by Juno Dawson
‘To your face?’ Brady asks.
‘That and worse,’ she says with a dismissive flick of her French tip nails. ‘Mostly people just stare. There’s this look, this disgusted look. I ain’t paranoid, either, it goes something like this . . .’ She pulls what I’d describe as a stank face. ‘So I ate at night, by myself, when no one could see.’
‘What do you think prompted your family to intervene?’ Dr Ahmed asks.
‘That’s an easy one. I looked too fat in photos. Daddy was embarrassed.’
‘I’m sure there’s more to it than that,’ Dr Ahmed says.
She purses her lips. ‘I’m sure there wasn’t. Can’t have the eminent ex-cardiologist, senator Dr Russell Kidd, looking like a deadbeat dad, can we? What would voters think?’
‘You don’t think they were worried about you?’
‘Daddy worries about appearances. “Eyes on the prize, Ruby my girl.” That’s what he’s always saying. He worries about polls and voter turnout. Work . . . there’s another addiction we never talk about.’
Kendall laughs. ‘What? He’s addicted to workahol?’
‘Kendall,’ Ahmed warns, ‘it’s not your turn. Ruby, I’m sensing a lot of shame today.’
She says nothing for a moment. ‘Look at me,’ she says finally. ‘Just look at me.’
There’s an ugly silence for about a second too long before Ahmed moves us on. ‘Lexi, what are your thoughts on what Ruby’s told us?’
I look around expecting there to be another Lexi behind me. ‘What?’
‘You’ve been very quiet. Part of the process is in talking and reacting to each other.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t think it’s any of my business.’
‘Ruby will have opinions about your recovery.’
‘It’s none of her business.’
‘OK, let me rephrase.’ Ahmed flexes her fingers. ‘What could you learn from Ruby’s experience?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ve never really had an issue with food.’ I shrivel like a freshly salted slug, awkward next to Kendall.
‘Is it about food, though?’ Ahmed swoops in, so clearly proud of the truth bomb she’s about to detonate. ‘Is it about alcohol, or drugs . . . or is it about the compulsion? Ruby? How often do you think about food?’
Ruby shakes her head like it’s obvious. ‘All the goddamn time. It never stops.’
Ahmed turns to me. ‘Does that resonate, Lexi?’
I think about last night in bed. About how much I wanted something, anything.
‘No. Not particularly,’ I lie.
In the afternoon, I go back to the stables. It’s that or fucking macramé.
I help Elaine to muck out the stalls. My back soon aches and I’m relieved when Elaine carries out a tray with two teas. It’s the right shade too; I like it strong.
‘So, what brings you to our island?’ she says as we sit on a pair of grubby white garden chairs, the sort that topple over in bad home movies.
‘Are you allowed to ask me that?’
‘I’m allowed to say whatever I like the last time I checked.’ She smiles. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but it’s all off-the-record and it gets quite boring down here. The horses have so little to say.’
The morning has been gruelling enough; I can’t rehash it all again. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say.
‘Very well. Let’s imagine you weren’t here. What else is interesting about Lexi?’
Huh? I have 82,000 followers at the last check, does that count?
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you do in your spare time? What sort of things do you like?’
‘I . . .’ I stop. I have nothing to add. Apart from shopping, drinking, partying and seeing Kurt, I don’t really do anything. ‘Not a lot really,’ I reply, and wonder if that’s normal.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Elaine says. ‘You certainly are a dab-hand with the horses.’
After we finish our tea, Elaine sweeps out Storm’s stable. While she’s doing that, I observe him snorting and pacing around a pasture. I lean over the fence, holding out a carrot. With a haughty expression, he saunters over and sniffs at it before turning away, unimpressed. ‘You,’ I tell him, ‘are an asshole.’
‘Harsh,’ says a voice behind me.
It’s Brady. He’s sweaty, a grey T-shirt plastered to his chest and torso. His hair is tied back into a messy ponytail. He leans forward, hands on thighs, trying to catch his breath.
‘Well, he is.’ He holds up a finger, struggling to breathe. ‘Here.’ I hand him a bottle of water I brought down.
‘Thanks.’
‘Working out again?’
