Work Text:
Mark was sitting at the desk in his home office, looking through a large and very dry law book, researching legal precedents and statutes referencing specific cases and principles to build an argument for a pending case his team had recently been assigned. He’d told Bridget he would only be a half-hour at most, so was surprised when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Looking up, he saw his wife walk to the wine cooler, squat down and carefully peruse the various bottles. Pulling it open after several moments, she selected a Rosé, turning it over to read the label. After a moment of intense scrutiny, brow furrowed in concentration, she put it back, only to choose a different bottle, this time a Chardonnay, following the same procedure. Smiling, she stood and walked to the kitchen, the decided-upon variety firmly in hand. Mark’s right eyebrow unconsciously shot toward his hairline as he watched.
Closing the tome, he stood, setting it back in its vacant spot on the shelf. Under the guise of needing a glass of water, he walked into the kitchen, where she stood at the counter with a corkscrew, observing as she opened the bottle, filling a glass to the brim.
Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “I thought you were starting dry January.” The words sounded much more accusatory than intended, and he would have smacked himself in the forehead if she weren’t staring directly at him.
“Yeah,” she said nonchalantly, lifting the glass to her mouth.
Blinking, he asked, “Umm, so what’s that then?” This time, he actually felt his forehead sting at the thought, fervently wishing he could recall his words.
“Dry January doesn't begin on New Year’s Day. Everyone knows. It’s a Bank holiday,” she said patiently.
Looking at her with some alarm whilst trying to conceal his amusement, he asked, “Wherever did you hear that?” Her words sounded vaguely familiar, reminding him of their first-ever meeting at their parents’ friends’ Geoffrey and Una’s New Year’s Day Turkey Curry Buffet. He recalled Bridget telling him about attending a party in London the night before and suffering a hangover. “But then I do think New Year’s resolutions can’t technically be expected to begin on New Year’s Day, don’t you? Because it’s an extension of New Year’s Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly at the stroke of midnight with so much nicotine in the system. Also, dieting on New Year’s Day isn’t a good idea as you can’t eat rationally but really need to be free to consume whatever is necessary, moment by moment, to ease your hangover. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second.” It was then he had suddenly made for the buffet, mumbling about getting something to eat.
Bridget waved her hand dismissively. “Drynuary starts at midnight on the second. It’s common knowledge.”
“Pardon?” he asked, unsure he’d heard correctly.
“It doesn’t start until midnight—”
“No. I mean, what did you call it?”
“Dryn…u…air…y,” she enunciated slowly. “Shaz, Tom, Jude and I came up with the idea as a post-holiday cleanse, a way to atone for all the food and drink that starts around Bonfire Night and lurches through New Year’s. After weeks of parties and family gatherings, it inevitably led us to take a break from overindulging. It’s also an alternative to the standard New Year’s resolution, much more realistic than joining a gym, but with similar benefits: feeling healthier, sleeping better, and dropping a few pounds. Plus, unlike a gym membership, it actually saves us money.
“It was honestly more of a dare than anything. Could we really give up wine with dinner or mojitos with friends for an entire month?”
Considering how long they'd been married, Mark was astounded at her explanation. After all, this was the first he’d heard it mentioned. “Please continue,” he encouraged, taking a drink of water.
“There’s an undeniable confidence that comes from doing something not everyone else can,” she explained. “If you like drinking it’s hard, and it ought to be. Although I’m not particularly religious, I appreciate the Lenten aspect of giving up something I’m fond of for an extended period just to say I can do it. And since your birthday falls during Lent, there’s no way I’m giving up drinking then.
“Think about it,” she said, carefully sitting on the sofa with her almost full glass. “It forces you to consider the role alcohol plays in your life, especially doing it in January after over-imbibing for several months. I don’t hibernate and sip black tea, avoiding glances at the stemware and the unopened bottle of vodka on the shelf. There are still dinners out, concerts and meet-ups. The last time I did it we met friends at a pub and the amount of club soda I downed led to plenty of speculation that we were expecting our third child. I’ve even had to explain why I wasn’t having wine with dinner with my workmates. Half the point of Drynuary is to continue to live as you normally would, just without alcohol.”
Mark trailed behind her, thinking back to previous years. “So this isn’t the first January you haven’t had a drink?” he asked incredulously, scratching his head. Had he just not noticed?
“Mark,” Bridget stated as if he were a toddler. “I tried and failed in 2013 because I wrote about it in my diary. I know for certain I did it in 2018 and 2019. I didn’t even bother in 2020 because I’d already abstained the previous October when I had that horrible cold for several weeks. I have no recollection of January 2021 or 2022, which tells me I didn’t attempt it.”
———
The next evening, once both children had gone upstairs after dinner, they had a rather boisterous discussion about which midnight she was referring to for the actual start of her abstinence: the one arriving first thing in the morning of the 2nd or the one at the end of the night. “Mid-night,” she said. “The clue’s in the name.”
By the morning of the third, dry January was in full swing. Over coffee and toast, Bridget explained, “Tom, Shaz, Jude and I don’t pretend we invented the idea of abstaining for a whole month; we just renamed it. It seemed natural to combine dry and January into the nickname of Drynuary. Remember all the names of the months when we were trying to get pregnant?”
