by Juno Dawson
‘Kendall?’ Goldstein asks. ‘Anything to add?’
‘What she said. Food is everywhere. It’s all anyone ever talks about. Ever. People are obsessed with it, planning out their lives around where their next meal’s coming from. It’s hideous.’
‘Brady?’ Goldstein says, gesturing at the surfer guy. ‘Any comments?’
He smiles affably. ‘Not today, Doc.’ He’s American too. It’s odd, I’m sure I recognise him, but I can’t quite figure out from where.
He says nothing else, doesn’t give any clues as to what his Issue is. He looks too healthy to be a junkie: teeth too white, tan too golden. I’ll find out soon, I’m sure – like, why would he get a free pass in Group?
‘Very well. I still think what Melissa said is relevant.’ Goldstein makes a steeple with his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. ‘It’s not about pretending our triggers don’t exist – it’s about accepting our relationship with them and making adjustments to protect ourselves.’
I wonder how Kurt and I will manage. He’s my trigger.
Maybe we can compromise. We can still do some stuff, like puff or MDMA, but no brown. No pills. I can’t go through that withdrawal again, that’s for sure.
‘That’s the thing with food,’ Ruby says. ‘Like I don’t even need a drug dealer or ID. There’s a Krispy Kreme on the corner of 3rd and Lexington. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts a block over. McDonalds is twenty-four hours.’
‘Food is easy to get hold of,’ Goldstein says, ‘but believe me – an addict will find a way, whatever their poison is. We have to be very clear: addiction is a loaded gun, make no mistake, but it’s harmless until a hand picks it up. Drink, drugs, food, sex . . . these things are not necessarily harmful in themselves. They are inherently neither good nor bad. In a world where most people sensibly follow their prescriptions, avoid illegal drugs, or maintain a healthy relationship with food and drink, we must deduce that we are the problem. They existed long before we did and they’ll exist long after we’re gone. What we have to deal with here is ourselves and the compulsions we have.’
Compulsion. Another word for want.
All I want is to get away from these freaks.
I’m nothing like these people, these pitiful things.
If I am, then I hope someone puts me out of my misery like squishing a bug underfoot. It’d be kinder.
After a circle-jerk goodbye for Melissa, we head to lunch. It’s my first lunch in the ‘restaurant’ and it’s not as high-school-canteen as I’d feared. It’s sleek and modern, with two circular white tables, each seating eight. Everyone sits together and I can’t very well sit by myself. Guy explains there’s restaurant staff. I guess this is where our money’s going. I admit I’ve probably eaten in worse restaurants.
Today’s options are seafood linguine, cheese and tomato tartlette, or soup. ‘What’s good?’ I ask.
‘It’s all rather tasty,’ Guy tells me, sitting on my right. He seems distracted, checking something back in the corridor. I look but there’s nothing there. He settles, aligning his cutlery before sitting on his hands.
‘It is if you’re not on a goddamn food plan,’ Ruby says, lowering herself on to her seat. ‘I’ll be right over here with my rabbit food.’
I look to Kendall on my left, who seems equally uncomfortable. It seems extra cruel to treat an overeater alongside an anorexic. They must find each other so bewildering.
Brady sits between Ruby and Melissa.
A starched woman with a heavy accent takes our orders. I order the tartlette. Kendall orders soup and Scouse Gary, hovering on the next table, reminds her she needs bread too to fulfil her calorie requirements.
This is how it is: like a Dali painting at a distance, we all seem pretty normal until you look closely. Kendall is now sulking about a bread roll, Ruby pouts at a chicken salad, Guy is still counting something under his breath. There’s only Brady I haven’t sussed out yet.
‘So is Kendall your real name?’ I ask, trying to snap her out of her mood.
‘It is now,’ she mutters.
‘After the model?’
‘Well, it wasn’t after the mint cake,’ she says with a smile. If she weren’t so scarily thin, she’d be quite stunning in a high-fashion way.
‘You’re trans, yeah?’ I don’t know. Is that a question you’re not meant to ask? There was a trans guy at St Agnes and we literally protested on the front lawns to allow him to stay at the school. He remains the first and only boy to have ever attended.
‘Yeah, it’s not a big secret or anything. I’ve been Kendall for, like, four years now, and I knew I was a girl long before that.’
