a lot at trade events: the lanyards go on and the wedding rings come off.

I politely decline melted Simon le Bon’s suggestion to go on a cocktail-menu crawl but then he slurs something about ‘lady dentists’ being ‘really sexy’.

This is: a) gross; b) a patronising affront to my feminist principles; and c) gross. Because no one over the age of twenty-five should ever use the word ‘sexy’. Ever.

I scroll through my mental rolodex of excuses to get the floss out of there, but my mind isn’t able to function as swiftly after five glasses of hands-free wine, so when a tall, handsome man with truly excellent teeth butts in and suggests we all move through to the next room ‘for the disco’, I comply.

‘Urggh, thanks,’ I whisper, swaying slightly despite my best efforts to walk in a straight line. ‘You saved me from another demo of his hypnotism skills. On top of his life coaching. And his making-wedding-rings-disappear trick …’

Mr Teeth makes a joke about ‘watching out for the pampas grass lobby’ at these events, and I laugh, always impressed when the seriously good-looking are also funny – as though they don’t have to be. They already have so many advantages the rest of us lack. And Such. Nice. Teeth …

Under the influence of alcohol, he blurs out of focus, then multiplies by two, crossing over himself, before swinging back again in an odd sort of Shiraz-induced optical illusion. This makes ‘walking’ even more of a challenge but, somehow, we make it.

Roxy Music are playing in the ‘party room’ (not in person, FYI – dentistry budgets don’t stretch that far …), and it’s around about this time in the proceedings that my glass of Shiraz starts whispering to me, conspiratorially.

Shiraz: ‘Oh, hey you! Wouldn’t it feel good to throw some shapes around about now? Shake things up?’

Shiraz, interrupting: ‘No, YOU’RE drunk! Trust me: you’re a brilliant dancer …’

Me: ‘No. Must stay in control. At all times. That’s my thing. Along with hiding in the loo at social events.’

Shiraz: ‘Pah! That’s the old you. The bor-ring you that works all the time and is stressed and hasn’t smiled in weeks! This is the new, FUN version!’

I’m drowsy and confused and the music is loud. So, really, everything that happens after this point is Bryan Ferry’s fault (and the wine. Did I mention the wine?). But what *I think* happens is this:

1) Mr Teeth takes my hand and we move to the side of the dance floor.

2) The hands-free-glass hanging around my neck is refilled and Mr Teeth even procures a straw for me so that all I have to do is dip my chin and suck (so to speak …) to get my Shiraz on. Naturally, this means I drink All The Wine until Mr Teeth offers to top me up. I gratefully accept and drink some more. This happens, on repeat, until I feel numb. Do I still have toes? I wonder, in an abstract sort of way. I haven’t felt them in at least half an hour …

3) Many more dental practitioners flood the room until we are all pushed up against each other.

4) And then …And then …

I’m looking down at a woman wearing the same ten-year-old Zara skirt suit as me, with the same ten-year-old hairstyle as me, and the same nervous laugh as I’ve been trialling for the past decade (spoiler alert: it’s me) and I’m shouting at her: YOU’RE ABOUT TO KISS A MAN WHO IS DEFINITELY NOT YOUR HUSBAND! STOP IT! STOP IT NOW! THIS IS ABSOLUTELY, INCONTROVERTABLY NOT THE FATHER OF YOUR CHILDREN! CEASE AND DESIST!

For about twenty seconds I don’t know how I feel about this. How should I feel? Horrified? Guilty? I should feel guilty around about now. Shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t I be breaking away and running off in tears? That’s what would happen in a Richard Curtis film, wouldn’t it … ? Quick! Someone check …

But I’m tired. So tired. And it’s so unlike me. Because, well, who wants to play that part? The married mother of two who snogs strangers while listening to Bryan Ferry at a dentistry conference just off the M42?

Then I remember all the cumulative rows that Greg and I have had over the past decade – rows over who does more (me …) and whether or not the other partner appreciates it (he doesn’t …). And I think, Is that it? Is that what it’ll be like? For the next eighteen years? Or longer? What with house prices and financial uncertainty and kids living at home for ages … (Damn you, economy!) After which we can look forward to a future of staring at each other in silence, wondering what to talk about and counting down the hours until we can go to sleep? I promised to hang out with him until death us do part. But people live forever these days, don’t they?

