by Juno Dawson
I select the skinny jeans again, this time pairing them with a retro Miami Dolphins sweater I love. It’s about twenty sizes too big and slopes off my left shoulder. I braid my hair into a messy plait and note my roots are coming through at pace. My natural hair colour is muddy-puddle-brown and I’ve been dying it since I was about eleven. I sometimes forget I’m not an actual blonde. I wonder if the five-star treatment stretches to root touch-ups?
After room-service breakfast, I head to Goldstein’s office for my individual session.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ he offers, fussing around with his notes as he shows me in. He’s rearranged the corner of the office: three armchairs circle a coffee table on a shaggy rug, removing the desk-shaped barrier between us.
‘Coffee, please,’ I say, hoping it’ll kick-start my brain. I take one of the seats and wonder if it’s a psychometric test . . . like, what does taking the left seat really say about my personality? In this case, it means ‘from this position, Lexi can stare out of the window because she thinks therapy is for bed-wetters’.
Goldstein sorts the coffee as we’re joined by a super-stylish Asian woman with her hijab tucked into what appears to be a Burberry trenchcoat. ‘I am so sorry I’m late. Ferry didn’t leave on time.’
‘Not a problem,’ Goldstein says. ‘Lexi Volkov, meet Dr Samia Ahmed, our other lead therapist. Coffee, Samia?’
‘I’ll take mine black, thanks, Isaac. Nice to meet you, Lexi. How are you settling in?’
Is she for real? ‘Oh, it’s like that time I was at Disneyland Paris.’
‘But with less heroin, I assume?’
I can’t mask a smirk. ‘Marginally.’
‘Do you mind me sitting in?’ she asks. ‘Dr Goldstein is your primary contact so I completely understand if you’d rather work with him alone. I promise I won’t take it personally.’
She has a homely Yorkshire Pudding accent and I quite like her already. Not sure why. I don’t really see what difference it makes whether she’s here or not. ‘I don’t mind,’ I say.
‘Good. I like to get to know all our residents.’ Interesting choice of words. ‘And this way Isaac and I can work together to decide how best to support you.’
‘Whatever.’
Coffee made, Goldstein takes his seat. They both look to me expectantly. It’s Go Time.
I take a deep breath. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Let’s start with the facts. I always think facts are easier than feelings. Why don’t you tell us about the first time you used opiates?’ Goldstein asks.
I smile again. ‘Well, I think I had some codeine after I had my tonsils out . . .’
‘Recreationally?’
This is going to hurt, isn’t it? Fuck it. It’s not like I didn’t know this was coming. ‘Well, I suppose if we’re going to talk about that, then I need to start with Kurt . . .’
You hear people talk about love all the time. It’s just flopping out of people’s mouths every minute of the day: I love you, I love this burger, I love my mum, I love my new Balenciaga. Love, love, love, all the goddamn time, right?
I thought I knew what love was. When I was younger, I had a gorgeous Haflinger pony called Pepper and I loved him, I really did; it felt like my heart got bigger the day I got him. But this was something else. I wasn’t ready for it.
We met at a St Agnes party. St Agnes is a fancy girls’ school in Kensington. Think of a slightly more competitive version of The Hunger Games with fewer winners and you’ve probably got it. High Achievers wall-to-wall. I think it was Florentine Harvey-Lenk’s Sweet Sixteen. She’d hired a bar on Clapham High Street and invited about two hundred of her closest friends and family. By day, Clapham is the domain of leafy Boden mummies and their labradoodles, but by night it becomes a cautionary tale of rugby-playing estate agents fingering barely legal girls in neon-lit cocktail-bar doorways. Each bar is punctuated by a different grizzly fried chicken shop.
Luckily for everyone, Florentine’s event was private. Importantly, there were boys there. I was never a boarder, so boys were never especially exotic, but for a lot of girls, a willy in the room was like being dropped in a vat of catnip.
Kurt wasn’t invited, but he was there. He knew the bar owner. He knows all the right people: the door whores, the DJs, the bouncers, the bartenders. He never pays, he glides through the red rope like a ghost.
