by Juno Dawson
He grins up at me, already halfway down the stone steps. ‘It’s not a bar. Come on.’
I follow him into the murk. We step into a little studio space. For a second I think he’s brought me to amateur theatre and try to flee, but then I see everyone is milling around with cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups and there’s a queue for a tea urn. ‘Nik . . .?’
‘It’s an NA meeting,’ he says. ‘I downloaded an app that tells you where the nearest meetings are. There were loads, I just picked this one because it started at seven.’
I start to panic. ‘Nik!’
‘It’s fine! You don’t even have to say anything, and I’m allowed to stay. I figured it’ll help me help you. Please? Stay?’
I roll my eyes. To be fair, Goldstein had suggested NA meetings before I left the centre. ‘OK. Whatever.’
Chairs are set out in a circle. I get a cup of coffee and wait for the meeting to start. No one asks for my name and no one takes a register, thank god. One can only hope they don’t think anyone would be vain enough to wear a designer T-shirt with their own name emblazoned on it.
There doesn’t seem to be a leader as such, but one woman – with a frizzy perm and deep tan – kicks things off by asking if anyone would like to speak. There’s an awful silence before a handsome guy offers a hand.
‘I’ll go, thanks, Debs.’ He doesn’t stand up. ‘My name’s Ian and I’m an addict. I’m gay . . . I’m a primary school teacher, but I’ve always been up for a night out on a Saturday – XXL or Brut or whatever. I honestly can’t remember when I first tried crystal meth – it just sort of felt like something everyone was doing . . .’
He finishes his story and then a younger black guy speaks. ‘. . . It got to the stage where I just wasn’t going to lectures, you know? I was just staying in halls getting mashed on skunk . . .’
Then a woman in her early twenties with lots of hair extensions and collagen lips. ‘. . . I just didn’t know what else to do. I could either sell sex to pay him or I thought he would kill me . . . I really thought he would kill me . . .’
And another young woman. She looks outwardly, well, respectable, except a notable chunk is missing from her nostril. ‘I would honestly get into the office and do a line of coke in the toilet before I could even start the day. And I wasn’t the only one, it was just the culture of the place . . .’
It goes on and on. Drugs, addiction, illness just ruining, decimating, lives. Some people have lost everything, some people got out just in time. I hope I’m in the latter camp. I get now why Goldstein wanted me to come to a meeting. I’m the youngest person here and I’m looking at a gallery of possible futures.
One woman’s face is ravaged by meth, her face hollow, teeth crumbling, scabby sores. I cry, because I don’t see any way back for her.
That’s not going to be me.
I’ve been back about a month when Kendall has an appointment at the Tavistock Clinic so we arrange to have lunch at the Garrison on Bermondsey Street. I count down the days until I can see her. I’m starving for company. Since I got back, I’ve only seen Nevada and that was for dinner at the hotel. Safer that way. Fo, thank god, has gone on a US tour and they’ve decided to call it quits for now.
I’m early for lunch so I nurse a Perrier and read The Bloody Chamber. Kendall breezes in, wearing a nautical summer dress and red-rimmed Lolita shades. She too has had a few inches lopped off her hair and some caramel highlights. She looks amazing and I tell her so as I greet her with air kisses.
‘Thank you!’ she says. ‘I love your hair!’
‘Thanks! How are you? How was the appointment?’
‘Good! Really good in fact.’
‘Yeah?’ I sit down and fan myself with the menu. It’s almost thirty degrees out.
Kendall leans in. ‘They said that if I can maintain a healthy weight over the next six months, they’ll refer me for my surgery.’
‘You mean . . .?’
‘Yep! Finally getting my very own vag!’ The diners at the next table look over in horror, but I couldn’t give two shits. ‘About time too!’
We both order squid and chorizo salads – perfect for this weather. ‘How are you getting on?’ I ask, nodding at the salad.
