long have they been like this? Leanne sits still but, actually, she's jumping, frantic. She's out of her seat although she's sitting there.
—Yeah, says Paula. —So. I've said it. So. Leanne?
—I know.
—I'm worried.
—I know. I heard you. You're worried.
She's not looking at Paula.
—Yeah, says Paula.
That's all. It's all she can say. She needs Leanne.
—What about? says Leanne.
—Well, says Paula. —It's —
Jesus.
It's too much.
She's losing control. She knows she's shaking. She's dying for a drink. She wants to laugh. She'll tell Leanne – the happy ending. Later.
She holds the cup with both hands. Something to do; the heat is real.
—I know you might think I'm a hypocrite or something.
Where did that come from?
—I'd understand it if you do.
She puts the cup to her lips.
—Lovely.
That gets nothing.
She sips again. She feels the tea. She feels it crawl across her tongue.
Too much sugar.
—I'm an alcoholic, Leanne.
Leanne's eyes slide off her.
—I know, she says.
—I know you do, love. You've always known. But I've never told you and I should've.
She doesn't cry; she doesn't want – she doesn't need to.
—It doesn't matter, says Leanne.
—It does. But, anyway —
—What?
—Well, she says. —Leanne. Are you?
—What?
—An alcoholic.
—What? Are you mad?
She's stiff-solid now, in front of Paula.
—I am not.
Still there, furious – terrified.
—Good, says Paula.
Leanne says nothing. She doesn't move.
—So, says Paula.
She sips again.
—It's my imagination.
She doesn't want to accuse Leanne. She already has.
—Leanne?
—What?
—Am I imagining it?
—Imagine what you like.
—I've been there, Leanne. I —
—I've been there, Le-annnne —
She fires it back, and it hits. They'd laugh if they saw it on telly.
—Sorry, says Paula.
Leanne's still there.
—Can I ask you something, Leanne?
Another bad line – they're all bad.
—What?
—How —
She goes for the cup – she stops.
—How do you feel when you wake up in the mornings? Most mornings?
Leanne cocks her head. It's not good. She's acting.
She speaks.
—Remember when I woke up once and you were beside me and you were asleep? And your face was stuck to my pillow with your vomit. Do you remember that?
Paula nods.
—Yes, I do.
—Do you? Great. Because I don't feel nearly as bad as that when I wake up in – the mornings. I feel fuckin' great, actually.
Leanne moves. Every part of her jumps, like a puppet whose strings have been tapped. She raises her hand.
And Paula does too, to her face, quickly.
She tries to stop.
She puts her hands down.
—Why did you do that? says Leanne.
—What?
—Did you think I was going to hit you or something?
—No.
—You did.
She raises her hand, fast —
It doesn't happen. Leanne doesn't hit her.
Paula takes her hand from her face.
Leanne stands up. Paula can hear her breathe.
You're your father's daughter. She doesn't say it.
She has to look. It's gone if she doesn't.
She looks up at Leanne. Leanne is looking across at the back door, that direction.
But she looks at Paula now. She looks down at her. Her face is blotched. Her eyes are dirty.
She was never beautiful. Paula can't help thinking that.
She looks at Leanne. She sees the mouth.
—You thought I was going to hit you.
—It was just a reaction. When you raised your hand —
—Like this?
The fingers fly past Paula's eyes.
—Leanne. Stop.
—What? This?
The fingernail stings her nose. She's cut – she must be.
Paula stands – she's not going to be caught.
—What are you doing?
Leanne doesn't answer.
—What gives you the right to do that?
—What gives you the right?
—I didn't hit you.
—Not now.
—I never hit you.
Leanne doesn't answer.
—I never hit you. When did I ever hit you?
—He did.
—He hit us all.
—Yeah well, you fuckin' married him.
Paula's fault.
—Ah, for God's sake, she says. —What's this got to do with
—Yeah, says Paula. —So. I've said it. So. Leanne?
—I know.
—I'm worried.
—I know. I heard you. You're worried.
She's not looking at Paula.
—Yeah, says Paula.
That's all. It's all she can say. She needs Leanne.
—What about? says Leanne.
—Well, says Paula. —It's —
Jesus.
It's too much.
She's losing control. She knows she's shaking. She's dying for a drink. She wants to laugh. She'll tell Leanne – the happy ending. Later.
She holds the cup with both hands. Something to do; the heat is real.
—I know you might think I'm a hypocrite or something.
Where did that come from?
—I'd understand it if you do.
She puts the cup to her lips.
—Lovely.
That gets nothing.
She sips again. She feels the tea. She feels it crawl across her tongue.
Too much sugar.
—I'm an alcoholic, Leanne.
Leanne's eyes slide off her.
—I know, she says.
—I know you do, love. You've always known. But I've never told you and I should've.
She doesn't cry; she doesn't want – she doesn't need to.
—It doesn't matter, says Leanne.
—It does. But, anyway —
—What?
—Well, she says. —Leanne. Are you?
—What?
—An alcoholic.
—What? Are you mad?
She's stiff-solid now, in front of Paula.
—I am not.
Still there, furious – terrified.
—Good, says Paula.
Leanne says nothing. She doesn't move.
—So, says Paula.
She sips again.
—It's my imagination.
She doesn't want to accuse Leanne. She already has.
—Leanne?
—What?
—Am I imagining it?
—Imagine what you like.
—I've been there, Leanne. I —
—I've been there, Le-annnne —
She fires it back, and it hits. They'd laugh if they saw it on telly.
—Sorry, says Paula.
Leanne's still there.
—Can I ask you something, Leanne?
Another bad line – they're all bad.
—What?
—How —
She goes for the cup – she stops.
—How do you feel when you wake up in the mornings? Most mornings?
Leanne cocks her head. It's not good. She's acting.
She speaks.
—Remember when I woke up once and you were beside me and you were asleep? And your face was stuck to my pillow with your vomit. Do you remember that?
Paula nods.
—Yes, I do.
—Do you? Great. Because I don't feel nearly as bad as that when I wake up in – the mornings. I feel fuckin' great, actually.
Leanne moves. Every part of her jumps, like a puppet whose strings have been tapped. She raises her hand.
And Paula does too, to her face, quickly.
She tries to stop.
She puts her hands down.
—Why did you do that? says Leanne.
—What?
—Did you think I was going to hit you or something?
—No.
—You did.
She raises her hand, fast —
It doesn't happen. Leanne doesn't hit her.
Paula takes her hand from her face.
Leanne stands up. Paula can hear her breathe.
You're your father's daughter. She doesn't say it.
She has to look. It's gone if she doesn't.
She looks up at Leanne. Leanne is looking across at the back door, that direction.
But she looks at Paula now. She looks down at her. Her face is blotched. Her eyes are dirty.
She was never beautiful. Paula can't help thinking that.
She looks at Leanne. She sees the mouth.
—You thought I was going to hit you.
—It was just a reaction. When you raised your hand —
—Like this?
The fingers fly past Paula's eyes.
—Leanne. Stop.
—What? This?
The fingernail stings her nose. She's cut – she must be.
Paula stands – she's not going to be caught.
—What are you doing?
Leanne doesn't answer.
—What gives you the right to do that?
—What gives you the right?
—I didn't hit you.
—Not now.
—I never hit you.
Leanne doesn't answer.
—I never hit you. When did I ever hit you?
—He did.
—He hit us all.
—Yeah well, you fuckin' married him.
Paula's fault.
—Ah, for God's sake, she says. —What's this got to do with
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