by Juno Dawson
‘Let go of the door, Lex. This is for the best.’ He slams the door out of my hands and starts the engine.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!’ I shriek, pounding the car window with my fist as he pulls away.
Dr Goldstein is already at my side with the boynurse. ‘Come along, Miss Volkov. Let’s show you to your suite.’
I look up at the mansion. The windows look down at me like eyes. Judgmental, condescending eyes.
They got me.
They fucking got me good this time.
At least the room is nice. I’m on the ground floor – which I’d normally complain about – but I remind myself this isn’t a hotel, however much it looks like one. As I’m whisked towards my suite, I get the gist of the Clarity Centre: plush carpets in palliative jade; ecru walls; walnut trim; soft up-lighting; creamy orchids in goldfish bowls. Classy 101.
Goldstein entrusted me to the hunky boynurse. After some seriously disorienting corridors – you think I’d be used to them – he stops outside Room 11 and opens it. With no luggage, I shuffle in behind him like Orphan Annie. ‘This is your room,’ he says simply. ‘Let us know if there’s anything you need. There’s a call button next to the bed.’
‘Bit of Vicodin?’ He’s himbo-hot – steroid shoulders and thick neck, reddish hair. I perform a smile for him.
He manages a polite, if fake, laugh. Like he’s never heard that one. The colour scheme is the same as the halls – ocean greens and pale greys. All very feng shui, I’m sure. There’s even a decorative bowl filled with pebbles on a side table near the door. Basic bitches. If I see a fucking Buddha statue I swear I’ll club someone to death with it. King-size bed with suede headboard; a cubist desk and sofa; patio doors on to some sort of terrace . . . an outdoor pool, covered. Beyond that I see endless, shifting silver water. Sea view, lucky me. ‘Dr Goldstein will be back with your meds in a second.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Marcus, Miss Volkov.’
‘Hello, Marcus.’ I smile sweetly again, cocking my head to one side like some sort of jailbait porn fantasy. It’ll pay to have the nurses on-side. ‘May I look on the terrace?’ I want to plan possible escape routes.
He shakes his head. ‘Not yet; not while you’re detoxing.’ He turns to leave. ‘I’m on duty all day. Call if you need anything.’ He’s professionally disinterested. He leaves.
What do I do now?
This is absurd. Back home, I had a mani-pedi booked for two this afternoon.
There’s a Clarity Centre Welcome Pack leaning against glass bottles of mineral water – one still, one sparkling – on the desk. Great. I ignore it.
I go to the en-suite. Marble sink, jungle shower over man-sized tub. Again, could be much worse. I flick the light on and flinch from my reflection in the mirror. It’s no wonder Nikolai freaked out – I look like something off The Walking Dead. Either this is very unflattering light or my skin has a definite green tinge; waxy and corpsy. Shit. I wonder if it was a bad batch. My eyes are bloodshot and racoon-ish – smeared with last night’s eyeliner and mascara. My hair is a greasy blonde bird’s nest.
There must be a god because a wrapped toothbrush is waiting in a glass with some toothpaste. I reach for it and try to take the cellophane off but my hands are shaking like mad. It’s kicking in. Fuck.
It starts like flu, that fever in your bones. But it’s about to get so much worse than the flu.
I manage to brush my teeth and decide a shower might help me feel more human. With any luck, I’ll come down nice and easy, like a feather on a breeze. The shower beats down on my head and I have it as hot as possible, hoping to scald the ache out from under my skin.
It doesn’t work. As soon as I turn off the jet, I start to shiver. A deep-freeze from inside my marrow. I’m rattling.
I dry off before finding some clean Calvin Klein pyjamas in the wardrobe. I don’t have a brush – I think about calling Marcus to bring me one but decide against it – so I towel off my hair as best as I can and comb it with my fingers.
I’m having a cigarette (Nik left me the whole pack) cross-legged on the bed when there’s a knock at the door. ‘Miss Volkov, it’s Dr Goldstein.’
I let him in.
‘Is it Volkov or Volkova?’
‘Just Volkov.’ My name actually is Alexandria Volkova, but we never use it. The gendered names thing only confuses English people, and it benefits Mummy and I to have the same name as Daddy.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like shit.’ I cross to the sofa and sit down, my limbs on backwards. The shower hasn’t helped; I’m itching all over. Ants tunnel just under my skin. Worse, I’m starting to feel nauseous, a sour milk taste on my tongue.
