Amy made her flight to Portugal, even cutting short a visit to Blake to be sure she didn’t miss her plane. According to Raye, she gave a fantastic show to the 90,000-strong crowd. Apparently the audience couldn’t get enough of her. When I spoke to her later that day, she had a sore throat from singing, but she’d loved it and told me she wanted to do more live gigs, which confirmed to me that she was on the road to recovery. This cheered me up, and I rang my son Alex to tell him, then Jane: ‘I’m finishing work early. I’m on my way home. Let’s go out for dinner.’
A couple of days later Blake’s trial started at Snaresbrook County Court; Amy turned up late and left early, but she’d bought an outfit especially for the occasion and looked very smart. She called me late that night and told me how much she still loved Blake. At that stage, she was unaware that our solicitors had received a letter from his, confirming his intention to divorce her. Being the coward that he is, he hadn’t mentioned it to Amy when she saw him before she went to Portugal.
On 6 June we were told that if Blake pleaded guilty he might only serve another eight weeks in prison. He stood in the dock and giggled as he pleaded guilty to inflicting grievous bodily harm and perverting the course of justice. His co-defendant, Michael Brown, pleaded guilty to the same charges. They were both remanded in custody for sentencing at a later date. James King was aquitted of his charge. My heart sank as I left court. I had visions of Amy and Blake tumbling back into the black hole of drug abuse if he was freed. The only solution I could see was to get Amy completely clean over the next two months, but with the constant setbacks, and the drug-dealers, who were always hanging around, that seemed impossible. The following Sunday I had to throw four people I didn’t like the look of out of Amy’s house.
It turned out that I’d been fooling myself in thinking we had two months to go before a problem arose. On Monday, 16 June, Amy had another seizure. By the time I got to Prowse Place Dr Romete was with her. I asked her if the seizure had been brought on by drugs; she didn’t know but wouldn’t rule it out. Amy was in no fit state to ask. She was taken to the London Clinic, where she had lots of tests, but nobody could tell me if she had been taking drugs. I suspected she had, although I decided not to question her. I couldn’t face either of the alternatives: the lie or the truth.
Amy had a comfortable night and the following day she was given Subutex. But Dr Paul Glynne, in charge of Amy’s medical team, told me he was unhappy with the results of Amy’s CT and ECG scans. She had gunk in her lungs and possibly nodules too. The bottom line was, she could die if she didn’t change her lifestyle. It was a stark and shocking diagnosis, but I wasn’t surprised. I wondered how Amy would react to the news.
For at least a year, I’d known that Amy’s recovery wouldn’t be easy, but before the seizure, she’d been on such a good stretch that I had lulled myself into a false sense of security. This diagnosis brought me crashing down to earth. I feared, I suppose, that one day I might have to face the worst outcome of Amy’s addiction; I’d tried to pretend it wasn’t going to happen, that I wouldn’t need to consider it, but here it was. Amy could die from the misuse of drugs, and everything a father could want for their daughter might end with me in tears beside a hospital bed.
To make matters worse, Blake wouldn’t leave me alone: he was calling and texting non-stop. ‘I feel I’m out of the loop,’ one message said. ‘Tough!’ I replied. I was at the end of my tether.
Amy slept through that night, and I was back at the hospital at seven thirty the following morning. At three o’clock she and I saw Dr Romete and Dr Glynne. They were both very blunt: if she continued for one more month in her current lifestyle, she would be dead. Perhaps the seizure had been a blessing in disguise, the doctors said, and I agreed. Maybe it had been the wake-up call Amy needed. She could hear it in no more certain terms than that.
Amy was very frightened. Her hand was shaking when she clasped mine – I’d never seen her so scared before. She assured us that she was off drugs for good. But it wasn’t as simple as that.
The next day Amy felt and looked a lot better. We had a good long chat and covered a lot of ground. We talked about my mum and dad, our favourite Sinatra songs, what colour she should paint the living room in Prowse Place, who in our family made the best cup of tea – that sort of thing. I kept steering the conversation back to her getting clean, but she was smart and kept spotting it. Eventually we were both just laughing. There was further good news when Dr Glynne showed us Amy’s CAT scan results and confirmed there was no need for a biopsy.
