by Juno Dawson
This is happening. It hurts for a second, and then it’s OK. Then it’s good.
He’s in me and it’s right.
We carry on kissing.
We’re so close, we’re one thing.
I grab his bum – someone’s been doing their squats – to pull him closer still.
‘Fuck,’ he moans.
He’s almost hitting the spot. He’s warming it up. ‘Don’t stop,’ I whisper. ‘Faster.’ There you go.
‘Lex, god, you’re beautiful. Shit, I’m not gonna last long.’ He grins. ‘It’s been a while.’
I laugh and roll him over. If we’re taking the direct route, I need to be on top. I steer him back inside. He groans again. So do I. There, that’s definitely the spot. I rock, finding a rhythm that suits us both. I arch my back and that’s it. That is absolutely the one. I start . . .
‘Brady . . . I love you . . .’ Shit. I’ll probably regret that.
. . . and we finish together.
I flop down on to his chest. He runs a hand into my hair and pulls me into a slow, soft kiss. ‘Lexi, I love you too.’
Or maybe I won’t regret anything. Not a single thing.
I wake the next morning, stretched diagonal across the bed. Creamy vanilla light seeps through the drapes and I feel the need to stretch like a satisfied cat. I remember falling asleep in Brady’s arms, my head resting on his sticky chest. ‘Brady?’ I call, kicking my legs. I’m still naked, tangled up with bed linen.
I roll over and look towards the bathroom. The door is ajar and the light isn’t on. The clock says it’s 9:50. I’ve missed breakfast. I wonder if, after almost drowning, they’re letting me rest.
Brady must have crept out to avoid one of the nurses catching us, I guess. Either that or he went to fetch breakfast, in which case he’s both a hero and a saint.
I shower and dress: skinny jeans and a cream slouchy cashmere jumper I got at Bergdorf Goodman. I can’t deny a certain spring in my step this morning, and not just because I got laid. I feel . . . holy somehow. Lighter, freer, absolved of sin.
I decide today is the day to tell Goldstein about Antonella. I think he has to promise confidentiality. Despite everything, I don’t want Kurt to go to jail. I believe he didn’t know he was giving her PMA. I don’t even know if she bought more pills off the red-haired dealer.
I’m not an idiot. I know I held grief at arm’s length. I fought it really hard. I haven’t even started to understand how I feel about losing her. I love her, but I have lost her and it feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Maybe now is the time. It’s going to hurt, but I think I’m ready.
I stick some ballet pumps on my feet and potter down the hallway. The kitchen staff are cleaning up breakfast, but I see Guy coming out of the gym. ‘Morning!’ he says. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Thank you! You know what? I feel lovely too. Have you seen Brady?’
‘Nope. He wasn’t at brekkie today. I wondered if he was . . . with you.’ He whispers the last part.
‘He was. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll go check his room.’
I trot upstairs and down the hallway to Brady’s room. I knock on the door. ‘Brady? It’s me.’
There’s no reply which is weird, because if he’s not in the gym and he’s not in therapy (Kendall and I have the 9–10 slot), then where the hell is he? Again, it’s not like we live in a house with locked doors. I walk in.
I stop and try to take in what I’m seeing.
This can’t be happening.
It just can’t.
The bed is made. The wardrobes hang open, empty. Stray hangers litter the floor where clothes have been hastily pulled free and shoved in a case or bag.
I’m going to be sick.
I really am.
I push into his en-suite and drop to my knees in front of the toilet. I haven’t eaten in hours so only produce hot yellow bile.
He’s gone.
I crouch over the toilet for a minute, because my head is spinning and I might faint.
I swill my mouth out and return to the bedroom. I see a letter on the bed and I almost don’t need to read it to know what it’s going to say. However he words it, it’s goodbye, right?
He has left me.
He fucked me and then left me.
I pick up the letter.
Dear Lexi
I am so sorry. Please don’t hate me. I hope you, of all people, understand why I had to go.
I don’t trust myself.
