Free Ice and a Slice by Della Galton

saying, “Hi, my name’s SJ and I’m a big fatty.” It simply wasn’t the right approach. It was buying into negativity. Everyone knew that if you wanted to be something other than what you were, you simply had to repeat it. I’m thin , or I’m rich , or I’m a teetotaller . It was basic psychology. If you went around telling everyone you were a big fatty, or an alcoholic, or a pauper, then it would very quickly become true. And then where would you be?
    “Hi, sweetie.”
    SJ jumped as Tom appeared behind her. He’d just had a shave and smelt of Paco Rabanne. Maybe he did want to make love again. The promotion must have gone to his head. Feeling guilty for such disloyal thoughts, she smiled at him.
    “You’ve obviously been busy. What’s on the menu?”
    “Spag bol. I haven’t been in long. Thought I’d better put in a bit of overtime to show willing, you know. How was Poetry and a Pint?”
    “It was great – we did Walter de la Mare.” She smiled. “On a Coke.”
    “Uh huh. Is he one of the druggie ones?”
    “What? Oh – no, I meant me. I had a Coke instead of a pint.”
    “I’d better pour you a nice glass of wine then. You must be gasping!”
    Now he came to mention it… Not that she was buying into that, though, obviously. If she’d been gasping, she definitely had a problem.
    “Just a small one, then.”
    She waited until they’d finished their first course before she told him about going to S.A.A.D.
    “Oh? What did they say?” He’d been about to refill her glass. That was bad timing – she should have waited another four seconds in case he took it upon himself to help her in her quest.
    “Not much. Just that I ought to cut down.”
    He relaxed and carried on pouring, much to her relief.
    SJ emptied half her glass and then, concerned he hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation, she added firmly, and rather ironically, “I think they’re probably right – but it’s quite difficult to cut down when you usually drink a certain amount.”
    “Are you saying you’ve got a drink problem, sweetie?” Tom stared at her, dark eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead.
    “No, no. Nothing like that.” She laughed brightly. “I don’t think I drink any more than anyone else we know, do I?”
    “No – I don’t think you do,” Tom said, reaching for another slice of garlic bread.
    SJ frowned – so that had been a damp squib then. She’d just told her husband she might be an alcoholic and he’d blithely ignored her. Everyone knew that real alcoholics lost their jobs, alienated their families, and became a useless waste of space to society. Whereas she, obviously, was far from that – even her husband hadn’t noticed anything amiss. She gulped back her wine – red, as Tom hadn’t got any white out tonight - refilled her glass, and settled back in her chair to enjoy it.
    “You – an alcoholic? That’s ridiculous,” Tom muttered, reaching for the bottle and looking slightly surprised to find there was none left.
    SJ smiled sagely. She knew exactly what she would say to Tanya next time they spoke.
    “If you’re an alcoholic, you’re supposed to be in denial, aren’t you? But I’m not. I confessed all to Tom and he thinks I’m fine – so if anyone is in denial, it’s him. Not me.”

Chapter Eight
    The following Tuesday morning, SJ was looking at her Things to Do pad and trying to decide which was the most urgent: her lesson plan for Poetry and a Pint or giving some serious thought to her ‘Reasons Not To Go To My Parents’ Party’ list, when the doorbell rang. Irritated, she glanced at the clock. Only eleven fifteen, so too early for the post, which never came before lunchtime. She got up wearily and went to answer it. Hopefully it wasn’t anyone important as she hadn’t got round to a shower yet and was wearing old, but very comfy grey leggings and a baggy T-shirt Tom had bought her, emblazoned with the slogan, Is there any wine in the fridge or do I