Clean Page 4

  I see his name is Gary. ‘Thanks.’ I’m glad I didn’t hallucinate him; he was nice.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I am a bit hungry.’

  ‘Good! That’s a good sign. Heroin totally kills your appetite. It means you’re nearly clean.’

  I don’t feel anything close to ‘clean’.

  ‘What do you fancy, hon?’ He picks up the remote control and presses a button so an interactive screen pops up. He clicks through to today’s menu. I’m dimly impressed.

  ‘I don’t know, just something light. I might still shit it all out.’

  Gary smiles. ‘A distinct possibility, but at least you’ll be shitting out really nice food, eh?’

  ‘I’ll just have minestrone soup, please.’

  ‘Sorted.’

  ‘Don’t suppose I get a little glass of Moët for good behaviour?’

  He laughs. ‘What good behaviour is that?’

  ‘I didn’t try to smash anything today.’

  ‘There’s no alcohol on the whole island, babes. But we do a nice banoffee pie?’

  ‘I’ll pass. But thank you.’

  ‘All part of the service.’

  He returns with my soup about fifteen minutes later and puts it on a bed tray for me. The smell turns my stomach and I think for a second I’m going to vomit, but I wonder if it’s actually my tummy rumbling. There’s a hunk of crusty fresh bread alongside the soup and it smells wonderful, like the hipster artisan bakeries in East London. That reminds me of Kurt, of brunch, of flat whites, of eggs benedict.

  ‘I’ll just sit here,’ Gary perches on the armchair. ‘I’ve got to make sure you don’t choke or spoon yourself to death.’ He gives me a wink. ‘But I’m not gonna stare at you while you eat, promise. What are we watching?’

  ‘Transformers 2. It’s bloody awful.’

  The soup, however, is delicious. It feels warm all the way down.

  More days roll by. I feel defeated, deflated. I can only submit to feeling like crap. Weirdly, the more I eat, the better I feel, and the food coming from the kitchen is always yum: scrambled eggs and avocado; quinoa salad; chicken and kale; apple and spinach smoothies.

  OK, I admit it: I can feel the goodness going in and the crap coming out. I guess I can go back to London and tell everyone I’ve been on a nice juice detox.

  Can I go now?

  Or is the plan to bore the drugs out of me?

  Daytime TV is the worst and if I have to watch any more antique-hunt, property-auction shows I’m going to go legit insane. I spend hours navigating Netflix but finding nothing I can focus on for more than twenty minutes. I’m not so sleepy any more and I’m starting to get restless.

  I think on Day 7 (although who can tell really?) Dr Goldstein comes to my room wheeling a Louis Vuitton suitcase.

  ‘Oh my god! Is that my clothes?’ If I never see another pair of Calvin Klein pyjamas it’ll be too soon.

  ‘It is. Your brother sent them a couple of days ago. We’ve searched the bag, I’m afraid – it’s our policy.’

  I don’t care. I’m too happy to have my things. ‘What about my phone? When do I get that back?’

  Goldstein pauses. ‘We would prefer to hold on to it until you’re further along with your recovery. It’s standard practice for all our patients. Connections to your life in London won’t help you focus, Lexi, believe me.’

  No. No way. ‘I . . . I just want to let my boyfriend know I’m OK.’

  ‘Kurt? I’m sure Nikolai has kept him informed. At this stage, I would strongly advise you to trust me. We usually allow use of phones from about three weeks into treatment – this is for all our patients; it’s nothing personal. Digital detox is just as important as drug detox.’

  A month without Facebook? Sounds quite nice actually. Eating my eggs this morning felt weird: because I didn’t Instagram it before I ate it. ‘Whatever, but I need to speak to Kurt. Just Kurt? Please?’

  He hesitates. ‘We can certainly talk about it. Now . . . Miss Volkov, would you care to get dressed and accompany me on a walk around the grounds?’

  I blink. ‘For real? I can leave my room?’

  ‘I think it’s about time, yes.’

  I don’t need to be asked twice.