Goldstein pulls out the desk chair. I see he’s carrying a pharmacy bag and it’s all I can do not to tear it out of his hands. ‘A couple of questions first. When did you last use, Lexi?’
Use makes me sound like a user. I roll my eyes. ‘God, is that what we’re doing?’
‘The most important thing, before we can do any real work, is to detox your system. While there are drugs in your body, that’s all you’ll be able to think about.’
I try to laugh it off, all the while thinking only about drugs. ‘Dr Goldstein! This is all a huge mistake,’ I say, jaw clenching up like I’ve boshed about twelve pills. ‘I’m not a heroin addict. I only ever use a bit of brown to mellow at the end of the night if I’ve done MDMA or coke.’
He doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Do you think that’s normal behaviour for a seventeen-year-old?’
I shrug. ‘Yes. Like, if you’re on a big night, yeah.’
‘Lexi, it really isn’t. Listen. At the Clarity Centre, we operate on a specially adapted Ten Steps programme . . .’
Big surprise there.
‘And the first step is admitting you have a problem.’
‘But I don’t have a problem! It’s not like I’m a homeless junkie selling blow jobs for crack or some shit, is it?’ My spine hurts and I shift on the sofa, trying to get comfortable.
‘When did you last use?’ he repeats.
I sigh. Play the game and I’ll get out sooner. ‘Last night. About one in the morning . . .’
Fashion Week isn’t about the shows – although some still are worth showing up for, and it’s always amusing to see the bloggers try to outdo each other in the crazy fancy dress stakes (oooh you’re wearing a Wendy house, how innovative, how Fashion Week). No, it’s about the parties.
Burdock & Rasputin had their party at the Shoreditch hotel. Y’know, my dad owns V Hotels? Yeah.
I wore Mui Mui and some Jimmy Choo boots with a vintage faux fur. I thought it’d be tacky to wear Burdock & Rasputin to their own party. It was pretty cool. Miguel, our mixologist, created a cocktail to go with the line. It tasted of mouthwash, but in a good way. It was heaving, obviously. Actual A-List too, no reality TV, no girl-group members: Chloe Sevigny, Rihanna, Lupita, Karlie and Gigi. Love Gigi, she’s a doll.
I don’t know why I was surprised, but I forgot Nevada was doing her internship at B&R so of course she was there. Awkward. We sort of collided in the smoking area; no way to avoid each other. ‘Babe!’ I said. It was either that or pretend to be my previously undisclosed identical twin.
‘Lex! I wondered if you’d be here.’ Well, duh – it’s my hotel. Nevada is originally from Hong Kong and was always destined to work in fashion. She wore a gold turban on her geometric bob and an outsize men’s blazer over a sequinned bra and acid-wash Mom jeans. She smokes Djarum Blacks. Insufferable, right? Being your own project must be exhausting.
‘I totally forgot you were doing B&R! How was the show?’ The bass wasn’t as oppressive outside; I didn’t have to shout to be heard.
‘Sick! How are you? You look . . . good.’ I noted a moment of shady hesitation.
‘Yeah, I’m sweet, babes.’ I wanted the exchange to be over.
‘I better get back inside. I’m supposed to be running the official Insta.
’ She paused and stroked my arm. ‘You should come back to school, Lexi. It isn’t the same without you.’
‘Well, duh!’ I smiled.
‘You know, no one blames you—’
‘I know.’ I cut her off.
‘So you’ll come back?’
I couldn’t tell her I wouldn’t be welcomed back to St Agnes with open arms. As far as my friends knew, I dropped out. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I like being free.’
‘So what are you going to do? Work?’
What is with the interrogation? ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll take some time out and think about it.’
Nevada scurried off to hashtag or whatever and I hung out for a while. Fashion Week parties always wind down about ten because everyone killed themselves the night before getting the show ready. The after-party moved on to a tequila bar underneath a Mexican restaurant. I went with some of the models, TT Burdock himself and some hipster asshole who called himself Sylvester The Camera. We did some coke in the Uber. We did more coke and tequila shots at the bar. It was trashy cool – red light bulbs and Day of the Dead skulls. It smelled of chicken fajitas and salt-rimmed margaritas.
