by Juno Dawson
That was when I lost my virginity to him. We went to a spare bedroom, bodies entwined on a pile of coats, and he was right, you know: it was bliss.
‘Anything else?’ I ask. ‘I can go into more detail if you’d like.’
‘I think that’ll suffice,’ Ahmed says.
‘How often did you use after that?’ Goldstein asks, offering me a chocolate digestive, which I refuse.
I shrug. ‘I dunno. Sometimes. At first it was wicked every time. It’s like any drug, though – the very highest highs wear off pretty quickly. Why can’t they do that? Make a drug that feels as amazing as the first time every time?’
‘So . . . occasionally?’
‘Mostly at the end of the night. We’d usually go back to Kurt’s – Daddy doesn’t like boys coming back to the hotel – smoke a little before bed.’
‘Just smoking?’
I squirm. ‘Sometimes we’d take a pill. Like, Baggy would sometimes get hold of Oxy.’
‘And when did you start injecting?’
Embarrassed, I pull my sleeves down over my wrists. ‘Not until later. When smoking it didn’t really get me high any more.’ Slamming is much more efficient. Direct into the bloodstream.
Now, that is pretty shameful actually. Worst part is, I knew that was proper junkie behaviour and I did it anyway. But I don’t know if I’m really selling the high. That’s the thing with drugs. All my life people have told me that ‘drugs are evil’ and ‘drugs are bad’ but I knew they had to be lying because if there was literally nothing good about drugs no one would ever do them. Why can’t we just be honest and say ‘drugs are boss until you almost snuff it, your brother abducts you and you start shitting the bed’?
Or until you look like a living corpse?
Or until you’re sweating pellets?
Or until you basically offer to blow a nurse for a hit?
Or until your best friend . . .
Shut up, head, just shut the fuck up. I know.
Suddenly I don’t feel too good. ‘Can I get a cigarette?’ All of the ones Nikolai left me with are gone.
‘Of course,’ says Goldstein, closing his notebook with a definitive pop. ‘We’re about out of time anyway. Have a break. You can get more cigarettes from the main reception and we’ll both see you for Group at eleven. Before that, do you want some time with your phone?’
It’s so predictable, isn’t it? I rolled over and begged like a good doggy so now I get Scooby Snax. ‘Erm, yes. Thank you.’
He fetches it from the main admin office along with a charger. It’ll have been dead for days. He and Ahmed stand up to leave. They’re trusting me alone with a smartphone?
‘Am I being listened to?’ I say, fumbling with the plug socket.
‘No,’ Goldstein says. He turns back to me as he exits. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes. But be mindful of the people in your life who can get to you, even when there’s a sea between you.’
Thanks, Oprah. I’ll take that into consideration. He leaves and closes the door behind him. The phone comes alive and lights up. I hold my breath as the phone takes what feels like weeks to wake up. The first texts and messages come through. Mummy and Daddy (both generic ‘hope you’re OK’ texts which lead me to believe Nik hasn’t ratted me out. Yet). Nikolai (an apology – and asking me to check in with him as soon as I can). Baggy (clearly dying to know where I am).
No Kurt.
No voicemails.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I dial into my voicemail to check but there’s nothing. Not even a PPI claim robot.
I don’t get it. I’ve been here over a week. You’d think I’d have more messages. Like, I was supposed to see people. I had lunches and a manicure booked in. Last week was the Asperger’s Ball. It was at the hotel. Why hasn’t anyone asked me if I’m sick or something?
But more than any of that, why hasn’t Kurt asked if I’m alive? I resist the urge to go full Naomi and hurl the phone across the room, as that wouldn’t do me much good in the long-run. Instead I dial Nikolai. He answers at once. ‘Hey, Lex?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Have you spoken to Kurt?’
‘What?’
‘I’m not messing around, Nik, just tell me. Have you spoken to Kurt?’
A pause. ‘Yes. I told him if he tried to contact you, I’d rip his nuts off.’
I feel like my nuts have been ripped off. ‘Jesus, Nik.’ I’m winded. ‘I can’t believe you did that. You have no right—’
‘I don’t care, Lex. The guy’s scum. You wouldn’t be in this state if it weren’t for him.’