‘Goldstein thinks it’s good for me. Body and mind working on a common goal, or something like that. I think he just means it keeps my hands busy. Anyway, I was out of shape.’
He certainly doesn’t look out of shape now. He wears running shorts over a pair of those sporty Nike man-leggings. His thighs and calves are strong, muscular.
I can smell him. Deodorant and salty sweat. It’s so male. It’s not a bad thing.
God, I shouldn’t even be looking. I literally just spoke with my boyfriend.
It must be pheromones. I take a step back. ‘You going for a ride?’ he asks.
‘On Storm? Are you kidding? I’d die.’
He grins. ‘Nah, he’s just playing hard to get.’ I’m not sure what to say to that. ‘See you at dinner, yeah? I’ll shower, I promise.’
And off he goes, jogging down the forest trail. I watch him go. Bum, as Kendall would say, like the peach emoji.
That night I do join the others for dinner. Not just because Brady invited me, but because I’ll chew my own hands off if I have to spend another night alone in that room with the Kardashians on E!.
Tonight it’s swordfish drizzled in lemon with asparagus. It’s fresh and light. Kendall cries because she thinks the vegan option is too fattening. We all politely pretend it’s not happening. Kendall remains at the table with a full plate and Gary standing over her shoulder long after we’ve retired to the room we usually have Group in.
Tonight we have a movie. ‘Each movie is especially selected to avoid “triggers”,’ Brady tells me with a sly grin. Legs curled under him on the sofa, he’s wearing baggy grey sweatpants, a vest and a baseball cap. Through the arm holes in his top I can see his left nipple on a muscular, tattooed pec. His time with the trainer is definitely paying off.
Shit, I really have to stop perving over Brady. I need to get back to Kurt or take a cold shower. ‘No drinking, no drugs, no sex, no nothing,’ he says. ‘It’s pretty much PG-13 fun for us.’
I’ll say.
Tonight is one of the Star Wars ones. I’ve seen it before. Who hasn’t.
Kendall eventually joins us, her eyes pink-rimmed. She looks a little lost without Melissa. She’s a bit full on, but I don’t hate her. I wonder if . . . she looks so much like her . . . is it getting to me? Snap the fuck out of it.
She sits cross-legged on the floor at the back of the room and starts to re-apply her make-up under the light of the lamp. I take my Diet Coke and join her, whispering so we don’t disturb the others watching the film. ‘Your make-up always looks awesome,’ I tell her.
‘Thanks, babe, but CoverGirl don’t cover boy.’
‘You don’t look like a boy.’
‘In my head I always do. I always will do.’
‘Well, you don’t.’ I wonder if that’s where it started – starving herself. Trying to make herself tiny, feminine.
She blushes a little, eyes down. ‘Thanks. But look at my chin. Seriously. I want a chin reduction and maybe cheek fillers.’
I shake my head. ‘No way, don’t. My mum had her cheeks done and she looks like a fucking alien. Real Housewife of Silicone Valley.’
She giggles. ‘You barely need make-up. Jealous.’
‘I do for events and stuff.’
‘Do you contour?’
I w
ince. ‘I can’t do it! I end up looking like I’m auditioning for The Lion King or something.’
She laughs and Guy shushes her from the sofa. ‘Let me show you.’ She takes out a contour kit and powders my nose, cheeks, forehead and chin. She shows me in the mirror. I look like I’m wearing a lot of make-up, but I do look more angular I suppose. Dare I say, healthier? She’s taken the green tinge out of my skin. And I don’t look like Mufasa, so that’s a start. ‘Oh cool,’ I say, tilting my head left and right to check out my cheekbones.
‘You are welcome.’ Kendall grins. ‘Brady! I did Lexi’s make-up! What do you think?’
He swivels around, looking over the back of the sofa. Shit, that’s embarrassing. All I can do is pout like a thirsty Instagram whore. ‘Beautiful,’ he says with a gentle smile. I roll my eyes because praise is intolerable.
I wake up in the middle of the night. The clock on my nightstand reads 2.34 a.m. God, it’s only about an hour since I finally nodded off. I roll over to go back to sleep when I hear footsteps – light, scurrying footsteps.