Every day after that Amy improved, and on 22 June, six days after her seizure, the doctors allowed her out to rehearse for the forthcoming concert in honour of Nelson Mandela’s ninetieth birthday.
A couple of days later Dr Glynne told us how pleased he was with Amy’s progress. I was thrilled to hear Amy was doing well, but she wasn’t really taking her illness seriously any more. Dr Glynne had emphasized how careful she needed to be with her lungs, but as soon as he left she went out for a cigarette. The next day, she rehearsed again for the Mandela concert, and had too much to drink. There was no talking to her. All she wanted to talk about was Blake and getting him to do rehab at the London Clinic. I told her she must be crazy.
But 27 June was the sort of day that made all of the aggravation and bad times worthwhile… well, almost worthwhile. Amy’s performance at Mandela’s birthday tribute was stunningly brilliant: she looked great, she sounded fantastic and the audience loved her. Most important of all, she enjoyed herself. She didn’t drink or smoke on stage and sang two songs, ‘Rehab’ and ‘Valerie’, then took the lead vocal in the final song, ‘Free Nelson Mandela’. I don’t know how many people noticed that in ‘Free Nelson Mandela’, Amy was singing ‘Free Blakey my fella’. She hadn’t planned it, she said. It had just come to her while she was singing.
But after a fantastic high there’s always a fall, and the very next day I found out Amy had had drugs delivered to the hospital. Before they were taken away from her she had smoked a small amount of heroin. After all of the promises she had made, all of the warnings she had heard, here we were again. I didn’t know how much more I could take – I was devastated.
Perhaps the most difficult thing about loving and helping an addict, which most people who haven’t been through it don’t understand, is this: every day the cycle continues is your new worst day. When looked at from the outside it seems endless, the same thing over and over again; but when you’re living it, it’s like being a hamster on a wheel. Every day there’s the chronic anxiety of waiting for news, the horrible rush when it turns out to be bad, the overwhelming sense of déjà vu – and the knowledge that, despite your best efforts, you’ll probably be here again. Even so-called good days are not without their drawbacks. You enjoy them as much as you can, but in the back of your mind there’s the lurking fear that tomorrow you could be back to square one again, or worse.
For me, this was life with Amy. If I was stopped by someone in the street and they asked how Amy was doing, I knew they wouldn’t understand if I told them what was going on. I’d learned that it’s nearly impossible to explain how this could keep happening. I’d imagined that, as they offered sympathy, they’d be wondering, How can her family let this carry on? Or, Why didn’t they lock her up until she was clean? But unless an addict wants to quit, they’ll find a way to get drugs, and as soon as they leave the rehab facility they’ll pick up where they left off.
Long before Amy was an addict, no one could tell her what to do. Once she became an addict, that stubbornness just got worse. There were times when she wanted to be clean, but the times when she didn’t outnumbered them.
Amy was meant to be playing at the Glastonbury Festival that day and I was surprised when I learned that she had turned up. I watched her performance on television. She started off okay but her voice quickly became very weak and she was drinking on stage. She wasn’t teetering about, as she usually did when she drank, but she was definitely drinking. J
ust before she finished her set, she went down into the crowd. They loved it and she was beaming.
Straight afterwards she was driven back to the London Clinic. We had security guys working shifts to look after her by this time and the next day I took a call from Andrew, on duty at the time: a package was on its way to Amy. I jumped in my cab, headed to the hospital and got there just in time to see a known drug-dealer with a bunch of flowers for Amy. He swore that there were no drugs in the flowers, but Andrew searched the bouquet and found a rock of crack cocaine. The dealer was immediately escorted off the premises. Amy went mad when she found out we’d intercepted the drug. But I no longer trusted her, and I told her as much. ‘You can shout and scream all you want. When you’re at home there’s nothing I can do to stop them coming round, much as I’d like to, but here in the hospital there are doors that can be locked, and security, and I’ll do anything I like to make sure that shit doesn’t get in here.’