She shrugs. ‘It’s funny. I realised it’s not about food.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s about me and my body. Hormones and stuff . . . everything was out of my control. Couldn’t control two lots of puberty, but I could control calories. I think I was just supremely anxious about everything, but it was easier to pretend it was about food. I have to keep reminding myself that food isn’t the enemy – I am. But this is more important, you know? I’ve worked so hard to be a woman, I don’t want to be a dead one.’
I nod. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘Not really. You take your baggage with you, right? I have all the same issues that Liam did.’ She’s never told me her pre-trans name before. ‘You know how a stick of rock has writing through the middle? At my core, I’ve always been exactly the same person. The transition isn’t me, and neither is anorexia.’
I say no more, picking a bit of chorizo out of some rocket.
‘Like you. Sure, you’ve gone through some stuff, but you’ll always be Lexi Volkov.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem.’
‘Shut up. Look at you. I remember them dragging you out of the car and into the house.’
‘Don’t! Not my finest moment.’
She sips her Diet Coke through a paper straw. I know they’re environmentally friendly, but the feel of soggy paper on my lips turns my stomach. ‘What are you going to do about Brady?’
I frown. ‘Huh?’
‘How are you gonna find him?’
‘I’m not,’ I say, giving up on my lunch. I’m suddenly not hungry. ‘He doesn’t want to be found.’
‘OK.’ She finishes her Coke with a slurp.
‘Kendall . . .?’
‘I’m just saying. I wouldn’t give up on that one without a fight.’
‘It’s not that easy. You know it isn’t.’
Kendall reapplies a cherry-red lipstick looking into a compact. ‘Lexi, when I was super ill, I used to tip salt all over my food. Sometimes I’d put a dead fly – seriously, I used to collect fly corpses – or some hair or piece of glass in my soup so I wouldn’t have to eat it.’
‘And?’
‘I’m not saying Brady isn’t riddled with problems, but what if his real issue is that he sabotages his happiness because he doesn’t think he deserves it? Him leaving Clarity – leaving you – was like me ruining my food.’
I hadn’t thought of it like that. ‘You think?’
‘Isn’t that what we were all doing? With the exception of Sasha – because who the hell knows what was going on with her – you, me, Ruby, Brady . . . Saif. None of us thought we deserved good things, so we created bad things.’
I smile. ‘When the fuck did you become The Oracle?’
‘I’ve been to therapy once or twice, bitch.’
We fall silent as a very cute waiter clears our plates. ‘So, what would you do?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I’d do. The important thing here is WWLVD?’
‘Huh?’
‘What Would Lexi Volkov Do?’
After lunch, we walk towards Waterloo along the Southbank, following the Thames. It’s almost aggressively sunny. I wear Dolce sunglasses and smoke. We get iced caramel lattes from a van. My feet sweat in ballet pumps.
We see tourists on the clipper boats, seeing London through selfie sticks. We pass a Latin American couple having a screaming argument outside the Tate Modern. In the end, she throws a strawberry ice cream at his head.
A businessman calls his assistant a cunt about fifty times while pelting past the HMS Belfast. He says if he gets fired, they’re getting fired too.
A bundle of muscles in a tight yellow vest outside the National Theatre is freaking out on the phone to his friend because he had bareback and left it to
o late to get PEP.
A mum loses her shit at a kid because she wandered off to watch the boats. Through the anger I hear the shrill fear in her voice.
An Italian couple are basically having sex on a bench outside the Royal Festival Hall. A group of French students are non-too-subtly taking pictures of them.
On the lawns by the London Eye, a girl comforts her friend. Her boyfriend has got another girl pregnant and he’s leaving her. Over and over, her friend tells her she’s better off without him, but she says she loved him. She holds an engagement ring in her palm.
We don’t really see much of London; we’re too busy watching Londoners.
And that’s when I get it.
All these people.
We aren’t broken.
We’re just alive.
Back at the hotel, I go to the roof gardens. An absolutely stunning gay couple lie side by side on sunloungers, hands held in the middle. They say nothing, soaking up the sun on the poolside. They’re so silently in love it’s noisy.