I was bored shitless and ready to leave. I think I was wearing a midnight blue slip dress and a sheepskin coat. I’d lost Antonella, Nevada and Genevieve: Genie was on Jägerbombs which never ends well and I’m so not the hold-back-hair type. I weaved my way through the crowd – mostly St Agnes girls trying to twerk on boys from St Barnabas. Prosecco-fuelled Drake fans. What price dignity?
And then I saw him, slouched over the end of the bar like silk. Quiff collapsing over black eyes, sleeves rolled almost to the shoulder, skin crawling with mermaids, anchors and krakens. Oh god, you know what? He was my first opium. He was blue smoke curling across the bar, contorting into the shape of a summoning finger. I just knew. I knew as soon as I saw him.
He looked a little older than us – but not by much. Not Sex Offenders Register material. Suddenly, I wasn’t going anywhere. Other girls – basic bitches – were staring at him and whispering oh-so-subtly behind their hands like debutards, so I just walked on over, lion-tamer chill. The only reason to fear boys is if you think you’re unworthy somehow. ‘What are we having?’ I asked.
He looked me up and down, but I was cute AF and knew it. ‘I’m on dirty martinis. Can I get you a cherryade or something?’
‘Adorable.’ I turned to his bartender chum. ‘I’ll have the same – vodka, not gin, two olives.’ He was about to ask for ID so I just handed over my platinum card. Volkov is all the ID I’ve ever needed. He scurried off to mix my drink.
I knew I’d have to play it cool. Kurt is a COOL GUY so I’d have to be a COOL GIRL. No strings, no label tags, no thumbscrews – at least none that he’s aware of.
He glimpsed the name on the card. ‘The Alexandria Volkov? My lucky night.’ He oozed sarcasm.
‘Lexi. And don’t believe everything you read in the diary pages.’
‘I don’t read them full-stop. My little sister wants to be you.’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘You?’
I barked out a laugh. His Playful Banter game was strong. I’m not loveblind; I know part of the appeal was that I didn’t impress him, or if I did, he hid it well. Like, why should people be impressed? I didn’t ask to be born an ‘heiress’. I didn’t work for it; I work with it.
‘Well, you’ve got me there.’ The bartender slid my drink over on the ubiquitous black napkin. ‘Cheers . . .?’
‘Kurt.’ He clinked my glass with his own. ‘Kurt Blakeney.’
I established he’d just graduated from St Martin’s College with a First in Fine Art and Sculpture. His family are somehow related to the royals, through marriage. Dad is a stockbroker, Mum works at Sotheby’s. Grayson Perry handpicked and bought one of his final-year sculptures. Sipping martinis, we talked about South London as the new East London; how sick we were of ‘gourmet’ junk food; Uber versus black cabs; the art scene; closeted gay actors and models we both knew and how reductive that was.
Of course, it was what we didn’t say that was more telling. Underneath the words there was something much more seductive, more suggestive, happening with our eyes and lips.
By the end of the conversation I was hooked. I wanted him like I’d never wanted anyone or anything before, including my alligator Birkin. Full disclosure: I was saving my virginity for Prince Harry, but this was virgin territory. As fate would have it, Daddy was in London and was blowing up my phone asking when I’d be home – he’s weirdly protective for an absent father.
Daddy sent one of the hotel drivers to bring me home. Shameful. Kurt, oddly old-fashioned, offered to walk me to the car. Clapham High Street was in full swing: lads looking to start fights, girls carrying their Primark nude p
umps to the bus stop. I wouldn’t normally do what I did next, but Kurt wasn’t normal.
‘Can I give you my number?’ I asked, breaking my personal rule about making anything resembling a first move.
‘Sure,’ he said, non-committal.
I can tell when I’m being humoured. ‘I’m not what you think I am. I’m not a schoolgirl.’
A thick brow flickered in disbelief. ‘How old are you?’
‘In socialite years? About twenty-eight.’
He laughed. ‘You can hold your booze, I’ll give you that.’
‘I’m Russian. My blood is forty per cent distilled.’
He laughed again and handed me his phone. I typed my number in and gave it back. ‘Well maybe I’ll see you around then,’ he said with a vague smile.
I wasn’t going to beg. ‘Maybe you will.’ I swung my legs into the limo and didn’t look back.