I tell her about Jake, the guy from our school, and she seems impressed.
‘Where are you from?’ I ask.
‘Surrey,’ she says, ‘but I have my treatments in London. I’m going to move there as soon as I can. I wanna be a model.’
She seems almost too frail for London. It’ll snap her.
‘London is pretty cool,’ I say. ‘I guess I take it for granted.’
‘I’m sorry, this is so basic, but I can’t believe I’m actually having lunch with Lexi Volkov. I totally upvoted you on socialite.com.’
I can’t help but smile. She’s so provincial. ‘You didn’t!’
‘I did!’
‘Thanks, I guess! Cringe!’
‘I know. Look, I’m the only trans person in my village . . . I had to create my own fun, and it’s not like I’m gonna bake a cake, is it?’
The food arrives and it’s not bad, although I’m now craving a glass of cabernet like mad. Eating food without a proper drink seems alien. I might not mention that in my session.
I watch Brady pick at his linguine, trying to place his face. I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere, but don’t know if it’s from the scene or the TV. ‘Do I know you?’ I eventually ask.
Ruby bursts out laughing. ‘Busted!’
‘Let’s see if she can work it out!’ Kendall giggles. ‘It took me three whole days.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘Are you famous? Sorry, I’m pretty shit with stuff like that. Are you a popstar or something?’
‘I’m not famous.’ He’s softly spoken. With the hair and stubble and dreamy demeanour, he could be a cult leader. ‘My family are.’
I squint and then the penny drops. ‘Brady . . . you’re not from Brady’s Bunch?’
The rest of the table applauds my accuracy.
‘Guilty as charged,’ he says with a little curl of the lips.
‘You’re Junior?’ Junior was a chubby little thing with acne and jam-jar glasses. That’s why I recognise him! There was this Buzzfeed piece about child stars who grew up to be hot, Neville Longbottom style. ‘Wow, good job, puberty.’
He laughs. ‘Thanks. Only Pop calls me Junior.’
‘No fucking way.’
Brady’s Bunch was a craptacular reality show about Brady Ardito (Sr) who used to be in an eighties hair metal band called The Glasshearts. From what I remember, he was a slurring former alcoholic and his long-suffering former-soap-actress wife, well, suffered. Everyone knows what happened to Venus Ardito – the big sister. She was the breakout star and has like seven albums and a movie under her belt. At the moment she’s in some HBO thing I’m watching on Netflix.
Brady was a kid at the time; he was ‘the nerdy one’. I wonder how old that makes him now. It was on when I was about eight, so I guess he must be nineteen or twenty now.
‘How’s your family?’ I ask.
He plucks a mussel out of its shell and pops it in his mouth. ‘They fully support my choices,’ he says eventually.
‘You’re here willingly?’
‘I am.’ He fixes me in his stare and I feel it acutely in my vagina. He should definitely look into that cult thing. I’d join.
‘What are you going to do this afternoon?’ Kendall asks.
‘What is there to do?’ I ask, keeping it vague. I like Kendall, but I don’t want her latching on to me now that Melissa i
s leaving. Never been a fan of clingfilm friendships. And the fact she looks so much like Antonella . . . well, it’s . . . weird.
‘Girl, you’re in rehab now!’ Ruby says, waving a bit of rocket towards me. ‘What you think you’re gonna do? You weave a motherfucking basket.’
My eyes widen. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Aye, she is,’ Gary butts in.
‘I’m telling you! One time in Arts and Crafts, Janet had us weaving baskets and I was like, hell no.’
‘Ruby, babes, wind your neck in,’ Gary says patiently. ‘Lexi, we’ll talk after lunch about your options.’
‘No, go on. Tell me now,’ I say.
‘There’s a personal trainer,’ Guy says. ‘Brady and I have been training.’
‘He’s insanely hot,’ Kendall adds. ‘His butt is like the peach emoji.’
‘Or, as Ruby said, there’s Arts and Crafts, or we can arrange a tutor for you if you need to continue studies.’
Oh, sweet Jesus. Again, where do I sign up for oblivion? I don’t even want to go back to my room. It feels too much like a cage. I’m irrationally worried they’ll lock me in again.