Good Angel (a miniature blonde in a metallic dress. Essentially, Kylie): ‘You can’t split up – you’ve just had the bathroom done! You’re booked in for an extension next spring; you have two wonderful children – and you don’t want to be “the woman who ended her marriage at a dentistry conference”!’

Less-Good Angel (aka Shiraz): ‘Greg-Schmeg … What you really want is for someone to hike up your skirt and shag you senseless. And that hasn’t happened in quite some time. Definitely not post-Brexit …’

I wake up at the convention centre’s Premier Inn, naked but for my ‘Alice Rat’ lanyard, on top of a dubiously stained hotel ‘comforter’. I appear to be alone. And the colour-coded toiletries arranged in perfect symmetry on the bedside table confirm that I’m in my own room. But still … things aren’t looking great.

I feel jagged and raw, and I can barely lift my head it’s so heavy. Instead, I have to prop myself up on my elbows, then execute a sort of commando roll to get to the side of the bed and sit up. The room spins a full 360 degrees so I decide it’s probably best to keep low and slow, sliding off the divan and onto the floor. There’s an acrid tang in my mouth and a vague stench of stale self-loathing emanating from my every pore. I crawl to the en suite, splash my face with water, then look up to see a woman whose mouth has set to a thin line, with a complexion like pea soup and a mop of dry, straggly hair. She’s thin from exhaustion – the cleft of each rib can be made out, clearly – but she’s flabby around the middle from not having had time to exercise since 2009. And possibly the late-night sugar/meat-patty sessions. Her eyes are small red slits and she has what the magazines call ‘wine-face’.

‘I never want to look that tired,’ I say out loud, as the mirror-hag mouths the words back at me.

I don’t recognise this new reflection. Or rather, I don’t want to. But my mind feels ragged. Threadbare, even. I force myself to breathe slowly and to try not to vomit as the air curdles around me. I turn on the shower and make the water as hot as I can until steam obscures the reflective glass and saves me from myself. Then I peel off the lanyard now adhering to my clammy chest, curse the cellulite blooming in my thighs, and scrub – hard – with a hotel flannel that’s seen better days.

Washing feels good, I think. Really good. I should wash more … I wish I could do my insides, too, but make sure I give all available surfaces a thorough going over then scrape the heck out of my cheaty-snogger-mouth that so betrayed me last night with a new, goodie-bag box-fresh, firm-headed toothbrush. This initiates a small gag-reflex but I rationalise it’s a price worth paying for a clean(er) mouth.

It descends like lead, crushing my chest first, then sinking to my stomach, until I think it might be a good idea to just let my legs crumple and lower myself down again onto the hotel bathroom’s cold, tiled floor.

Laughing. Puffy-eyed from sleep first thing in the morning. Tumbling downstairs, dressing gowns flapping. Eating boiled eggs and soldiers. Having their faces flannelled until they’re pink and glowing. Or, I calculate, if everything’s running to schedule, smelling sweetly minty around about now, after two minutes each with the electric toothbrushes they got for Christmas. I miss them. And the thought that I might have done something that could hurt them pierces like a thorn. Because whatever problems Greg and I may have, he’s their dad. So I’m going to have to get on with him. Somehow. Better.

It was easier when he was working. He had something to get up for in the morning. He made an effort, and shaved and ironed his shirts occasionally. Staying at home was only ever supposed to be temporary. ‘Just until I find something else,’ he’d said. So I took on more responsibility at the practice and worked longer hours. I got promoted and my new role came with the ‘honour’ of occasionally speaking at events like these. Greg said he’d look after the kids and use the opportunity to make a start on his ‘Seminal Guide to Stonehenge’: a project he’d apparently started as a student but had to postpone because of, well, life. So the spare bedroom became a shrine to druid temples, pictures of rock formations and academic journals. Only he didn’t do much of the ‘looking after the kids’ bit. And I still cooked and cleaned and dropped them off at school. And he’d just about remember to pick them up from the child-minder before coming home to slump on the sofa or fall asleep in his ‘study’ on his ‘day bed’. Which, increasingly, was becoming his night bed too.

He hasn’t applied for a job in months now. And when I offered to read the book – or at least the chapters he’d written so far – he became suddenly sheepish. He told me something about it being better to ‘read it all in context’. And that was that.