You can only imagine my surprise and delight when I woke up to a message from him. It had come through at four a.m. and said: We should check out that pop-up Mexican in the church.
I’d heard the legend of La Casa de Jesus, a temporary street-food venture in Peckham. It was meant to be amazing, but if you ran to Peckham for every ‘amazing’ pop-up restaurant in a car park, tattoo shop or Portaloo you’d need more than seven days in a week.
Call me names, but I’m not a game-player. I replied as soon I was done hitting the snooze button. Sure. When?
Kurt is nocturnal so I got the reply at about one. Tonight? 9?
And I guess that was where it really began. Is that when I first used? No! That night I wore Balmain and we ate the best quesadillas I’d ever tasted. I would have married one if I could.
‘Don’t you go mental living in a hotel?’ he asked me as he sipped his margarita.
‘I haven’t ever not lived in one, so I wouldn’t know the difference. I mean, it’s pretty clean, but like, who doesn’t have a cleaner?’
‘We don’t have one every day, princess.’
‘Uh, don’t call me that! I know some princesses and they’re either part-pony or bulimic coke fiends.’
He grinned. He has a little chip on his front tooth. I always liked it. Veneers are creepy. ‘And that’s not you?’
I sensed I was being tested. ‘I could never be bulimic. I like my food too much, as you can clearly see, and enjoy digesting it.’ I gestured at my third quesadilla. ‘And coke is only OK if everyone’s doing it, otherwise you’re just the most annoying cunt in the room.’
Using the C word has to be well-timed. I love that there’s still a word in the English language that has any power to shock whatsoever. I’m like, it’s just another word for my bits, you guys, chill out! You know what I think it is? I think guys don’t want girls to have that word, even though it’s ours.
Anyway. His grin broadened to Cheshire Cat proportions and I knew I’d passed. Oh come on, St Martin’s art student with trader father? They probably sprinkle gak on their cornflakes every morning. ‘Such a wise head on such young shoulders.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ I told him with a shake of my head. ‘Like, ever. I make it up as I go along. But Daddy always says life’s too short to not try everything new. I’m only here for, what, sixty good years, and I want to do it all. On my deathbed, I don’t wanna be like, shit I forgot to try absinthe or whatever.’
‘I hear that,’ Kurt said. ‘With that in mind, there’s some things I wanna do with you.’
I looked up at him coyly over my mojito. ‘I’m sure there are.’
‘Wait two minutes and then follow me to the bathroom . . .’
It so wasn’t me, but when I’m with Kurt I’m not me. There’s something red hot between us – a mist, a crazy mist – and when he said ‘follow me’ I did because I couldn’t not.
I counted to one hundred and twenty, put down my napkin and wove through the tables towards the toilets. With every step my heart climbed my ribcage to my throat.
He was waiting for me.
We locked ourselves in the toilet and did a line of coke before we kissed. It was urgent and hungry – animal hands pulling, tearing at each other – but I wasn’t going to go all the way in a lavatory and told him so. ‘I just wanna taste you,’ he said with half-closed eyes. His hands slid into my pants and moved them to one side.
Well, I think you get the picture. It felt . . . singular, like nothing else on earth. I can still remember my heart pounding in my skull and the earthquake that followed. Was it Judy Blume who said an orgasm is like a sneeze in your between-me-down-there? She’s wrong – it’s like the moment just before the sneeze.
Well, OK, yeah, I guess we did use on the first date, but only a cheeky line. The first time I did heroin I didn’t even realise it was heroin.
Sometimes Kurt was like trying to capture smoke in your hands. Sure, he’d always reply when I messaged him, but it was always me that made the first move or, if it wasn’t, I’d get messages like ‘we’re on Primrose Hill – come join us’, when I was away skiing or at school or something. He was impossible. It was sexy as hell.
It’s important to go to charity functions or award ceremonies, especially if V Hotels are a key sponsor. It was the Brit Awards last year. V Hotels were one of the sponsors and had a table. If I recall rightly, Antonella was skiing in St Moritz, so Nevada and I went along because everyone knows limitless free champagne and Brit School try-hards are always a hilarious combo. Either that or some has-been pees themselves or tries to start a fight.