‘That’s not true,’ I squawk down the phone, although it’s probably (OK definitely) true. ‘Nik. I need to speak to him. You have no idea what it’s been like here. It’s awful! I shit. The. Fucking. Bed.’
He laughs and I can’t help but laugh too, although I’m crying and my nose is running. ‘Good. I think that’s what’s supposed to happen.’
I sniff.
‘Are you off the drugs yet?’ he asks.
‘Almost. I feel like shit.’
There’s another silence. ‘I just want my sister back.’
I don’t really know what to say to that. ‘Has Daddy said anything?’
‘He’s taken Anja to Mauritius for her birthday. He thinks you’re with Mum.’ His gold-digging child-bride must have turned twelve or whatever she is.
‘OK. That’s OK.’ I chew my nail. If I can get through this without Daddy finding out, that’s definitely a bonus. ‘Are you OK?’ I add as an afterthought.
‘Me? I’m fine. I was worried for you, Lexi. I was scared to death. What if you’d . . .? I don’t think I can manage Mum and Dad by myself.’
It’s hard to imagine I died because I did not die. Unless this is purgatory. Actually, that’s disturbingly accurate. Is this where you come when you OD? Eternal rehab? Chilling.
For the first time, I try to picture how I must have looked that night – unconscious and pale in the penthouse. I never meant to scare him, or anyone, like that. Ms Grafton’s barn owl schoolmarm tones echo through my head: When will you acknowledge, Miss Volkov, that your actions have consequences?
I always knew they had consequences. I just thought I was the only one they affected. And I’m fair game.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say in a very little voice. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
He pauses. I guess it’s been a long time since I apologised to anyone, for anything. ‘Well, you did. You scared the shit out of me.’
We say bye and I check the other messages. Mummy asks how I am and is then sniffy when I haven’t replied. I do so now and tell her my phone was stolen by Muslim immigrants outside Clapham Junction. This plays gloriously into about nine of her prejudices. Daddy has sent a selfie of him and Anja – wearing a standard issue dial-a-bride gold bikini – on some white sand beach. I hope she gets swallowed by a shark even more vicious than she is.
Baggy wants to know if I’m OK. He’s a sweet boy. I tell him I’m fine but give no details as to my whereabouts. I don’t trust him to not blab. Even sweet boys have their price, and I have no desire to be a Mail on Sunday exclusive.
I take a deep breath and call Kurt. It rings and rings before it goes to a voicemail I’m way too familiar with. ‘It’s Kurt. Leave a message.’
‘Hello. It’s me,’ I say. ‘Shit, I sound like that Adele song. Does that get a laugh? Look, I know what Nikolai said to you and that was bang out of order. I guess, when he saw me . . . he freaked out. But I’m fine now. I’m at a clinic. It’s probably not a bad thing to have a detox or whatever and I’ll see you soon.’ Do I say it or not? Fuck it. ‘I love you. Call me, OK? They let me check my phone every day.’ I hang up. God, I hope he’s OK. It sounds mental, but he’s not as tough as he looks and London can be a soul-sucking vampire leech.
He needs someone.
He needs me.
I inhale two cigarettes back-to-back on the communal decked terrace.
It’s fucking freezing, but I’m trying to put off meeting the other fuck-ups for as long as possible ahead of Group. I suppose it’s better to get it over and done with; rip off the plaster. As I light my third cigarette, I’m joined by a very posh boy. I can tell he’s posh before he even opens his mouth. He’s got that inexplicable floppy posh-boy Boris haircut and his collar is turned up. They always look a little like confused hedgehogs coming out of hibernation.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I’m Guy.’
Plum firmly in mouth. ‘Double barrel surname?’
He scrunches his pedigree face. ‘That obvious? Samson-Reed.’
I shake his hand. He looks about my age, but it’s harder to tell with boys. ‘Sorry. That was rude. I’m . . .’
‘Alexandria Volkov. I thought I recognised you earlier when you were with Goldstein.’
Great. ‘Great,’ I say. ‘So much for going under the radar. But call me Lexi. Have we met?’