I want that.
I deserve that.
Not because I’m special, not because of my name or my money or because I’m an addict, just because I’m here.
If we’re not here for love, what are we here for?
I go to the edge of the terrace and look out over London. The sun is starting to set and the sky is tangerine. North: Regent’s Park and Camden Town. The cocktail bar with Kurt and Baggy. East: Shoreditch, Dalston, house parties, heroin. South: that Mexican. The bathroom with Kurt. West: Chelsea, the Aziz mansion. Everywhere I look memories are projected up against the monuments and skyscrapers. I once thought the island was the luxury cage, but I wonder if I was in one long before Nik took me to rehab.
I used to think London was all there was. I thought about living in Manhattan for a while, but always came back to London.
I’m so London.
Goldfish grow to fit the size of their tanks.
But Kendall was once Liam, and look at her now.
You know how a stick of rock has writing through the middle?
You take your baggage with you.
What Would Lexi Volkov Do?
The next morning, I make some calls.
I call Genie and ask for her brother’s number.
I call him and he gives me another number.
That person, Tamara, gives me another number.
Jack tells me I need to speak to Rafe.
‘Hello, is that Rafe? Jack O’Donnell gave me your number. This is Lexi Volkov from the V Hotels group. I hope you can help me. I need to speak with Venus Ardito.’
‘Honey,’ Rafe purrs, ‘no one speaks to Venus.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, honey, you must have misheard me. I’ll say it again. I’m Lexi Volkov.’
I’ve nodded off in the back of the cab. ‘Miss?’ the driver says, and I wake with a start. ‘I think this is the place.’
I peer out the window. Forgetting my mascara, I rub my eyes. ‘Roan Ranch?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Since we left Eagle County Airport, twilight has fallen. Crickets and cicadas chirrup away like a little mariachi band. It’s a sultry night. My bare thighs stick to the leatherette seat. Fireflies swarm around the lanterns that light the long, white-fence-lined driveway leading up to the ranch.
I wind down the window to get a better look. It’s . . . unexpected. It’s so Americana. The middle of nowhere in Middle America. There’s a front porch with crisp columns. A dainty table, with lace tablecloth, awaits afternoon iced tea. To my right is a vast training paddock, stables and, beyond the farmhouse, is a bright red barn from which stars and stripes billow. It all sits in the shadow of a snow-capped mountain. Even looking up at it gives me wobbles.
Remote doesn’t begin to cover it; it takes about five minutes from entering the gates to arriving at the farmhouse. The driver gives a toot on his horn as we pull up. So much for the element of surprise.
Ten hours from Heathrow to Denver, another hour to Eagle County, an hour in the cab. I bet I look fucking amazing. Jesus. Here goes.
I step out of the cab. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ I tell the driver and hand him a hundred bucks.
I’m halfway to the front door, my Converse kicking up the dust, when it opens and Brady, wearing cut-off sweatpants and nothing else, steps on to the porch. His lips part but no noise comes out.
‘Hey,’ I say.
He shakes his head, ever so slightly.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
‘Am I tripping?’ he says finally.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m real.’ I wait where I am between the cab and porch. I don’t want to smother him, scare him away.
‘I like your hair.’
I laugh. ‘It’s gone down a treat.’
Another pause. He pushes his hair off his face. ‘Lex . . . what are you doing here? How did you even . . .?’
‘I spoke to your sister. She’s unexpectedly lovely. She’s super worried about you. She told me you were here.’
‘God, Lex. I’m almost impressed. You couldn’t have called first?’
‘You’d have run.’
He looks at his feet, the very same ones which would have fled given half a warning.
I take a deep breath. ‘Brady, I know coming all this way makes me look batshit crazy, but I had to know. If I’m ever going to sleep sound ever again, I had to know.’
He says nothing. I carry on.
‘You know what? I have lied and lied and lied. I’ve lied to myself and I’ve lied to everyone else. White lies, lies by omission, and outright, brazen, barefaced lies. I lie all the fucking time. But this – you and me – I think it might be real. And if it’s real, we have a shot.’