Amy was sullen when I’d finished, but she didn’t argue back.
She left the hospital a couple of days later and went back to her home in Prowse Place. I was relieved that she agreed to my idea that she should have live-in security, and the boys took it in turns to be on call, meaning I could relax a little, knowing that someone was with Amy 24/7. I also arranged for a nurse to visit daily to administer the Subutex. ‘No more drugs, Dad,’ Amy promised, yet again, and we were back on the road to recovery. How long for, I had no idea, but I was determined that, no matter how many times Amy came off the rails, I would be there to put her back on. I know how this must look to an outsider: either I was fooling myself, willing to believe Amy time and again, seeking a little false comfort for me and the rest of her family, or I truly thought, each time she declared, ‘No more drugs, Dad’, that she was one small step closer to achieving her drug-free goal. I’ll leave you to decide which.
Andrew and Amy quickly became friends and I trusted him implicitly to care for her, which he did for the rest of her life.
But it wasn’t very long after the security guards had been employed that Amy told me she wanted them removed. That made me realize what a good job they must have been doing in keeping drugs out of the house, but I also had to face the fact that Amy still needed drugs, despite the Subutex.
‘The security is for your own good,’ I told her.
‘Well, I’m fed up with having them hanging about all the time,’ she snapped.
‘Yeah? You better get used to the idea because they’re here to stay.’
The next day Amy called me in a state of excitement to say she was having period pains, which she hadn’t had for ages. This meant her body was starting to recover and one day she might be able to have the babies she desperately wanted. I’d rather she’d discussed it with one of her girlfriends, but it shows how close we were and how much she was confiding in me.
A few days later Amy was due to fly to Madrid for a gig, but she was in a bad way when Raye arrived to pick her up. She was clearly craving drugs and wanted to cancel the gig. After much cajoling from Raye, and some members of the band, Amy changed her mind – and the performance went very well – but Raye was convinced someone who travelled with them to Spain gave Amy drugs. Naturally she denied it.
One of the nurses at home was also concerned that Amy was still taking drugs. I had no idea how she could get them past her security team, but I’d learned that if you’re desperate you’ll find a way. Amy denied it when I confronted her, but Andrew and the nurse, Michelle, raised their eyebrows. Dr Ettlinger examined her that day and he said he doubted she had taken heroin, but he couldn’t rule out cocaine.
I didn’t know what to believe. It felt like it was just one instance after another. I asked Andrew if he knew where Amy could have got drugs. He thought for a moment, then said that someone might have catapulted them over the garden wall, where Amy had picked them up, without anyone knowing. It was shocking the lengths to which people would go to squeeze money out of my daughter.
A few days later Andrew called me mid-morning to say Amy had exploded: she was screaming and shouting and throwing things around the house. He couldn’t quieten her. I arrived ten minutes later and calmed her down. She’d had a terrible row on the phone with Blake and had taken some cocaine. It was clear to me, whatever progress she had made, she still had a very long way to go. When Blake was released from prison the situation seemed likely to get even worse.
Later that month there was a meeting at Dr Ettlinger’s office, with Dr Ettlinger, Dr Tovey, a new member of Amy’s medical team, Raye, Lucian Grainge and myself, to discuss Amy’s progress. When you’re talking about addiction, ‘progress’ is a funny word. Sometimes you measure it day to day, sometimes it’s month to month. Despite the recent setbacks, everyone agreed that Amy had generally been doing well. But Lucian didn’t want Amy to do any more live gigs: he thought it was best for her to concentrate on recording her new album, mostly to get her out of the limelight. The conversation became slightly heated, and Raye nudged me. He asked Lucian for a five-minute break.
The two of us stepped outside. ‘Do you think Lucian’s right?’ I asked Raye
‘Yes, Mitch,’ Raye said, ‘I do think he’s right. She needs the pressure of live gigs taken off her for now. You know how bad she can get – remember Birmingham?’