So although, yes, I am technically a terrible person, I’m pleading mitigating circumstances. And I’m quickly becoming convinced that this morning’s monumental hangover is Punishment: Part I.

I scrabble around for painkillers, find some in my bag, take two, then remember that they’re the special ones from work with big shouty letters on the packaging that read: One a day. DO NOT EXCEED RECOMMENDED DOSAGE.

I try regurgitating one. Or both. Which, obviously, doesn’t work and just makes me feel more anxious and dizzy.

Smart. Really smart … I scold myself, before deciding that perhaps I should try eating something. Ordinarily, I don’t do breakfast, but I rationalise that this might be one of those days that calls for an exception. Fruit, maybe? Half a grapefruit?

The ‘restaurant’ – another windowless room – is crammed with children and their parents, all bound for the nearby theme park. It smells of wet wipes and despair and the decibel level is deafening.

‘Araminta? Do you want cow’s milk on your cereal today? Does Mummy usually give you half fat or full fat? Try this and tell me if it tastes normal …’ a man wearing a blazer and cufflinks to a Premier Inn breakfast buffet addresses his two-year-old. Another woman loads as many bagels as she can into her handbag while a third dissects five hard-boiled eggs to extract the yolk and discard the rest.

The sounds of several dozen spoons bash against bowls as though competing to give a toast and various pre-schoolers are congratulated loudly on their Weetabix intake (‘Four, Felix? Clever boy!’fn2).

My skull is going to split open, I think. Right here and now. That, or splinter internally and haemorrhage in some way … I decide, nursing my cranium. But at least I’m keeping full-throttle nausea at bay for now. Well done, me …

I’m just approaching the ‘cereal ’n’ fruit station’ when I experience the first lurch: a fish hook in my stomach threatening to wrench up the single raw food bar I found in my bag and the only solids to have passed my lips since 11am yesterday. My head continues to pound as I contemplate the small spheres of soft fruit bobbing in murky liquid. I decide I would very much like to hollow out my brain with a melon baller, but take a bowl anyway and convince myself, ‘You can do this!’

It comes up – faster than I can stop it and with a force I didn’t know I had in me. The salad bar sneeze guard proves no match and offers little resistance. Great chunks of paleomush, stomach lining and Shiraz (damn you, Shiraz …) surge out of me and spray the fruit, the cereal, and onlookers. Liberally.

‘Drunk mother of two vomits on breakfast buffet in front of dozens of startled diners. “I’m a disgrace,” Alice Rat, a dentist from Streatham, admits …’

‘Oh god, I’m so sorry.’ I cast around for things to mop up with, taking it upon myself to dab at the spatters of sick nicely coagulating on cufflink man’s suede loafers. Bet he wishes he’d stuck with the cereal now, I think. Probably rues the day he offered Araminta a fruit parfait … ‘I’m a horrible human being,’ I mutter, to no one, as I clasp a hand over my mouth and realise the ordeal isn’t over. There’s more? And then, I confirm, decisively: There’s more.

‘I think perhaps you should leave, madam,’ a weedy man in a too-big suit and a badge that reads ‘Here to help!’ suggests.

I agree, wholeheartedly, then flee for the lifts – hoping to make it back up to my room before the next bile-a-thon makes its presence felt.

I’m back in the privacy of my own en suite, holding my hair back to execute what I hope is a final heave over porcelain, when I hear a familiar voice.

A broad brunette in wellington boots is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, smelling strongly of the outdoors and judging me.

‘What are you doing here?’ I croak, pushing back hair and attempting to make myself presentable. I had been in such a hurry to hurl, I realise now, that I may have ever so slightly forgotten to shut the door. Or rather, forgotten that it was likely to remain wedged open by the complimentary copy of the Daily Mail looped over the door handle in a see-through plastic bag (damn you, terror threats and new pictures of Helen Mirren on holiday!)

I stand, unsteadily, and try very hard not to breathe booze-’n’-bile on her as she envelops me in a non-consensual and extremely vigorous bear hug before punching my arm in a gesture that presumably passes for an appropriate salutation in her world, but that really hurts in mine. She is only five foot two inches tall, but the woman has arms like a butcher and guns of steel. For someone who subsists solely on Shepherd’s Pie and sponge pudding, she’s in surprisingly good shape. Her hug-’n’-left-hook combo takes the wind out of me and the heady aroma of ‘horse’ she habitually carries around with her sends me right back to the toilet bowl.

