At first, Joe’s drinking didn’t bother me – everyone drank too much; hangovers were par for the course – but then, over time, I began to notice that he quaffed wine down as if it was water and, by the time a friend or colleague had finished their first glass, he’d already polished off four. After a certain number of drinks, he changed: his voice got louder, his eyes slightly out of focus, and he became argumentative; he liked to rile people and see if they’d take the bait. He never remembered in the morning and would be back to the sweet and vibrant man I’d moved in with. However, when the drinking escalated and cocaine was added to the mix, I grew more concerned. We had heated rows. I tried to get him to slow down, though I learnt fast not to argue when he’d been drinking or was high. Stress, Joe said; his job was stressful, I didn’t understand the pressure he was under.

I tried to. I thought I could be his rock, his shelter in the storm; I could change him, calm him down. I learnt to avoid certain situations, certain people but, as time went on, I didn’t like who I was becoming – always on edge, on the lookout at functions to see if Joe had had that drink too many, the one that turned him nasty; always checking to see if he was still being civil. He accused me of being a nag. Our lives were no longer fun. When he lost his job after having had a go at a client in a meeting after a long boozy lunch, he fell apart. He needed me more than ever, so I stayed, supported him, even paid all the bills in the end. He was full of resolutions and good intentions to reform, but I still found bottles tucked away at the back of cupboards or in boxes hidden in our cloakroom. I was no longer sure he was faithful. I’d become Miss Prim in his eyes, his conscience. Joe balked at the words addict or alcoholic, called me names – uptight, prissy, superior. I wasn’t; I just didn’t like living with someone with a drink problem and all that went with it. He wanted a fun girl to share his binges.