‘Or there’s the swimming pool or stables,’ Melissa adds absentmindedly.
I rest my fork. ‘Stables? I’ll do that,’ I say instantly, getting major Pepper flashbacks. There – that’s something I can live with. I love horses, and I can get out of this bloody building for a bit.
There’s a sudden commotion beyond the dining room window. Someone screaming. Kendall is the first out of her seat, closely followed by Melissa and Guy. ‘New guy?’ Ruby asks.
Bored more than curious, I join the others at the window. On the driveway is a cavalcade of official-looking Bentleys, all gleaming. An accompanying entourage of bodyguards in Ray-Bans stand next to their cars as a super-glam looking Middle Eastern family gather around a weeping woman in a hijab. Oil money. Like oil, it’s always glossy, always slick. The boynurses drag a brown boy in an expensive suit towards the front doors. He’s the one kicking and screaming.
He looks pathetic, like a well-dressed toddler having a tantrum in Tom Ford. Only this toddler is jaundiced and clammy, clearly in withdrawal from something.
‘Shit, was I like that?’ I mutter under my breath.
‘You were worse,’ Ruby says.
Brady volunteers to take me to the stables and I don’t mind one bit. Not only is he easy on the eye, he’s also the most chill of my fellow inmates, and that suits me. It seems we’re to be trusted. I guess it’s not like there’s any temptation on the whole island. Nikolai only sent my mauve Marc Jacobs biker jacket, but Kendall lends me a scarf and a beanie hat. It’s not quite spring yet.
We walk away from the house down a forest trail. The woodchip is damp and squishy underfoot. It’s a long time since I walked through a forest. The light goes shamrock green and glittery. It’s pretty and it smells – in a good way; all leafy, garlicky and earthy. I breathe in, hold it in my lungs and purge. I wonder if I should smoke less; I feel cloggy.
We used to have weekends away to the New Forest. Mummy and Daddy and Nik and I. Feels like a million years ago – and some other me. There was once a cute little girl, but she was a shell, a shell I was latent in; a larva waiting to hatch inside her body and seize control.
‘So. What are you in for?’ I ask as we stroll downhill. Wow, that sounded more blunt than I thought it might. I try style it out. ‘What? Is it like Fight Club? Aren’t I meant to ask?’
He laughs a little. ‘I don’t mind. I needed to get away.’ He’s in no hurry, kicking through leaves with his hands in pockets. ‘I think it’s safe to say my family have addictive personalities.’
‘What was your weapon of choice?’
‘What wasn’t?’ he says with a sigh. He says no more.
I’m not sure what else to say. ‘What does your dad think? Wasn’t he in rehab for most of the eighties?’
‘I love my parents,’ he says after a pause, not actually answering the question. He snaps a twig off an overhanging branch idly. ‘They always did what they thought was best for us.’
‘This is pretty embarrassing . . . but I saw your sister at the O2 when I was, like, thirteen.’
He laughs. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a massive loser. ‘Who didn’t? She any good?’
‘At the time it was basically a religious experience.’
He laughs louder. ‘I’ll tell her that. She’ll get a kick out of it.’
‘Wow, that’s surreal. You know Venus Ardito. Well, duh, of course you do.’
Why am I babbling? I never babble. ‘What’s she like . . . in real life?’
He shrugs. ‘She’s my big sister. She’s a pain in the ass!’ He doesn’t mean it, I can tell. ‘She works too hard. Way too hard. Like I said, addictive personalities. She’s hooked on fame. I don’t know who’s worse off – her or me.’
About three years ago, Venus dropped the Ardito part professionally, joining the Cher, Madonna, Britney gang of women who require no surname. I wonder why, but don’t ask.
The path cuts down behind a neat, single row of stables and we enter through a back gate. I see a training ring and a mud-splattered four-by-four parked outside. ‘Who lives here?’ I ask, pointing at the cottages next to the stables.
‘Some of the nurses I think. And Elaine. She looks after the horses.’
‘Can you imagine living here? On the island? You’d go mad.’
‘Or maybe, just maybe, you’d go sane,’ Brady says with a Hollywood-white smile.
As we walk around the paddocks, a forty-something woman in jodhpurs with killer cheekbones and strawberry blonde hair brings a foal around on a guide rope. ‘Hello there, Brady,’ she says. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Lexi,’ he says. ‘She’s new.’