In my head, I irrationally go to ‘puppet demons’. Childhood fear. Puppets are terrifying.
I sit up in bed and push the hair off my face.
The footsteps get louder and I see a shadow sweep along the gap under my suite door. What the fuck? Is someone escaping?
It’s probably not puppet demons.
If they’re going, I’m going with them, whoever it is. I jump out of bed and head to the door. I open it a crack and poke my head through just in time to see Kendall, running barefoot down the corridor.
What is she doing? Am I dreaming this? She vanishes around the corner. I look the other way and wait for whichever nurse is chasing her. After a minute, I realise no one’s coming, my sleep-fogged head clearing. Kendall isn’t running away – she’s just running. Jogging.
She’s exercising in secret.
That’s sad.
I guess I have a choice. I can wait for her to complete her circuit and try to convince her to go back to bed, or just leave her to it. But I don’t want to embarrass her. I’m not going to grass her up to Goldstein either – that’s not cool. Snitches get stitches and are also bitches. I don’t know what to do, so I just close the door as silently as I can and go back to bed.
Before I finally nod off, Kendall does four more laps past my door.
STEP 3: I WILL LEARN TO TRUST IN MYSELF AND OTHERS
Dr Goldstein thinks my life has lacked routine since I left St Agnes. Now I have routine:
I have breakfast. Some form of eggs – poached, smashed or gooey; soft-boiled ones with soldiers. Sometimes muesli, berries and yoghurt.
I go to therapy. We talk more about the divorce and the custody battle: Daddy’s campaign to prove Mummy was a pill-popping psycho who could barely care for herself, let alone two adolescents. Mummy tried to convince the judge Daddy used to hit her and was a risk to us. I don’t think that’s true. I hope it’s not true. I certainly never saw proof of that and I honestly don’t think Mummy could have – or actually would have – hidden it.
Goldstein waits for me to finish and reclines in his seat. ‘Lexi, at what age do you think childhood ends?’
I frown. ‘I don’t know. Sixteen? Maybe younger.’
‘At what age do you think your childhood ended?’
I roll my eyes and smile. ‘Touché.’
‘It just strikes me that your parents’ behaviour perhaps forced you and your brother to grow up before your time.’
I flinch. I don’t like him attacking my parents. They’re a shit shower, but they’re my shit shower.
After therapy, I talk to Kurt. Calmer now, I tell him about Kendall’s night-time runs and Ruby’s midnight feasts. Most days, I think he’s hanging, out-of-it. He’s either been up all night or has just woken up, I can’t tell. He denies he’s high, I guess for my benefit, but I’m not sure I buy it.
Group is more interesting because I’m not the new girl any more. Today, the Saudi prince joins us for the first time. He looks waxy-skinned and dead-eyed now, but he should be handsome in sixty days’ time. His chest and arms are huge, steroid huge, neck thicker than my thigh. Unimpressed doesn’t even begin to cover his expression. It’s like looking in a mirror.
Goldstein and Ahmed both sit in. ‘Today we have a new guest,’ Goldstein says. ‘Would you like to introduce yourself and explain why you’re here?’
‘I’m Saif Omar,’ he sighs. ‘My parents think I have a problem with drugs. I don’t, but whatever.’
He wears smart slacks, a Ralph Lauren shirt and a Rolex. Twinkle, twinkle, massive diamond in his left earlobe. His hair is razor parted, slicked back into a greasy quiff. He’s dripping rich. He’s like me. He’s never had to worry about money for a single second of his life. It’s a game all rich people play – imagining what it would be like to be poor. Because we never have been; we’ve never had to adapt or survive.
Daddy came from nothing, he tells us often enough: at thirteen, a recent immigrant, he started as a kitchen boy at a hotel in the West End. The chef took pity on him and let him eat any food that was left over at the end of the night. He always vowed that Nik and I would never have to know what hunger was like.
I think I’ve known hunger, just not the type he worried about.
‘If your parents are suffering as a result of your drug use, wouldn’t you say it was a problem?’ Goldstein asks.