I don’t like people seeing me like this. Ever. Even her. She knows this and I suspect that a part of her is enjoying it.

Her mouth twitches at this. ‘Better than you. Come on, let’s sort you out.’

This isn’t right … I’m the grown-up. I’m the one who makes sure everyone’s been to the loo before they leave the house. I keep four Sainsbury’s bags-for-life in my car. At All Times! I’m the in-charge-person. Not her …

Once we’re both satisfied that I’m unlikely to puke again – or indeed have anything left to throw up, save perhaps a kidney – she tells me to get packed so we can ‘hit the road’.

‘I can’t leave!’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got another day of conference left. I’m booked in to “Combat Cake Culture” and “Take My Breath Away: Giving Halitosis The Heave Ho” …’ I hear myself saying this out loud and realise there’s no way I am spending the morning in an airless room surrounded by dental practitioners. ‘OK, so maybe that bit’s not happening. But I don’t need a lift, thanks. I’m getting the train.’

Bollocks. I had forgotten this, what with all the hands-free wine and Mr Teeth and the sick … Oh god, Mr Teeth ….

‘Well, lucky for you,’ she goes on, ‘I’m heading down south today.’ It grates the way she always says ‘down south’ as though I’ve abandoned our northern roots. I haven’t: we’re from Leamington Spa.

‘I’m seeing a man about a dog,’ she goes on. I don’t doubt for a moment that she means this literally. ‘So what happened last night? Get drunk all by yourself?’

‘“What?”’ She mocks me, looking as innocent as a Botticelli cherub. ‘By the way –’ she points ‘– your shirt’s on inside out and you’ve got carrot chunks where your cleavage should be.’ She gestures to her own impressive décolletage to underline my failings in this area.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ I begin scooping out chunks of … I can’t say what exactly. ‘I’m very slightly hangover, that’s all.’

‘Really? Because the man on the front desk said I was “welcome to remove the crazy lady from room 204”, and those rings around your eyes say this isn’t a one-night thing. They say –’ here she adopts a high pitched voice ‘– “Oh hi! My name’s Alice and I work all the time and I may or may not be losing it … ”’

‘That’s what they say.’ She nods as though she can’t be held responsible for my eyes betraying the current state of my mental health. If I was a photograph, she’d be drawing a moustache and a monocle on me round about now … I pinch the bridge of my nose, unsure whether I’m going to be sick or cry. ‘Listen,’ she goes on, ‘how about you get dressed properly and have your existential crisis on the road? Parking costs a bomb round here …’

Feeling too rough to object, I change out of my vomit-stained clothes into my only other outfit, the ten-year-old skirt suit from the night before. Then I draw on as much make-up/camouflage as is seemly before, in a moment of madness, asking Melissa if I look OK.

‘You look like someone who wants to share “How you too can make money in real estate … ”’ she tells me in an American infomercial voice.

‘Thank you. I now feel far more confident about going back downstairs and facing the world,’ I mutter back. Just because I haven’t started shopping at the ‘I’ve given up’ clothes shop of elasticated waistbands and body warmers. Who died and made her the mayor of fashion town?

I pack up my right-angle arranged toiletries and stuff each sick-stained garment in one of the complimentary shower caps provided in the en suite to avoid cross contamination in my overnight bag. Then, wrapping a few extra tissues around each bundle of disgrace, just in case, I zip up the holdall and leave.

I avoid eye contact – with anyone – until I’ve completed my walk of shame and we’re safely ensconced in the underground car park. I’m led towards a once-white pick-up truck that is apparently to be my chariot and clear the passenger seat of sweet wrappers, old newspaper (‘the dogs like to ride up front …’), and a half-eaten pasty.

‘I’ll have that thanks. Waste not want not …’ She crams the Cornish pasty in her mouth. ‘What?’

‘Thanks. It’s my post-break-up revenge body,’ she mumbles through a mouthful of flaky pastry, dry mouth clicking slightly. ‘I’m eating like Elvis after Ramadan.’

I nod as though this explains everything. I don’t tend to ask about her love life any more. I rationalise that if there’s anyone important, she’ll tell me. If there’s anyone important, she’ll tell everyone, I think. So I’m presuming the ‘revenge’ is for a minor fling who doubtlessly failed to treat the dogs with adequate reverence or was allergic to the horse. Or the ‘house bunnies’. I shudder at the thought. (‘You know rabbits eat their own poo?’ I once told her after reading an article about them online.fn3 ‘So?’ was her response).