  He waits outside while I review my outfit options. Predictably, Nikolai has packed a bizarre mish-mash of clothes – clearly the first things his hand landed on in my wardrobe. Why would I need a D&G cocktail dress in rehab? They don’t even serve cocktails. Regardless, I find some skinny jeans and a vintage Britney Spears tour tank that’ll do. Bless Nik for packing my pewter Manolos, but I think I’ll stick with the Vans the hospital gave me.

  I’ll shower later, so I just shove my post-apocalyptic hair into a knot on my head. I’m so desperate to get outside, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what I look like.

  I let Dr Goldstein back in once I’m dressed and we go to the terrace doors. He pulls back the curtains and I’m almost blinded.

  ‘Wow, that’s bright.’ I rummage in my suitcase and see Nik has tucked some Ray-Bans in the lid section. It’s colder that I thought it would be so I grab a cashmere pashmina too.

  I turn back to the sun and take a tentative step out of the suite. I feel like Bambi learning to walk, unsteady on my legs. I’ve become so used to the funky smell of my suite, the fresh air is like insanely, Nordic-glacier-made-of-mineral-water fresh. ‘Oh god, that’s better.’ Hazy clouds muffle the sun, but it’s still a glorious, crisp morning.

  ‘Welcome back to the world.’

  ‘How long was I in there?’

  ‘Eight days.’

  Shit. ‘Eight days? Wow.’

  He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Beards make men hard to age. I guess about forty, forty-five? ‘Still a long way to go, but you’re almost off opiates. Your dose is next to nothing now. You’ll be clean by this time next week.’

  I say nothing, because there’s nothing to say, but also because I’m still slurping in the fresh air. Clarity must be at the top of a hill because the garden looks down on to the sea and I can still get just a hint of salt and seaweed. The view is spectacular, although I feel about a trillion miles away from home.

  ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ Dr Goldstein says dreamily. ‘I never get bored of that view.’ I mutter an agreement and we stroll around the pool. ‘The pool is heated, and there’s an indoor one in the gym also. There’s even a jacuzzi.’

  ‘Great.’ Doesn’t he know I’ve grown up in hotels my whole life? Shit like that quickly loses its appeal. Trinkets for idiots. Jacuzzis are a bubbling soup of other people’s bodily fluids, frankly.

  It’s pretty here though. Rabbits scurry over the lawn, little white bums flashing as they hop. The grounds are set in a lush pine forest that tumbles all the way down the hillside. God, it really is Alcatraz. Alcatraz with a spa. ‘Does anyone else live on the island? Like normal people?’

  ‘We avoid terms like “normal”, Miss Volkov, but no. It’s a private island. There are small properties, all owned by Lord and Lady Denhulme, that the staff live in.’

  ‘They can’t stay here all the time . . .’

  ‘No. We rotate the staff in shifts. I go to the mainland most weekends, but I quite like living out here. It’s very tranquil.’

  I look at his hand and see he’s not wearing a wedding ring. We walk around the side of the mansion where there’s some modern raised decking. I hear voices and freeze. I don’t know why but I didn’t really think anyone else would be here.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Goldstein says. ‘You don’t have to meet the others yet if you aren’t ready.’

  I don’t intend on staying past a week or so, so what’s the point in getting chummy with the inmates? ‘I look like shit,’ I say – and that’s partly true – but also I don’t know if I have the strength yet. They’re junkies. Or worse: Recovery Junkies. There’s always one at a house party or whatever. They always make grand song-and-dance numbers about how long they’ve been abstinent for
. They’re so pious about it. I’m always like take your Perrier and shove it up your—

  ‘That’s OK. You’ll meet them in Group soon enough.’

  Something to look forward to.

  We follow a path that leads away from the house and down to a beautiful pond with mermaid fountains and lily pads. I chance a look over my shoulder and see some fellow hostages have emerged onto the decking, straining to get a look at me. I wrap the pashmina tighter around me. I don’t kid myself I’m famous, but people sort of know me because of Daddy. I’m sometimes in Hello or The Evening Standard and I get papped if I’m out with Cara or Karlie. This is embarrassing.

  I sneak a look back and see five bodies – I think two boys and three girls – looking down at me. I can’t make out their faces, only shapes. One of the girls is very overweight and black, and another has bright ginger hair, but that’s as much as I can make out from this distance.