Everyone wanted to go home – the bug-eyed models had fittings early the next day – I guess that day – but I was just waking up. I swear I was always meant to be nocturnal. Being awake during the light feels like my head is full of bleach. It’s unnatural and perverse. I crawl out of my coffin at ten p.m. like a vampire.
I had sworn that I wouldn’t call Kurt again unless he called me first. I don’t know why I’m always the one who has to make the first move. But when TT and Sylvester said they’d had enough, there was no way I was going home for cocoa so my resolve flew out the window. I called him.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ even that sounded needy.
‘Babes! Where the fuck are you?’
‘I’m in Hoxton. El Bandito.’
‘Oh, the tequila place? Cool.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Camden.’
‘What you up to? Can I hang?’
‘I’m with Baggy.’ So called because he’s never without a baggy of something. ‘Just waiting for Steve.’ The Dealer. My skin crawled. I hate Steve; he’s a creep.
‘Oh cool. Let’s party. I’m not tired.’
‘Sure. Come over. You got any cash? We owe Steve like two-hundred squid.’
‘What the fuck? As if.’
‘Nothing comes for free, babes.’
‘Whatever. I’m getting an Uber.’
Mustafa arrived in his Prius and took me to some cocktail bar near Camden Lock playing Guns N’ Roses and Metallica non-ironically. It was mostly full of unbuttoned City Boys on Tinder dates, and groups of girlfriends taking advantage of two-for-one mojitos. Kurt and Baggy were already there in a vinyl booth with some suicide doll, all ruby-red collagen lips, Betty Page bangs and liquid liner. ‘Hey,’ I said, sidling in next to Kurt and hating myself a little bit.
‘That was quick.’ He kissed me on the lips and draped a tattooed arm over my shoulder. I nestled against him. ‘Lexi, this is Kitty Amour.’
‘Hey.’ She was stoned off her tits already, slumped against Baggy. She held out a limp hand with red talon nails and I shook it. One set of false lashes were coming unglued so she looked like she had a lazy eye.
‘What are we drinking?’ I asked.
‘Hemingway daiquiris,’ Baggy explained. He’s a funny one. He’s not conventionally attractive – in fact he’s distinctly toad-like – but always has some girl on the go. It could be, of course, that his dad owns a football club. Kitty Amour (her real name, I’m sure) is the latest in a long line.
‘Cool,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the next round.’
Steve The Dealer arrived as I got back with the drinks. I gave Kurt the cash we owed him and the two guys went to the gents in staggered trips: Steve first, then Kurt. Steve swished past our table with a wink before leaving the bar for good. Kurt came back to the table a minute later. ‘OK. Let’s finish up and get out of here, yeah?’
He was twitchy – I guessed he must really need a bump. I was still a little high from the coke at the club so wasn’t feeling it so bad. Also, I’d had a cheeky diazepam while I was getting ready at the hotel.
For now, Kurt was staying on a family friend’s sofa – some lawyer and his fiancé – so we took another Uber back to the hotel on the river in Vauxhall. That’s where me and Nikolai live most of the time, because it’s the biggest. We have a whole floor to ourselves when Daddy is away. Which he usually is.
While Kurt, Baggy and Kitty (that limpet wasn’t going anywhere) waited in the lobby next to the fountain, I went to the office and booked us into one of the penthouse suites. There’s usually one empty, and we keep one reserved at all times for the Prince of Oman or something, so that’s nearly always free. I took a key card and we headed on up in the glass elevator.
Our hotel is world class. Like, not the sort of place you’ll ever find on lastminute.com. The penthouse suite overlooks the Thames for miles. You can see the Shard and the London Eye in one direction, Battersea Power Station in the other. I opened the balcony doors and the curtains billowed. It wasn’t too cold. I hooked up my phone to the Bluetooth speakers – something to chill to.
I’ve been to New York, LA, Dubai, Hong Kong, Moscow, Paris and Tokyo, but there’s something about London. It’s got dirt under its nails, British teeth and a permanent resting bitch face. The people, the clubs, the fashion, the traffic, the weather. London gives zero fucks, has zero chill, and I love it.