Melissa reaches an arm behind the passenger seat headrest to reverse and we judder backwards. As we’re queuing to exit the car park, I become conscious of her looking at me. Really looking.

‘Yes!’ I shrill, at a higher pitch than intended. ‘I’m fine! Absolutely fine!’

This shuts down the conversation and so we drive, out of the car park and blinking into the light. I paw at my bag until I can locate sunglasses – huge bug-eye-lensed affairs that thankfully conceal half my face but look rather as though I’m being whisked away from an illicit encounter to avoid paparazzi. I couldn’t look more out of place in a muddy white pick-up truck if I tried.

The low humming sound interspersed with warbling – a noise I had taken to be the ancient engine – becomes amplified once were clear of the multi-storey car park and reveals itself to be none other than Celine Dion.

Melissa assures me that this isn’t her choosing. ‘Local radio.’ She nods at the stereo as we stop and start, jerking our way through congested city streets, livid with traffic and alive with car horns that do nothing to salve my hangover. I retrieve my phone, realising I haven’t checked it since sobering up enough to remember that I have a phone.

It’s switched off. Switched! Off! I never switch my phone off ordinarily. Never. I shudder, holding down the tiny doll-sized button to turn it on again and waiting for the black apple icon to appear, silhouetted against a bright white background. I enter my password with fumbling fingers, then feel my stomach sink yet further with each missed call notification.

‘You have … TWELVE … new ….messages. First message, sent yesterday at four sixteen pm …’

That’s the thing about making yourself the kind of person who’s always in control – the kind of person people can depend on: you become eminently dependable. Indispensable, even. People rely on you – at least, that’s what I tell myself. And then on the (very) rare occasions when things aren’t running entirely to schedule or, just for example, you go AWOL at a dentistry conference, people notice. Had I married a man who could locate the Hoover and knew his way around a Tupperware drawer, I very much doubt I’d have had three missed calls from home already this morning. Had I delegated rather more at work, I’m fairly confident that the nine memos from the surgery could have been dealt with by colleagues (albeit to an inferior standard …). But, as it is, they’ve come through to me. All of them …

I hit the red button to hang up, unable to face the onslaught yet. Ordinarily, I have one-to-two days to decompress from all the ‘talking’ that is apparently necessary as a functioning professional in the field of dentistry. Usually, I spend at least twenty-four hours restoring order to my home after the working week in virtual silence – ignoring my husband and merely conversing with teenage-esque monosyllabic children. This means that by the time Monday rolls around, I have built up reserves of energy to embark upon yet another week of human interaction. But it’s only Saturday. I more than fulfilled my ‘chat’ quota yesterday and haven’t got anything left in the tank, as it were, apart from a flitting, choking anxiety. In short: I can’t face it.

If they want me to do an extra shift today, they can whistle, I think, nursing my head. If Mark’s got a bad back again, it’s his hard cheese; I can’t cover for him. I’m in no fit state to breathe Shiraz on patients at close range today …

If it’s important, they can text me. Or email. Or send a blimp. Really, anything but the ‘talking’ …

I check my email and fire off replies to as many work-related memos as I can, to make me feel marginally more useful and in control of my life – dealing with admin during ‘dead time’ like a productivity machine. But this ushers in an unwelcome return of the churning sensation in my stomach.

I wind down the old-school window to gasp at some not-at-all-fresh city air as Celine’s ‘Think Twice’ belts out. At full volume …

‘Nuh-uh.’ She shakes her head and gives the ancient stereo a firm shunt with the heel of her hand until UB40 starts up. ‘The off button’s missing and you can only get local stations.’

She looks at me as if I’m a fool. ‘It’s always Celine, UB40, or Ronan Keating.’

I respond with a spontaneous sneezing fit, thanks to all the animal hair in the car. My eyes start to water and my breathing becomes shallow and I can’t quite tell whether I’m about to suffocate or spontaneously combust. Or both? I’m grateful for the sunglasses concealing my reddening eyes and then my phone starts up again.

The caller ID announces that the ‘Surgery’ is summoning me, so I switch it to silent mode.

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Author note

Prologue

One

Three weeks earlier …