  I do note one similarity though. ‘Why are we all so young?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? This facility was set up especially for young adults. There’s no lower age limit but we cut off at twenty-four.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s the way Lady Denhulme wanted it.’

  I guess this lord and lady are the owners. How philanthropic.

  Goldstein continues. ‘I’ve always preferred to work with young people.’

  Paedo. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because rarely have you gone past the point of no return.’ We’re now at the front of the mansion, where Nikolai dropped me off. ‘As I said when you first arrived, we run an abstinence-based programme based loosely on the Twelve Steps often used in recovery programmes, just with two fewer steps. Tell me, Lexi, are you religious?’

  ‘A lot of my shoes are Christian.’

  He looks confused. ‘Ah. Well, a traditional Twelve Steps programme refers to a “Higher Power”. At the Clarity Centre, we just encourage you to think of the bigger picture. Addicts tend to see their addiction as the centre of the universe. Here we think there’s a lot more to life than your next hit. For some people that’s God; for others it’s family, or friends, or even belief in love or nature.’

  That’s what the Scientologists said too. ‘OK. Whatever.’

  He smiles at me. ‘Come on. Let’s go up to my office and take a look at your schedule.’

  ‘Schedule?’

  ‘Therapy, group therapy, activities . . . the hours can go by pretty slowly out here if you don’t have something to do.’

  I follow him up the stone stairs towards the front door. ‘So, like basket weaving?’

  He chuckles. ‘Arts and crafts are certainly an option.’

  ‘Oh goodie.’

  ‘How can one so young be so cynical?’

  ‘Let’s save it for therapy, yeah? I don’t want to give you any spoilers.’ My face contorts into something like a smile for the first time in eight days.

  His office looks precisely as it did before my temper tantrum. I sit in the same seat while he runs me through how my days will be from now on. Apparently I’ll have individual therapy every morning, even if it’s just to check in with him or his colleague, Dr Ahmed, who I’ll meet tomorrow. There will follow group therapy until lunchtime and then our afternoons are free for ‘activities’. I wonder if ‘masturbate in the bath’ counts. The evenings will be ‘structured’, which sends a shiver down my spine, but Dr Goldstein assures me it’s only a mixture of film screenings, games nights and speakers coming to the island to ‘share their recovery stories’.

  ‘Our clients often find evenings are the hardest,’ he explains. ‘That’s when many would traditionally use, so we keep you busy.’

  ‘OK.’ It sounds like hell on earth. Two months of a regime even stricter than St Agnes, and look how well that turned out.

  ‘Bother. My printer is on the blink,’ Goldstein says. ‘Just wait here a moment while I get your schedule from the office.’

  He darts out and the door clicks shut behind him. I wonder if my phone is still in here somewhere. There aren’t any windows to the corridor so I have no idea how long it’ll take him to return. I drum my fingers on my knees.

  Worth a quick look.

  I hop out of my chair and go around to his side of the desk. His desk has four drawers on either side. They’re not locked either. Amateur. The first is full of stationery, the one below that paperwork. I go over to the left and the top drawer contains assorted knick-knacks but also a plastic pharmacy bottle.

  Huh.

  Score.

  My heart flutters up into my throat. Sudden dry-mouth. Oooh, naughty, NAUGHTY thoughts. Inquisitive little fingers, minds of their very own, scurry to the bottle and give it a shake. It rattles.

  The label reads DIAZEPAM 10MG. A pretty strong dosage too. The prescription is in Goldstein’s name.

  I look to the door. The coast is clear. I fumble with the child-proof cap and get it off. There are like five pills. I doubt he’d miss one. I mean, it’s one poxy diazepam – what harm can it do? It’ll just take the edge off. I still feel like I’ve been sucked out with a Dyson through my ass and one little pill isn’t going to fix that, but it might get me through the day.

  It’s just Valium. It isn’t even an opiate.

  With a final glance at the door, I pop a pill and swallow it back. I thrust the bottle back in the drawer and return to my seat about three seconds before the door opens.

  That’s when the minty taste hits me.

  Goldstein stands in the door, disappointment – no, resignation – all over his beardy face.

  What fresh hell is this?

  ‘That was a Tic Tac,’ he says. ‘I was watching you via a video link.’ He points to a tiny, subtle lens hidden high on a bookshelf next to a wise owl ornament.

