by Juno Dawson
She smiles like that’s all she really wanted to hear. ‘I’ll miss you too.’
Kendall gets into the back of her parents’ car. They seem lovely – but both have the worn, embattled and sleep-deprived look of parents convinced it’s all their fault. ‘Don’t be posting shit about me on socialite.com!’ I say.
‘I’m gonna sell your story to the Daily Mail,’ she laughs through the open window. Her dad starts the car. ‘Track him down,’ she adds urgently. ‘Just find him, Lex. He loves you. He does.’
Her words take my breath away. The car rolls down the drive and I can only wave her off.
Goldstein hovers at my side. ‘Are you ready for your session?’ he asks and I nod. ‘Next week it’s your turn.’
Going home. Home to maids and chefs and beauticians and other people who are paid to be nice. Mummy and Daddy don’t even know where I’ve been. I don’t know what I’m going home to. I don’t even know if it’s home.
It feels like I’ve been here forever, but it still feels too soon to leave.
‘When was the last time you spoke to Kurt?’ Goldstein asks.
It’s my last week in the centre; my last week of therapy (at least with him). I don’t know whether I’ll miss it or not. I guess I’ve become . . . used to it.
I think about Kurt, out there living his nocturnal life, that urban fox of mine. For the last few weeks we’ve been messaging each other more than talking. He knows I’m coming home.
‘We message every day.’
‘Will you see him?’
‘Of course.’ But my tone is far from certain. I know I’ll never see Brady again, but he has changed how I feel about Kurt. It feels more like seventy years than seventy days since we were last together. ‘Things are different now.’
‘You’re different now.’
‘Am I?’
Goldstein smiles. ‘You’ve come a long way, Lexi. I’m not your warden, I can’t tell you what to do. But we’ve talked at length about co-dependency and whether it was really in Kurt’s interests for you to be clean.’
I flinch. It’s hard to tell from texts, but with each day, Kurt seems to be – genuinely – getting more and more excited that I’m coming back. Once, I’d have taken this as some sort of victory over him, but now, I don’t know. Does he really love me, or am I his personal cashpoint? ‘I know.’ I draw my feet under my legs. ‘We have stuff to talk about.’
‘Certainly. Have you thought more about what you’ll do?’
I shrug. ‘I can’t exactly go back to St Agnes, can I?’
I was drunk on the day I wasn’t expelled.
I’d downed half a bottle of vodka at lunchtime and staggered all the way to Religious Studies with Sister Bernadette. I sat by the window, falling asleep.
Antonella.
The last time I saw her in the hospital was tattooed onto my mind. Part girl, part machine, like something from one of Nik’s horror comics. It was all I saw unless I got really, really blasted.
‘Lexi Volkov!’ Sister Bernie yelled. Imagine Mad-Eye Moody in a habit.
‘What?’
‘Ms Grafton’s office. Now, please, hurry along.’
The whole classroom was gauzy. Swishy and blurry. ‘Whatever.’ I stood, only to topple on to Genie. I laughed. So did the other girls. I thought they were laughing with me. Now I’m less convinced.
I zigzagged down the long, lofty corridors of St Agnes, purposefully wasting time, keeping her waiting.
Somewhere in London, at that very moment, they were switching the life-support machine off.
Grafton was waiting, hands on hips, by her receptionist’s desk. ‘For crying out loud, Alexandria. In! Now!’
I waved at the mousy little receptionist as I sauntered past. ‘Lookin’ good, Bev,’ I said with a wink.
‘Sit down,’ Grafton snapped. I did as I was told, slumping into an armchair. ‘Just look at you! You’re a disgrace!’ My tie was skew-whiff, the waistline of my kilt rolled up. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No, that would be against school rules.’
Grafton pursed her lips, smoothed her skirt and seated herself.
‘Is this the bit where you kick me out?’
‘No, Miss Volkov. I’m assuming you haven’t heard. This morning, the coroner ruled misadventure. No criminal charges will be brought against you or anyone else at this time.’
At once I felt absolved and guiltier than ever. Where was it? Where was my punishment? I . . . I had it coming. I earned it. I deserved it.
‘Lexi?’
‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’
I shrugged. I couldn’t even speak.
‘Listen carefully. I’ve met with the governors to discuss your future and it’s been decided that, whatever Results Day brings, you’ll study for your A-Levels elsewhere.’
‘So I’m expelled?’
‘No, dear. Expelling you would only add to the deluge of negative publicity we’ve all endured already. We’ll do absolutely everything we can to help you find an alternative school. I’ll even write you a glowing letter of recommendation.’
Her room was spinning like a centrifuge. I felt nauseous. ‘Why?’
‘Because then you’ll be someone else’s problem. But more importantly, Lexi, hopefully you’ll get the fresh start you so dearly need. After what happened to Antonella . . . well, perhaps you need somewhere where people know neither of you.’
It felt like a fist in the face.