“I do recall you mentioning ‘Shagtember’ quite often,” he laughed. “Oh, and my personal favourite, ‘Romptober’.”
“Good memory, Mr Darcy,” she complimented. “Others often use the mundane Dry January, the puzzling Janopause, which sounds like a middle-aged female issue, or the horribly bad Dryuary. Many people dislike the name Drynuary, but it seems to have caught on. It’s even been confiscated by the Sunday Times, which I suppose legitimises it.
“You know I don't love the holidays. It just seems wrong and unfair that Christmas, with its stressful and unmanageable financial and emotional challenges, should be forced upon you against your will and then rudely snatched away just when you’re starting to get into it. Right when you’re beginning to enjoy the feeling that your regular schedule is suspended and it’s OK to lie in bed after seven, put anything you fancy into your mouth, and drink alcohol whenever it should chance to pass your way, even in the mornings, now suddenly everyone is expected to snap into self-discipline like lean teenage greyhounds. Today’s a perfect example. The kids aren’t back in school until next week, but we have to work.
“By the time New Year's comes, I feel sick, bloated, and desperately need a carrot that hasn't been sweetened. And at the risk of sounding overly high-minded, although it's not really my thing, it is a thing for many people: the Smug Factor. Because if feeling superior to friends is something you like, Drynuary can make you feel smug about not drinking for a few weeks.
“I’ve endured it enough to know what’s to come: a few nights of bad sleep; a sense of injustice around dinner time, especially on weekends, that diminishes as the month goes on until it only lasts fifteen minutes either side of 7 PM; and a sudden awareness that drinking liquid of any kind is extremely overrated.”
Two weeks into her forced sobriety, Bridget told Mark, “I honestly imagined I’d feel better than this. Although I’m sure by week three I’ll be celebrating my total freedom from alcohol.”
“So, this means you’re forgoing alcohol forever? Even after January?” he asked in astonishment.
“Well, I’m thinking about it…” she said less than resolutely. “I recently read a study whereby staffers at UCL Alcohol Research Interest Group volunteered their bodies to science, agreeing to submit to a plethora of tests before and after abstaining from alcohol consumption for a month. The results from short-term abstinence were positive, with only one negative.”
Mark waited for Bridget to continue. She’d done her homework, and he was beginning to worry that she’d expect him to join her.
"Liver fat fell by almost 20 per cent in some individuals.
"Blood glucose levels dropped by 16 per cent on average.
"Total cholesterol, a risk factor for heart disease, dropped by almost 5 per cent.
"Ratings of how well a person could concentrate soared 15 per cent.”
Mark listened quietly and thoughtfully, truly impressed, “All that sounds very healthy. What was the negative?”
“The only drawback was people reported less social contact. But that might be welcome news to you,” she sniggered with a smile, although Mark didn’t find it as funny as his wife seemed to.
The following weekend they were invited to supper with Jude and Giles. Mark couldn’t help but wonder how the evening would play out with his wife and the hostess doing dry January.
“Your eyes look amazing,” Bridget told Jude as they stepped through the door.
“Your skin,” Jude complimented. “It’s so clear,” she said, clinking over to kiss her.
“Listen to them,” Giles said to Mark, trying to hide his laughter.
“We brought you some fake beer,” Bridget said brightly, holding up a four-pack.
We? thought Mark.
“Is it any good?” Giles asked.
“I don’t know,” said Bridget truthfully. Mark shrugged non-committingly.
Bridget and Jude drank four fake beers, several glasses of non-alcoholic wine and two litres of fizzy water with the stoical air of two women attending a children’s afternoon tea party.
At the end of the evening, as they drove home, Mark asked, “How was that for you?”
“Fine,” she replied. “What day is it again?”
“The fifteenth.”
“Flying by,” she said, looking at her phone.
“You haven’t made that much of a fuss.”
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “It’s twenty-five past nine!”
“I know, “ Mark replied, glancing at the clock on the dashboard.
“I can’t believe there’s so much today left to get through.”
The next week they invited people round for Sunday lunch. Bridget bought wine, beer, fake beer and wine, and fizzy water, but in all the wrong amounts. Of the seven people attending, hardly anybody was drinking. Even Daniel Cleaver was doing dry January. Mark couldn’t give away more than four glasses of red wine the entire afternoon, and Daniel volunteered to go for more fake beer.
“What’s all this alcohol for?” Mark asked, looking in the fridge the next day.
“People bring it, and then no one drinks it,” Bridget said. “It’s starting to pile up.”
“There’s no room for anything else,” he said.
“It’s like everyone quitting smoking at once,” she said, “and still turning up with a carton of fags.”
“You don’t find it tempting?” he asked.
“It’s lunchtime.”
“I don’t mean now,” he said. “I meant as an ongoing thing.”
“Doesn’t bother me in the least,” she said, sipping hot tea.
“I imagine you’ll get through it all when the time comes,” said Mark.
“I imagine I will.”
“All on the first of February,” goaded Mark, holding his breath.
“Truthfully, I was planning to tack the days I missed at the start of January on to the—” At Mark’s look, she stopped suddenly, laughing at his terrified expression.