As soon as we were in the room, Kurt rolled up a plaid sleeve and slipped his belt around his bicep. I was drunk, dancing to the music. I think it was The Weeknd, I’m not sure. It was that thing when you’re drunk and you think you’re ten times sexier than you really are. I kicked my boots off, swaying to the beat, teasing the hem of my dress up. ‘Lex, you’re killing me, girl!’ Baggy mimed stuffing a fist in his mouth. ‘Hot as hell, man!’
Kurt was focused only on finding a vein, so I continued to put on my show for Baggy. I tossed my hair over my head and beckoned Kitty over with a single finger. She knew where I was coming from and we danced close, grinding our hips together. My lips found hers and we kissed. Girls’ lips are so subtly different: plumper, softer.
I’m not a lesbian, or even bi, it’s just sometimes fun to fool around with hot girls and guys think it’s the best thing ever. When I pulled away from Kitty, Baggy was fumbling with his crotch like he might be about to have both kinds of stroke.
There was a warming, familiar vinegary smell as Kurt cooked the heroin on a spoon. It’s cute. He has a favourite spoon. It goes everywhere with him. I call it Spoony. He dipped the syringe in the bubbling brown liquid and drew the plunger out with his teeth.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Me first.’ He started to protest until I reminded him who theoretically paid for it. I took myself over to the chaise longue and reclined, arching my back. ‘Do I look like Cleopatra?’
‘I’m not sure Cleopatra was a white girl with blonde hair,’ he replied, irritably.
He crawled over and tugged on my arm. He slapped my forearm a few times, trying to pop the veins. I don’t really like slamming – I’d rather smoke it or do a pill – but this way you get the high ten times faster. You can feel it swimming through your veins like glitter. The light flows to your fingers and toes. It’s toasty and warm. It’s liquid gold.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Tell me you love me.’
He looked right into my eyes. He has gorgeous grey-blue eyes and deadly serious black eyebrows. ‘You’re a pain in my ass,’ he said. ‘But I fucking love you.’
I gave him a proper kiss. He tasted of daiquiris. There was a sharp scratch as the needle slid in my vein. ‘Not too much,’ I told him, already feeling it swim up my arm.
I don’t do brown so often that I don’t feel the high any more. As it washed through my body, I felt tingly all over. I sparkled like champagne. I looked out of the big windows and saw the lights of Lon
don twinkling. Strawberry crème on the inside, just for a minute. All the lights, they looked like fireflies and they pulsed like a heartbeat around me.
It was like sinking into a hot bubble bath.
It was an embrace.
It was . . .
Dr Goldstein jots something down on his clipboard. ‘And that was when you passed out?’
Passed out is so undignified, but . . . ‘I guess so. But like I said . . . it’s probably Kurt’s fault. I told him not to give me too much.’ I feel really sick now. Like I might be sick. I need to get near a toilet.
‘And, to clarify, in the last twenty-four hours you’ve taken diazepam, cocaine and heroin?’
I shrug. I’m shivering now, grinding my teeth, and it’s only going to get worse. ‘Well . . . yeah. Look, when you put it like that . . .’
He writes something else and then clicks his ballpoint shut. ‘OK, Lexi. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m prescribing you Suboxone to help you come off the opiates you’ve been taking. It’s a mixture of two drugs – one to replace the opiates, and one to help with the side effects of withdrawal.’
Thank god for that. I thought for a horrible moment they were going to make me go cold turkey. And I’m glad it’s not methadone because that’s for homeless skagheads. ‘OK. How long do I have to take that for?’
‘The Detox Stage usually lasts about a fortnight. We’ll reduce the dosage of Suboxone daily to wean you off. I won’t lie to you, Lexi – it’s not going to be pleasant. When was the last time you went a day without taking an opiate . . . heroin, Oxycontin, Vicodin or tramadol?’
I honestly don’t know. I don’t really think about it any more. Not since . . . well. I shrug again.
‘As they say . . . no pain, no gain. Believe me when I say, it’s going to hurt, but it’ll be worth it.’
I hold out a sweaty palm for the pills and scowl. ‘Hon, I’ve had a hangover before.’
I’m dying.
I am dying.
I can’t take it.
Get me the hell out of here.