That did it for me. ‘You’re right. He’s right. Let’s go back in and tell him.’
Amy had a couple of gigs booked and it was decided those would be her last for a bit. They were in Dublin and Glasgow, and she performed brilliantly. I spoke to her after the shows and she sounded fine – she assured me she hadn’t taken any drugs, but admitted she’d had a couple of drinks before going on stage. A couple?
* * *
Then came the day I had been dreading for months: Blake was back in court for sentencing and everyone was convinced it was only a matter of time before he’d be released. Amy didn’t want to go to court: the previous day Georgette had told the News of the World that she feared Amy would reintroduce Blake to drugs. Amy was hurt and didn’t want to see Georgette and Giles.
On 21 July 2008, Judge David Radford sentenced Blake to twenty-seven months in prison for ‘wounding with intent to do grievous bodily harm and perverting the course of justice’. The sentence notes read: ‘The victim, James King, was bullied and offered a £200,000 bribe to drop the assault complaint.’ But after the trial there was some confusion over how much longer Blake would remain in prison. At first we were told he’d be released straight away, as he’d already served 276 days in Pentonville. Then we heard he’d be released around Christmas. Then we were given a release date of 6 September 2009. None of it made much sense and I left the court unsure of where we stood. It was all very confusing, but I was glad to have it confirmed that Blake wasn’t being released yet. I knew it was in Amy’s interest that he should stay behind bars, but I was worried as to how she would take the news.
I drove straight to Prowse Place and discovered that Amy had already heard that Blake wasn’t being released. She wasn’t too bad at first, but after I had been there for five or ten minutes she stood up and said, ‘I don’t want to do today,’ went upstairs to her bedroom and wouldn’t come down. After a while I crept up and peeped round the door. She was curled up on her bed. I inched closer and saw she was asleep with her headphones on. I closed the curtains and left her to rest.
She had a tough couple of days after that, breaking down in tears over ‘poor Blake’. She missed doctors’ appointments and was drinking heavily. I was worried about what lay around the next corner.
Five days after Blake’s date in court, I received an anonymous letter with a Derby postmark:
Dear Mitch,
Can you please get yourself and your drug-addled and disease- ridden daughter out of the media? We are all sick to death of reading about this disgusting woman’s life. Even worse, my children have to look at this scum all the time in the media. You must be a right c**t to have brought her up to turn out like this. Do us all a f
avour and get Auschwitz reopened and then hold a charity concert for as many Jews as you can get in there. If you need any help turning on the showers, please let me know.
Yours Faithfully
A disgusted Englishman
It was repulsive to read and the last thing I needed. I showed it to my solicitor, Brian Spiro, who was shocked. He passed it on to his colleague Angus McBride, who handed the letter to the police. The advice was to wait and let the police take action.
* * *
Amy was asleep when I called her that afternoon, but I spoke to her new PA, Jevan Levy. After the news about Blake, I was still worried about her. I asked him to keep an eye on her and said I’d be over later. Jevan had been checking on Amy every hour and said he would continue to do so until she got up.
It was a hot and sticky night, one of those when one minute it’s dry and the next there’s a storm. I was on my way to Prowse Place. I’d spoken to Jevan again and learned that Amy had got up but gone back to bed. To make matters worse, Alex Foden was in the house. The cab was hot; I switched on the air-con. I arrived at Prowse Place just after seven thirty, fought my way through the paps camped outside – nodding to a few I’d got to know – and found Foden on his way out. Jevan had probably warned him that I was on my way over. I’m always – well, nearly always – polite, so I said hello to Foden, who decided to give me his opinion on Amy’s problems. I told him what he could do with it, and let’s just say he left in a hurry. I was furious. How dare he, one of Amy’s drug buddies, tell me what was best for my daughter?
Jevan calmed me down. He’d been to check on Amy five minutes before I arrived and she was asleep but fine. I asked him to make me a cup of tea while I went upstairs to see her.
Amy, My Daughter Page 16