Last night, while you slept, I watched you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I was imagining our long future together. I wanted to see the world with you . . . beaches and sunsets and Instagram moments. I wanted to wake up with you every day. I wanted to introduce you to my mom, my sister, my dad. I saw you in a wedding dress. I imagined our kids.
And that’s how it starts. The obsession. I could feel it, like the bed was going to swallow us both whole. I can’t do it, Lex. I can’t do it to you – not when you’re doing so well. The last thing I want is to rake you into my shit.
Clearly, I still have some recovering to do, and I don’t think I can do that if my head and heart are full of you.
Keep on getting better. You are so strong – stronger than me, and stronger than you think you are. Thank you for sharing so much with me. Remember, it’s not your fault and you deserve love and happiness, as do I. Who knows, maybe one day when we’re different people . . . right?
Love B x
No way. There is no way he’s done this. What time is it? How early did he leave? How many ferries leave in the morning? I guess there’s one to bring staff over first thing. What time does it return?
I shove the letter in my back pocket and rocket downstairs towards the entrance hall. The receptionist blinks sluggishly like she’s on about four Valium.
‘Did you see Brady go?’ I demand.
‘Sorry?’ she asks.
‘Did you see Brady Ardito leave?’
‘No, dear. I understand he has discharged himself though. I had a note on my . . .’
‘What time does the ferry leave?’
‘I don’t––’
‘Jesus! What time does the ferry go back to the mainland?’
‘At about ten thirty, dear.’
I look up at the clock. It’s 10:35. ‘OK, thanks.’
I push through the main doors and slump down the grand stairs. In the distance, I see the ferry chugging across the sea, leaving white ripples in its wake. It’s carrying Brady back to the real world and leaving me here.
‘No . . .’ My insides crush, fold inward like a tin can.
What’s worse? Never having something, or having something and losing it?
I watch the ferry get smaller and smaller until it drops off the edge of the horizon.
I can’t face therapy with Goldstein. I tell him I’m sick, although I do ask if I can check my phone.
There’s a message from Kurt waiting for me.
Thinking of u a lot. Babe. Come home.
How? How is it boys magically know how to drive you maximum mental? Do they have a global whatsapp group?
The timing is perfect. It feels like a punch in the stomach. I relive folding onto Brady’s sweaty chest, that bodily bliss.
I remember waking up one time to find Kurt watching me, his face pressed into the pillow. ‘What?’ I said croakily. Morning breath.
‘You’re pretty,’ he said with a little grin. He was like a naughty school boy somehow.
I sit cross-legged on the floor in the middle of Goldstein’s office. I make sure I’m facing away from owl-cam. Without making any noise at all, I cry.
STEP 8: I ACCEPT I HAVE HURT MYSELF AND OTHERS
I’m over it.
As my seventieth day creeps ever closer, I start to lose patience. Cabin fever sets in, the walls closing in like a funhouse.
I ride Storm most days, but I now know the forest hacks like the back of my hand. We’re both going through the motions, he and I.
I’ve started
many letters to Brady, and they’re all crumpled in a wastepaper basket in my room. I love miss you / This can work / Thinking about you / It’ll be different for us / Let’s give it a go . . . I don’t even know where he is; it’d be a message-in-a-bottle job.
I know it’s stupid.
I knew him for less than two months. A lot of what we felt was probably brought on by this dollhouse we both found ourselves in. Holiday romances usually last as long as the flight home.
But I did feel something for him. And when I think about him now, I am sore. He’s left me bruised.
I can’t even think about Kurt. It’s too confusing. I want him like I want heroin. It’d be good, but it’s also bad. I’ll deal with him later.
What’s worse, the others are all leaving ahead of me. Guy went last week. On his last morning, he knocked on my door. I was on my terrace having a coffee.
‘Come in,’ I shouted.
‘It’s just me,’ he said, shuffling into my room.
I rose from the sunlounger. ‘Oh, is it time? Is your dad here?’
‘No,’ he said sheepishly, joining me on the terrace. ‘There’s something I have to give you.’
Sweet. ‘A going-away gift?’
‘Not quite.’ He opened his hand and I see my McQueen skull ring is in his palm.