‘Nice to meet you, Lexi.’ She holds out a hand and I shake it. ‘I’m Elaine.’
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘She’s very beautiful.’ I stroke the foal’s flank. She’s going to be big someday, but right now she’s all Twiglet legs.
‘This is Clover,’ Elaine says. ‘Isn’t she precious? Are you here for a ride?’
‘Lexi is; I just delivered her.’
‘You aren’t gonna come?’ I ask, slightly disappointed.
‘I promised Rob – the trainer – I’d train. I’ve got a triathlon thing going on with Guy.’
‘OK,’ I’m suddenly nervous. ‘I haven’t ridden in a few years . . . I don’t know if I should . . .’
‘I’ll make sure you’re all right before we let you off, don’t worry,’ Elaine tells me. ‘That’s what I’m here for. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Patty. She’s a doll. And let’s get you some gloves and boots . . .’
‘I’ll see you tonight at dinner,’ Brady says. ‘It’s Melissa’s big farewell meal.’
‘Sure.’ I doubt I’ll go. I don’t know Melissa from Eve. It’s weird.
I follow Elaine and collect some boots, gloves and a helmet. Bits of jigsaw come back to me as if it’s second nature. It’s like my body knows what to do even if my head doesn’t.
Elaine shows me to a stable and I stop dead in my tracks. Patty looks so much like my old Pepper. Same conker brown colouring, same dots on her flank. It’s uncanny.
In the end we sold Pepper. I didn’t pay him enough attention so Daddy said he had to go to a family who’d take better care of him. That thought feels like leeches in my stomach. It wasn’t like he wasn’t looked after – the stable girls doted on him – it was just that I grew out of ponies. It’s not my fault.
It is your fault.
I screw my eyes shut and squeeze the thought from my head.
As soon as I’m in the saddle, I feel at home. As we trot around the ring, it sort of hurts my lady-garden, but that’s all part of the fun. Patty is docile and clearly used to carting junkies around the estate grounds. ‘There you go,’ Elaine shouts from the side of the training ring. ‘You’re a natural, darling. Do you want to take her out for a hack?’
&
nbsp; I’m still terrified I’ll break my neck, but Patty, frankly, seems a little stoned. ‘Why not?’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Elaine opens the gate to let us through. Patty clomps onward, needing only minimal encouragement. I soon realise she must know a route around the island. We stroll off down a well-trodden bridle path, Patty seemingly on autopilot.
I feel a bit nauseous and wonder if it’s more withdrawal fun.
We’ve only be riding about ten minutes when I slide out of the saddle to puke in a bush. God, when will it stop? I climb back on Patty – an enormous effort – and try to focus on deep breaths. I listen to the birds singing and try to take in the forest. A babbling stream runs through it, and I follow it as closely as I can so I don’t get lost. We pass a crumbling ruin of a little . . . brick house thing. Three walls, a fireplace and a bit of a corrugated steel roof remain and I wonder what it used to be. When we were little, Nik used to call huts like these ‘witch houses’ to freak me out. It worked. I think about Nik and miss him. I wonder what he’s doing right now.
Only then I’m pretty sure I see a red squirrel and it snaps me out of the funk. Well, isn’t this wholesome PG-rated fun. I realise I have time. I’m not going anywhere fast, so I might as well relax. I feel my shoulders unclench with an almost-audible snap.
Patty snorts and I give her a rub to reassure her. I wonder if she’s up for a trot and I prompt her to speed up. The wind on my face snaps me out of the nausea. We ride past a little row of twee cottages that I guess house more staff and on to a hillside track that overlooks the beach.
I’m not even gonna lie – it’s stunning. This side of the island is uninterrupted beach, curving like a C between two rocky crops. Gulls swoop and soar, and gentle waves fizz onto the sand. Out here, exposed, it’s even gustier, and I feel like I’m truly being detoxed – rinsed out. I’m two kale smoothies, an avocado and a bit of yoga away from being very ‘lifestyle blog’ right now.
The sun starts to sink. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. I don’t know how long we’ve been walking but I don’t want to kill poor Patty. I take what I sense will be the quickest route back through the forest.
