This was such a ridiculous summation of my situation that I almost laughed.
Raymond wasn’t usually prone to exaggeration but this was over the top,
and I couldn’t allow it to stand as a factually accurate description of what had happened that night.
Raymond, I simply had a bit too much vodka after a stressful evening, that’s all. It’s hardly symptomatic of an illness.
“Where had you been that night?” he said. “What’s been going on since then?
I shrugged. “I went to a gig,” I said. “It wasn’t very good.
Neither of us spoke for a while. “Eleanor,” he said eventually, “this is serious.
If I hadn’t come over when I did, you might be dead by now, either from the booze or from choking on your own vomit.
That’s if you hadn’t already overdosed on the pills or whatever.”
I put my head on one side and pondered this. “All right,” I said.
“I concede that I was feeling very unhappy. But doesn’t everyone feel sad from time to time?”
“Yes, of course they do, Eleanor,” he said calmly.
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