‘Oh my god!’ I grabbed it out of his fingers. ‘Where did you find that? I’ve been looking everywhere . . .’
‘I didn’t find it.’ He didn’t look me in the eye. ‘I took it. I . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Oh. OK.’
‘It’s a thing I do.’
‘I . . . sure.’ Sometimes I wonder if Guy is a better-spoken, posh, white, male version of Sasha. So many knots, it’s hard to know which to untangle first.
He shook his head in answer to my unspoken question. ‘I don’t really know why I do it. I suppose sometimes I like to imagine what it’d be like to be someone other than me. Anyone else, for a while, at least. So I take people’s stuff. These little trinkets . . . I can’t stop myself. I . . . well, I have to make amends before I leave. Step Nine and everything . . . so . . . I’m sorry.’
I tried to keep the shock off my face. Melissa’s locket, Saif’s watch, Brady’s hat . . . I wondered if he took those too . . .
‘Hey, it’s OK. We’ve all done messed up things,’ I said. He nodded, but looked so ashamed of himself. ‘Guy, I mean it. I still think you’re a good Guy. Get it?’
He gave me a smile. ‘I don’t wanna go,’ he said in a very small voice. I suspect he’d retreat for eternity if he could; he’s on the verge of becoming institutionalised. I gave him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek.
I can’t sleep – maybe because it’s barely after eleven. With so few of us now, bedtime has been getting earlier and earlier. We’re bored shitless. It also feels very female – almost like being back at St Agnes.
I head along the corridor towards the kitchen and see a shape sitting in the dark. Apparently I’m not the only one who can’t sleep. ‘Hello?’ I say, wary of another kitchen altercation with Sasha.
‘It’s just me,’ says Ruby. It’s her final night at the clinic. I guess she can’t sleep either.
In the dim fire-safety lighting, I see her sat in front of a Death-By-Chocolate chocolate cake.
‘Relax,’ she says. ‘Before I go, I needed to prove I could do it.’
‘Do what?’
She holds up a side plate with a couple of crumbs on it. ‘Just have one motherfucking slice.’
I smile and see only one narrow wedge missing from the cake. ‘Well, let me remove one more slice of temptation from your path.’ I grab a plate from beside the sink and cut myself a piece. ‘You ready for tomorrow?’
She sighs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe this time it’ll stick. Imma level with you. This ain’t my first ride at the rodeo. My first fat camp was when I was thirteen. I’m pretty over it; I can’t keep doing this. I’m too goddamn old.’
I know what she means. I pick at the cake. It’s a little dry.
‘You know what the crazy part is?’ Ruby goes on, sipping a glass of milk. ‘She’s mad as a shithouse rat, but Sasha’s got a point. Don’t you dare tell her I said so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Part of the problem is we’re rich. And not just cash rich. Time rich. Time is a luxury item, don’t you think? We have so much time and nothing to do with it. So I eat when I ain’t hungry, you shoot up or whatever. If you ever read my daddy’s autobiography – which he didn’t write, by the way – he was working in his pop’s grocery store at thirteen. He got early acceptance to medical school at seventeen. Always working, always had his eye on that prize. He didn’t have no time to sit around thinking about his esteem and shit. Girl, I gotta get me something to do.’
‘You’ve been busy looking after your mum . . .’
She shakes her head and her little diamond earrings twinkle in the dark. ‘We got the best goddamn nurses in New York. I can’t use that excuse no more. Like, what are you gonna do when you get outta here?’
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Well, girl, you better start thinking. Your time’s running out too.’
She leaves the next morning. There’s some slight excitement as a Mercedes with blacked-out windows crunches up the drive to collect her. We all gather around, wondering if we’ll get a glimpse of the man a lot of people think will be the next president.
Alas, when the car door opens, a trim Kerry Washington type steps out and greets Ruby with a hug.
‘Everyone,’ Ruby says, ‘this is my Aunt Rochelle.’
‘Nice to meet you all.’ She doesn’t even take off her sunglasses.
‘Where’s Daddy?’