‘Lexi . . .’
‘A shot in hell is still a shot! Let me finish, please. I’m almost done, I swear. I think. I’m scared. You and me . . . the way I feel scares the shit out of me because it’s real. I get it that you’re scared too, who wouldn’t be? And maybe it’ll go wrong. Maybe it’ll be awful. But what if it’s not? Maybe love is just scary! Brady, what if this is love? What if it’s good?’
A tear runs down his cheek.
‘If you tell me to, I’ll get back in a cab, and catch a ten-hour flight all the way back to London, but at least I tried. I was honest and I will know.’
The crickets play on.
‘OK, Brady, you’re gonna need to say something now, you’re killing me.’
‘I bought a ticket, you know.’
‘What?’
‘It’s in the kitchen. I bought a flight to Heathrow. I was gonna fly to you. I missed you so goddamn much, Lexi. I thought flying to London was a pretty crazy gesture . . .’
I have to smile. ‘In that case, I guess I’m a little crazier than you.’
‘No shit.’
A broad, brilliant smile conquers his face and he steps off the porch. I take that as my cue and tumble towards him. I fall into his arms and he holds me close. I’m gross and I smell, but he’s sweaty too and I don’t care. My face resting against his chest is the actual very best. ‘I love you,’ I whisper.
‘I love you too.’ He kisses me. ‘But Lexi . . . I’m still working on stuff, and . . .’
‘I know. Me too. We always will be, together or apart. But I’d rather do it together, wouldn’t you?’ I pull back and watch his face. ‘Can we start again? Can we leave everything in the past and call this Step One? Let’s strip everything else away and just be who we are in the middle.’
He nods. ‘Yeah. Yeah I think we can do that.’ He kisses my hand. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Brady.’
I smile. ‘I’m Lexi.’
We kiss.
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘does that dude have his meter running? You might wanna let him go . . .’
‘He can wait a second.’
We kiss again under the moon and the mountain.
While that kiss would be the last scene in the film adaptation of my life, the credits didn’t miraculously roll
over the night sky. Is Jennifer Lawrence too old to play me now?
Anyway, life doesn’t stop when you get a boyfriend. I got my ass to America, Brady didn’t send me packing, and all of a sudden I was like, OK WHAT NOW? My plan only stretched that far.
Luckily, I settle quickly into ranch life. The barn at Roan Ranch was where Brady Ardito Senior played his first ever gig. Although it belongs to Brady’s great aunt, she lives in Denver so is letting Brady stay as long as he likes. Alma, a housekeeper, comes up every day but she lives in New Castle town, a few miles away.
For now, I’m staying in a guest bedroom – big four poster bed and chunky rustic beams – but it doesn’t mean we’re not together.
There’s so much to learn. After a few days, it really hits home that I don’t really know Brady all that well and coming here was definitely . . . erm . . . impulsive. I dread to think what Goldstein would say. I feel like I know him on a witchy, deep, spiritual level, but like, what music is Brady into? How does he take his coffee? Moreover, why doesn’t he own a fucking TV? Seriously.
Getting to know these little things has been fun though. We spend the days taking the ponies on hacks into the forests at the base of the mountain. It’s breath-taking. I mean that quite literally: the further you get up the slope, the harder it is to breathe the thin air. Brady has three chestnut mares and one stallion, all absolutely exquisite, none as ill-tempered as Storm.
Brady teaches me how to fish in the river. I do not enjoy it, or appreciate the meditative effects, so like some fifties housewife, he catches the fish and I cook them – just as Denise and Matteusz taught me. Brady is hugely impressed.
Some evenings we drive into New Castle – they have a diner, a steak house, even a drive-through cinema. It’s so retro, I love it. I have now been to an all-American mall. Less Vivienne Westwood and more K-Mart. Hilariously, even though I just turned eighteen, I’m not legally allowed to drink out here so I’m more sober than I’ve ever been.