‘No.’ He lights his own cigarette. ‘I think you might know my sister. She graduated from St Aggy’s two years ago. Clarissa? Clarissa Samson-Reed?’
It doesn’t ring a bell. I shrug.
‘You are a St Agnes girl though, right?’
‘I was. Not any more.’
‘Were you there last year when that girl died?’
‘No,’ I say.
There’s an awkward silence as we both smoke. I wonder if the first rule of rehab is no one talks about rehab. I suspect he’s dying to ask ‘what I’m in for’ but I wouldn’t want to give away any hints before Group. ‘What are you smoking?’ he asks.
Ah, two smokers will always have something to talk about. ‘Marlboro Lights.’
‘Cool. I like Camel.’
‘Hardcore.’
‘I know. Terrible habit. But they say if you stop before you’re thirty, your body miraculously heals itself or something.’
‘Who says that?’
‘Smokers, one would imagine.’
I nod and stub my cigarette out.
‘Don’t be nervous about Group. It’s not that bad, I promise.’
I think I am a little bit nervous. Even talking to Guy feels weird, like I’m learning to interact again; like some sad terrier that’s been kept in a shed too long. At this stage I might bite. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them, including – especially – the doctors. ‘Cool,’ I say.
‘Come on, I’ll show you the way.’ He stubs out his cigarette and leads the way. Only then, as we arrive at the door, does he turn back to the ashtray attached to the railing. He checks something, then walks past me to the door again, then goes back again to check the ashtray. ‘Sorry,’ he says, and this time he walks through the door and I follow him inside.
Oh yeah, just for a second I forgot everyone here is broken.
Group is held in a different room in the old part of the house, possibly a dining room, library or billiard room at some point. This house is a life-size Cluedo board. There’s a handsome fireplace, in which a low flame crackles, and two big windows looking out over the lawn. Vaguely arranged around the fireplace and coffee table are three sleek grey sofas and two armchairs.
Guy and I are the first inmates to arrive, although Goldstein hovers at the fireplace. I want to sit alone, so select an armchair and tuck my feet under my butt.
‘Relax,’ Goldstein tells me. ‘You’re not going to be forced to talk if you don’t want to – I’ll ask you to introduce yourself. That’s all.’
I nod. I can manage that. I can’t deny I’m curious to see who I’m locked up with.
The others arrive in a noisy clump, spilling through the door like a human clot. There’s four of them. Three girls and a guy. I see him first: surfie hair, wet sand colour, stubble, Malibu tan. Vice magazine masturbation material . . . just utterly East London gorgeous. He looks my way and gives a polite nod. He has Ryan Gosling eyes that I expect cause knickers to spontaneously drop with one glance. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt and his left arm is covered in tattoos. That reminds me of Kurt and I get an ache under my ribs. I return his nod.
Behind him is the massive black girl. Christ, she’s big. God, I’m such a judgey bitch. I avert my eyes so she doesn’t catch me staring, although not until after I clock her expensive weave and diamond-flecked Rolex.
The second girl comes through the door backwards – shouting something to a nurse down the corridor – and I sit up straighter in my chair. I do a double take, sucking breath in through my teeth.
Antonella.
Just for a second, I swear it’s her: same dead straight raven-black hair, same waifish build. But then she turns around and I see, although they’re similar, this girl isn’t quite as gorgeous. This girl is tall, painfully thin and gangly – collarbones, cheekbones, wrists and knuckles. Her friend – they’re linked arm-in-arm – is a booby red head.
They settle in their seats. I wait quietly, avoiding eye-contact.
‘Let’s get started then, shall we?’ Goldstein asks.
‘Where’s Samia?’ asks the tall skinny one. As she tucks her hair behind her ears, I see a ladder of shiny silver scars on her wrist. A cutter, but a cutter a long time ago, I’m guessing.
‘We’re expecting a new arrival,’ he explains. ‘Dr Ahmed is going to greet him.’
‘Ooh a new boy!’ says the red head with a clap. ‘I hope he’s cute.’
Simpering moron. We’re all so young. It could so easily be a seminar group at school, but it isn’t. I really, really don’t need an hour of group hugs and Kumbaya.