‘Oh sweetheart, there was a funeral for the former senator of New Jersey. He had to go. You know how it is.’
‘I do,’ she says as the driver loads her luggage into the boot. Aunt Rochelle talks with Goldstein and Lady Denhulme. I overhear snippets; they’re discussing a donation Dr Kidd wants to make to the foundation.
Ruby bids each of us farewell. Even Sasha.
‘You OK?’ I mutter as I give her a hug.
‘I’m fine. It would have been weirder if he’d actually come,’ she says. ‘It means the world is just the way I left it. Maybe that’s a good thing.’
As the ridiculous car heads towards the ferry, there are even fewer of us stood on the drive. I know my gift for making any given situation about me is especially gross, but I can’t help but wonder if my world is the way I left it too.
And tomorrow is Kendall’s turn. I’m gonna miss this bitch, and not just because she reminds me of Antonella.
For her last night, Kendall wanted a sleepover vibe, so we’re in our pyjamas in the TV room, gathered around an extra-large pizza. Kendall helps herself to a second (small) slice with a sigh. ‘Oh, my parents will be so thrilled,’ she says ruefully. ‘It’s crazy. I can’t believe I’m eating pizza. I . . . I didn’t think I’d ever be able to.’
‘And how is it?’ I ask.
She swallows. ‘I remember . . . I used to love pizza.’
‘Pizza is one of your five a day,’ Sasha says.
It’s just the three of us. Some girl from off The X Factor checked in two days ago, but she’s still in detox. Sleeping pills allegedly, but I think that’s media spin for coke or smack to be honest.
‘Are you nervous?’ I ask.
‘No, I’m excited. I think. I miss my friends. I can go back to college before summer term so Mum says I probably won’t have to repeat the year. I wanna show everyone that I’m getting better too. Everyone thought I was crazy. “Tranorexia.” LOL.’ She continues to nibble on her slice of pizza. She is looking better than when I first met her. Skinny, yes, but no longer like a living corpse.
‘It’s gonna be weird when you’re all gone,’ Sasha says. I detect a hint of sadness.
‘You’ll be leaving soon too,’ Kendall says, ever the pep-squad.
Sasha shakes her head. ‘Sweet songbird, didn’t you hear? I’m finally getting it.’
‘Getting what?’ I ask.
Sasha lays back on her duvet and convulses, shaking her arms and legs. ‘Shock therapy!’
Kendall and I look to each other. ‘Are you for real?’ I say.
‘Yep. The man with the electrodes has been after me for years. I finally gave formal consent. Not like anything else has worked, has it? Hours of therapy, basket weaving, a rainbow of pills. This is the last resort.’
‘They zap your brain?’ Kendall asks, agog.
‘Like, I thought that went out with straitjackets,’ I add.
Sasha smiles slyly. ‘Nope. They strap you to the bed and make you bite down on a wooden spoon and then run a thousand volts through your head,’ she laughs. ‘Oh, look at your gormless faces. You pair of dicks! It’s fine. They do it under general anaesthetic and it’s only a low current. It changes the chemistry of your brain or something. But it might take time, so I’m not going anywhere soon.’
Not sure I’m buying what she’s selling. It can’t be that easy, or we’d all get it as a pick-me-up. They’d be doing it on Harley Street with Botox and collagen. I keep that thought to myself. ‘And it’s . . . safe?’ I ask instead.
She shrugs. ‘I dunno, Blondie. Goldstein said something about memory loss. And it doesn’t always work.’
‘What if it doesn’t?’
She stares at the empty pizza box for a second. ‘Well, then, that’s it, isn’t it? This is just how I am.’
‘I’m sure it’ll work,’ Kendall says. ‘It will.’
The following afternoon we’re back on the driveway like the Railway Children. I give Kendall a long hug. ‘Promise you’ll email me,’ she says. ‘I’m only like half an hour outside London. We can meet up.’
‘We will,’ I say, and I mean it. I need to see someone from here in the outside world, I think, or this whole episode is going to feel like a fever dream. I’ll need a reminder. ‘I’ll miss you.’