I was sent a whole bunch of dresses but chose McQueen in the end. Ivory ruffles, as light as air and embellished with embroidered butterflies and pearls. Misha XN, the stylist at the Shoreditch hotel, did my hair – taking about three hours to make it look like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. It was plaited and twisted up into a knot, with a haberdashery of jewels, charms, pearls and brooches woven into the curls.
Nevada, who was signed by Models 1 when she was basically an egg – she’s got that Asian/Western mix that’s bang on-trend – wore Marchesa and we huddled for warmth on the red carpet, posing for pictures. Let me tell you, avoiding accidentally being papped next to a reality TV judge or, worse, a YouTuber, is no small feat.
Daddy wasn’t even vaguely interested in attending, so our table was made up of Nikolai, his girlfriend, Tabitha, and some other hotel people.
It was fine – a girl band girl’s boob fell out accidentally-on-purpose, and a number of popstars came out in support of famine in East Africa, five minutes after purging a three-course meal in the toilets.
While an unlikely – but wholly predictable – pairing performed a duet, I checked my phone. There was a message from Kurt. Babes, were you just on TV?
I replied: At Brit Awards. It’s absurd.
We’re in Chelsea, he messaged, come over later.
And so we did. The after-parties get messy and undignified so Nevada and I took a car to the house party. It was actually at Ferdie Brompton-Whyte’s place – you know, the beer heir. Picture a smart townhouse like something from a Richard Curtis film – all window boxes and gleaming mosaic floors. The party was pretty chill, maybe about twenty people. Kurt stuck out like a sore thumb among the collar-up Ralph Lauren and Hackett crowd. Chelsea people always have the wholesome look of a Golden Retriever that’s just bounded in from running in a cornfield. Kurt was hunched in a corner, smoking out of an open window. When he saw me, he looked genuinely pleased and I felt a little jolt of static electricity.
‘Nice dress,’ he said. ‘You look naked.’
‘Who says that isn’t the idea?’
He pulled me in for a hardcore kiss I wasn’t quite expecting. He tasted of Lucky Strikes and Jack Daniel’s.
Nevada returned with two flutes of champers. ‘Kurt, this is my friend Nevada Charles.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Nev said. Kurt just nodded.
We all hung out for a while in the lounge, but it was pretty clear I had competition. Flossy Blenheim is the younger and slig
htly-less-perfect sister of Xenia Blenheim . . . you’ll have seen her in the Dior campaign? Anyway, it was clear Kurt had been invited because she was into his action. She was on him like she’d never even heard of personal space. Oh, she’s OK, just clueless – but I was prepared to fight her for him.
I lost Kurt for a while and I was worried he’d sidled off with Flossy until I found her crying drunkenly on Nightingale Lowe in the wet room. Kurt was in the kitchen with Ferdie and Troy Chang. ‘This shit is the purest,’ Kurt was saying, rolling a spliff. ‘Guaranteed mellow high.’
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘It’s not for you,’ Kurt said definitely, simultaneously throwing down the gauntlet.
‘Oh, grow up. Puff?’
‘Something like that.’
Troy sparked it up and inhaled deeply. His eyes rolled back in his head. ‘Oh shit, that’s good.’ He passed it to Ferdie.
‘Sharing is caring,’ I said.
‘It’s not pot,’ Kurt said with finality.
‘Do I look like I’m troubled by that detail?’
Nevada appeared beside me. ‘Then what is it?’
Ferdie and Troy chuckled like naughty school boys, their faces already glazed. ‘It’s bliss is what it is,’ said Kurt.
‘Lexi, don’t,’ Nevada warned. ‘What if it’s heroin?’
A bit like the word ‘cunt’, I didn’t understand why one drug should be treated any differently to the others. Kurt smirked. I wasn’t backing down. ‘What if it isn’t?’ I took the joint from him and took a drag.
It was like sinking into a hot bubble bath. First I felt the warmth, like my insides were sticky toffee pudding. I won’t lie – just one toke knocked my head off. I was so dizzy the room carouseled around me, everyone else bobbing up and down like fairground horses, wild eyes rolling. I clung to Kurt as we came up, knowing we were experiencing the same rush. I felt closer to him than ever. It’s like we melted into one person.