  Busted as fuck. ‘You set me up.’

  ‘No one asked you to rifle through my desk, Lexi.’ He returns to his seat, calm as a summer cloud. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know! I was looking for my phone!’

  ‘And why did you take the pill?’

  I push myself out of the chair and stomp to the window. I’m so embarrassed, I can’t even look at him. ‘Because it was there.’

  ‘And that’s something you do? Just take prescribed medicines you find lying around in drawers?’

  I don’t know. I don’t know why I did it.

  Why I wanted it.

  But I really, really wanted it.

  I slump down next to the radiator under the window, head in hands. He’s got me. He’s totally caught me red-handed and I am such a twat for falling for something so blatantly obvious. Junkie honey trap.

  ‘Lexi, why did you take that pill?’

  I look up at him through my hands and knotty hair. ‘Because I guess I have a problem,’ I say. ‘Happy now?’

  STEP 2: THE CHOICE TO RECOVER IS MINE TO MAKE

  I smoke a cigarette on one of the sunloungers outside my suite. It’s a pretty dusk, the colour of pink grapefruit juice. Apparently my little breakthrough in Goldstein’s office earned me an unlocked patio door. I see now that my room is part of a modern annex grafted on to the side of the mansion.

  I sigh.

  It’s all so improbable. How can I be ‘an addict’? I’m seventeen years old. I always sort of aspired to a coke problem as I turned thirty, but never this. This is mortifying. When Nik sat me down about six months ago, after . . . well, when he sat me down to lecture me about my behaviour, I thought it was cute in an unnecessarily concerned big brother way. I didn’t realise he saw me. He really saw me. Why didn’t I see it too?

  The crazy part is, I can almost hear a separate little voice, almost identical to my own but not quite telling me I need to score and that Goldstein is a quack.

  Don’t get me wrong, I still feel like twice-baked crap, but I don’t need to score. I just really want to. What’s up with that? I know my body is getting better, I can feel normality is just around the corner, but it’s pretty clear I was topping up with drugs just to
achieve an even keel. I guess that’s what makes an addict an addict.

  If this is how rancid I feel without the pills and stuff, I suppose I have a dependency and that might as well be an addiction. Is there even a difference? I cringe like there’s nails on a blackboard. I shouldn’t have let it, let anything, get the better of me.

  I stub out one cigarette and light another immediately.

  What about Kurt? Does that make him an addict too? I’ve never thought of him that way – we just got high sometimes. It was supposed to be fun. It was fun. It’s not fucking fun now.

  I know, like I KNOW, that Kurt won’t stop using even if I do. And where does that leave me? The shrill-bitch, nagging, sober girlfriend is where. A part of me wonders where the problem is . . . I don’t think anything we were doing affected anyone but us. Maybe it’s only a ‘drug problem’ if you can’t afford them? And I can. It’s not like I have or need a job. Maybe we can carry on the way we were?

  It’s only when we’re high that I truly have Kurt. That’s when he’s most mine. It’s what pins us down together.

  But a voice that sounds a lot like me refuses to be a bitch to the chemicals in my body. I had no clue how much I was using really. I was that metaphorical frog in the pan of boiling water: it got hot so gradually I didn’t realise I was cooking.

  I almost light a third cigarette, but then spare a thought for my lungs.

  I’m weirdly nervous about my first therapy session. I don’t know why; I’ve been seeing therapists since I was fourteen. Daddy was worried about us when Mummy finally left. It had been a long time coming though. I wonder if it’s more the prospect of group therapy that’s bothering me. The prospect of performing some contrite flagellation before total strangers doesn’t exactly fill me with glee.

  I’m feeling a little better, although I have horrific toothache. I’ve been clenching my jaw all through the night. I’m still having messed-up dreams and night-sweats.

  It feels like the first day at school after the holidays and I now have sufficient energy to give a shit what I look like. Being a total boy, Nikolai didn’t think to pack any make-up – or even any moisturiser – so when Joyce comes with my breakfast I ask her if there’s any way I can get my hands on some. Sure enough, when I get out of the shower a little goodie bag from Kiehl’s is waiting on my bed. It’s pretty basic supplies, but it’s better than nothing.