Excruciating.
I wish I were high.
I want to get obliterated, to blast my head out of reality and reality out of my head.
The desire, the thirst, shocks me a little. I sit up straighter.
Goldstein sits next to the big girl on one of the sofas. ‘So it’s our first Group with Lexi.’ He says in a cotton-wool voice, like introducing a timid new puppy to infants. ‘Before we get started, Lexi, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?’
It takes everything I have to not simply scream and throw myself through the window pane. It’s really hard to Be Nice when you’re just fundamentally not. ‘Hi, I’m Lexi. I was basically abducted and brought here in a coma.’
The skinny girl smiles slyly. The hot guy looks at me with pity in those puppy eyes. Oh well, you can fuck right off, mate. I doubt you’re here for addiction to prayer. ‘Apparently I’m a heroin addict,’ I say, more bitterly than even I’d intended. ‘So there you go. You can stop trying to figure it out.’
The skinny girl’s smile broadens. ‘Wow. Rock and roll.’
Huh. Interesting. I think she might be trans. It’s in the voice. Strong jawline.
‘Kendall,’ warns Goldstein. (Make-believe name. Definitely trans.) ‘It’s not your turn to speak.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’m done.’
‘Very well. In that case, as it’s your final Group, Melissa, why don’t you start us off?’
The red head nods. ‘By the way, before I start, can everyone keep looking for my silver locket? I can’t find it anywhere. I don’t wanna leave without it. It didn’t cost much, but it was my grandmother’s . . .’
Goldstein nods. ‘We’ll do a search this afternoon, I promise. So! It’s your last day at Clarity. How are you feeling?’
‘I dunno. Good, I guess. Nervous. I’d be happier if we found my locket!’
‘Why nervous?’
‘It feels like I’ve been here for ever.’ Too bloody right, hon. ‘I’m just worried the world has changed while I’ve been away. Like, I won’t know how to function any more.’
Goldstein leans forward and nods. ‘Perfectly understandable and something I’d say nearly all of our patients go through. There is something very safe about institutions. What did you observe on your home visit?’
Melissa shrugs. ‘Mum and Dad didn’t really let me out of their sight, so it was hard to tell, you know what I mean? And I knew I was coming back.’
‘Did you f
ace temptation?’
I bristle at the quasi-religious flavour of that word. You don’t face temptation, you face life. Life is full of nice things that are bad for us. Temptation is just a fancy word for wanting them. It’s the same as ‘demons’. The first time someone says I have ‘demons’ I’m out of here. I don’t need an exorcist. I need a drink.
‘I wouldn’t have drunk at home anyway. I definitely didn’t want to go out and get drunk.’
‘Good. That’s good.’
‘Like, I know I’m going to want to drink. Probably in a few weeks when the novelty’s worn off and I’m not expecting it.’
‘And what will you do when that happens?’
‘I can’t avoid alcohol for ever. It’s out there, right? I’ll have to explain I’m sober now. If they’re truly my friends, they’ll understand.’ It all feels so scripted. I think that’s what therapy is. It doesn’t change your behaviour, but it gives you a vocabulary to discuss how screwed up you are: therapese.
‘Honesty. It’s so important.’ Goldstein nods. ‘To be honest with yourself and with other people.’
‘This is for ever. I have to exist in a world with booze everywhere. I hope I don’t relapse . . .’
‘But if you do?’
‘I know I can stop. I know I’m better now. I know I’m stronger than drink.’
Goldstein makes us clap like performing seals. I half expect him to reveal a bucket filled with slimy whitebait to reward us.
He opens the floor for comments. ‘How do you respond to that Ruby?’
‘I mean, how is that supposed to work for me?’ asks the big girl in an American accent. Again, I feel like a thundering bitch for even noticing her size. Like, I couldn’t give two shits if someone is overweight to be honest – god, I wish I had more tits and ass – but this girl can’t be healthy. Watching her move, it’s like her body’s holding her back somehow. I’m not disgusted. I’m sort of sad for her. Is that the PC way to feel? Who the fuck knows. ‘What am I meant to do? Avoid food for the rest of my life?’
