Will R and I ever enjoy a party again?

'This is so different. Just after 11pm (so early! So alien!) we look at each other. R is smiling sweetly, and together we are like a couple on our first date.'

We are at a friend's party. It is a balmy evening, and hot bodies are huddled together in the kitchen when we arrive. People are animatedly chatting away and I am upbeat. It is good to see so many familiar faces in one place.

"Drink?" the host is quick to welcome us.

"Happy birthday! A beer please," I reply, kissing her on the cheek. I gave up drinking around R for months because I thought it was tempting and unfair, but then he had a major relapse anyway so my abstinence seemed irrelevant.

"I haven't seen you for ages. How are things?" The host looks at my husband. She is one of my oldest friends and is so straightforward and kind.

"OK, thanks," R replies cheerfully.

"Drink? I've got juice or sparkling mineral water …"

"Water's lovely, thanks," he replies.

We mingle. I'm capable of small talk but the warm-up conversation we have with a couple who we barely know (we're making an effort) is stunted and full of slightly clunky anecdotes. I console myself with the fact that the beginning of parties are usually always like this. But as we chat, I realise how enjoyable the beer is.

With each sip, I feel better, looser, less self-conscious. At times like this, the first drink marks the transition from day to night: from structure and responsibility to fun and frivolity.

And there is R, beside me, almost definitely sober. I am very much aware right now of how hard it must be. I stroke his arm. I have a sudden desire to squeeze his arse and kiss him hard on the lips in a passionate but slightly lunatic attempt to tell him that it's OK: we are together and things won't always be so difficult. Then I wonder if we'll ever really be able to enjoy going to parties as a couple again.

I can only compare this situation with periods when I've been pregnant: I barely touched alcohol at parties, and after a while, I found them boring. Especially when I had to muster the energy to engage with more well-oiled guests than myself. But that was confined to just three periods of just a few months, and I didn't have to think about a sober life for ever: there would be more wine eventually.

Before, at parties, R would usually take a big drink into the garden and smoke. Then he'd find a quiet corner inside and talk to a couple of other wallflowers; but within a relatively short time and a couple more glasses of something spirity and strong, his eyes would begin to betray him: one would swerve in one direction, and the other would attempt to home in on something or someone. When I spotted him in the room, I'd think, "Ah, that's him gone for the rest of the evening."

This speedy transition from sober to pissed would baffle me. "How can a couple of drinks do that to him?" Then I realised he'd probably had a few on the sly before the party. By evening he was simply topping up.

He'd want to stay until he couldn't speak coherently and I'd desperately want to leave and take him with me, embarrassed by his behaviour. He would knock over drinks, fall asleep on sofas and try to drink more. Was this fun? Not my idea of a good evening out. "IS THIS FUCKING FUN?" I would ask him angrily, as I guided him into a taxi.

This is so different. Just after 11pm (so early! So alien!) we look at each other. R is smiling sweetly, and together we are like a couple on our first date. We want to please each other, say the right thing.

"Honestly, we can stay if you want," R says, indicating that deep down he'd prefer to go. I totally understand.

People have taken to the dancefloor, and I am not drunk enough to throw my arms in the air and sidestep enthusiastically in a style that my daughter calls my "crazy old bag" dancing.

"No, let's go. Agata gets expensive after midnight."

I think, "Oh, R, I'd just love it if you could have a drink. Just one, or two. Just to take the edge off things, like the average person does when they need to loosen up." What would he think if I voiced my thoughts out loud? That I was crazy? Selfish? Delusional?

At home, I pay Agata.

"The children were gorgeous. Nice time drinking and dancing?" she asks us. R and I laugh nervously.

"Not much of either tonight. It was good though, thanks."

I close the door and turn to R, who is at the foot of the stairs ready to go to bed. "You know you always ask me why I find it so hard to quit drink?" R says.

"Yes," I reply.

"It's because I really, really love it."

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