Saif sits back down. ‘I guess so. I think it’s a lot of fuss and a gargantuan waste of money, but I don’t suppose there’s a lot I can do about it.’ His accent is all over the place: A little American, a little Arab, a little British. I’m guessing he’s been educated in the UK, if nothing else.
‘The first step, as ever, is in admitting you have a problem, Saif,’ Ahmed says.
‘It’s bullshit, though,’ he says. ‘You know what this is about – they found some needles in my gym bag. But it was just growth hormones! Everyone uses steroids . . .’ Ha! I’m right! ‘And everyone does a bit of coke every now and then. It’s not a big deal. I’m sorry, it’s really not.’
I agree, but that attitude isn’t going to get him out of here any faster. Amateur. It’s like quicksand; if you struggle, you make it worse.
‘You’re wrong.’ It’s Brady. It’s not like him to interrupt. I stop fiddling with my split ends and pay attention. ‘If you surround yourself with addicts, you can convince yourself that anything’s normal.’
‘Brady,’ Goldstein says, cutting him off. Damn. I wondered if, for a second, we might get some insight into Brady’s Big Issue. Interesting. Must be an addiction thing, I guess. ‘It’s not your turn to speak. But he has a point, Saif. Think of your addiction as a living, breathing organism, one that will do anything to survive. One of its survival tactics is to seek out other addicts because there’s safety in numbers. Each addict will reassure the others that the way they’re living is the norm.’
I think about my friends at St Agnes and how I hardly see them any more. I see Kurt, I see Baggy. I see dealers and users. Is that it? Again – too easy an explanation.
‘If that’s true,’ Saif says angrily, ‘how the fuck will it help being stuck on Addict Island?’
Check, Dr Goldstein.
‘Because here, with all our different afflictions, and everyone in different stages of recovery, you’ll be able to see your addiction for what it really is. A disease. A sickness.’
Checkmate, Saif Omar.
In the afternoon it starts to rain, tip-tapping against the windows of the old house. Wind howls through the walls. The weather was bad enough for the ferry to be cancelled, and the personal trainer and tutors couldn’t make the crossing.
I haunt the house, bored off my tits. Saif pummels the treadmill in the gym, sweat pouring off his face. Kendall, in head-to-toe athleisurewear, maintains a steadier pace alongside him. Still running, still burning those calories.
Moving past the lounge, I hear Ruby and Guy listening to the radio, talking about what ban
ds they like and don’t. I don’t even realise Brady is in the therapy room until he moves. He’s laid on the sofa, reading a dog-eared copy of Catcher in the Rye. Figures. He’s the Clarity Centre’s very own Holden Caulfield. Like, why is he even here? He says next-to-nothing in Group, and it’s not fair. He knows more about me than I do about him. Is there a big mystery, or is he just a tourist?
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Cliché,’ I tell him, nodding at the book.
‘I always pretend it’s my favourite.’
‘And what is your favourite?’
‘Easy. The Hunger Games.’
God, that takes me back. Me, Antonella and Nevada racing each other to see who’d finish the trilogy first. Of course Antonella won. She always did. ‘Good shout. Team Peeta or Team Gale?’
‘Team Katniss.’
I laugh. ‘Correct answer. Ten points to . . .?’
‘Please. Ravenclaw.’
I sit at the other end of the sofa. ‘Interesting. Had you down as a Gryffindor. Clearly I’m Slytherin.’ It was Harry Potter that first got me into writing stories when I was about eight. I used to make little books on hotel letterhead paper and staple them together. Man, it’s been a long time since I wrote anything.
He puts the book to one side. ‘You wanna do something?’
Is he flirting? The trouble is, the way his mouth curls at the edges makes everything seem like flirting. He has Resting Flirt Face. ‘Such as?’ I ask.
Five minutes later and we’re cross-legged on the rug, either side of the coffee table, Snakes & Ladders between us. ‘Fuck,’ he says, sliding his blue tiddlywink all the way down a fierce-looking python. He looks up at me and smiles. ‘Well, isn’t this just one big fat recovery metaphor? Six steps forward, thirteen steps back.’
‘And to think,’ I say, ‘we were born into houses with so many ladders.’
He laughs, properly laughs, and I smile because it’s nice to make people laugh. I shake the dice.