She might as well have said it.
I needed to be somewhere where no one knew the story of how the Bad Twin killed the Good Twin.
I bowed out without a struggle. At the time, I was too messed up to fight it.
‘Maybe you can return to St Agnes if that’s what you want,’ Goldstein says. ‘Elaine Denhulme is a very powerful woman, as is her husband.’
I wonder what Lord Denhulme would do to Goldstein if he knew what he and his wife got up to in the stable mews. Who am I kidding – Lord Denhulme probably has a fleet of mistresses all around the world.
I’m filled with hope for a split second. Imagine . . . slotting back into that school, that kilt, those knee socks, that glorious routine. Nevada and Genie are still there. I sometimes forget I’m still only seventeen. Dog years. I guess I’d have to start a year behind them, but still.
The light fades as quickly as it came. No. Antonella haunts that school and I’d have to face her ghost every day. I’m not sure I can put myself through that. ‘Yeah. Maybe,’ I say.
‘And your writing?’
‘I’ve been working on some short stories,’ I tell him. And it’s true. They’re not very good, mind. They’re funereal and emo, however buoyant I try to make my prose. Bad, overwrought, teenage-angst writing. ‘I want to get better.’
‘Succinct.’
‘I hope so,’ I smile a little.
It’s there though; the future. It was too dark before, but now I can see it. It’s only visible through a pea-soup fog, so I can’t see it clearly, but there’s a something ahead in the tunnel and I’m chugging towards it.
I sit on the edge of my bed, surrounded by bulging, lumpy bags and an overstuffed case, straining at the zipper. The silver Miu Miu dress I arrived in, although laundered, sits at the bottom of the bin.
‘Are you ready?’ Nikolai asks.
I look up at my brother. It’s so weird. He isn’t thirteen and spotty any more. At some point in the last seven years, he’s become a proper grown-up. When did that happen? And what does that make me, his little sister? ‘Not really,’ I say.
‘Come on!’ He offers me a hand and pulls me off the bed. ‘It’s going to be fine. Dad’s in Moscow until Friday.’ He scoops me into a hug. ‘You look amazing, by the way.’
I laugh. ‘Rehab is great. You should try it.’
Boynurse Marcus, back, and no longer under investigation, helps us with our bags. Nik’s BMW waits on the drive. I faintly remember tumbling on to this driveway seventy days ago. God, I was
a hot mess. I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long.
The doctors – Ahmed and Goldstein – wait on the drive, with Sasha, like a weird family portrait. I don’t want soppy goodbyes. I came, they fixed me, I left. If only it were that simple. I get through a hug with Ahmed with no problems, but when Goldstein hugs me, a little sob wracks my body. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I press my face into his chest. ‘Oh god, I’m sorry.’
He chuckles and pats my back. ‘Don’t be. Lexi, I’m very proud of the progress you’ve made.’
That makes me worse. ‘Please don’t say anything else nice. I can’t take it.’
He holds me at arm’s length and hands me a tissue. ‘Now. Miss Volkov, you have my number?’
‘I do.’
‘You’ve got your follow-up appointment in London, but until then, you just call me if you need me. In fact, call me if you don’t.’
I smile. ‘I promise.’
I move on to Sasha. ‘Ain’t nobody here but us chickens,’ she says.
‘You won’t be here forever,’ I say.
‘There are worse places to spend forever.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re gonna be fine.’
She smiles a psychotic smile. ‘One day. Not today.’
‘Be good,’ I tell her, and then give all three of them a half-arsed wave before getting in the passenger seat.
‘There’s just one more goodbye I have to make,’ I tell Nikolai.
I rest my head against Storm’s head. I don’t say any words. Partly because he’s a horse, but also because I’ll cry again.
I think he gets it.
‘You’ll be missed.’ Elaine is standing behind me on the path, bucket of feed over her arm. ‘I didn’t think it was possible, Lexi, but you broke him in.’
I still don’t say anything.
‘Or maybe he broke you in.’ Elaine smiles and ruffles his mane. ‘Oh, it’s all very poetic, isn’t it? Unbreakable dark horse . . . and her friend, Storm.’
I laugh. ‘Bit naff, don’t you think?’
‘I’m fond of naff.’ She gives me a hug. ‘People always pretend they’ve grown out of naff, but I don’t think we ever do really. We all want the happy ending, if we’re honest. If he gets out of hand, I’ll be on the phone for tips. Don’t be a stranger, Lexi.’
‘Thank you,’ I tell her. That does make leaving easier.
Nikolai drives us down the ramp and onto the ferry. There’s only one other vehicle – a catering van bringing frozen stuff to the kitchens. ‘This time you don’t have to lie in the back,’ Nik says.
‘You know I don’t enjoy a boat,’ I tell him. Daddy has a yacht. I’m not a fan. I’m really not a fan since what happened with Sasha.
‘C’mon,’ he says, unclipping his seatbelt. I reluctantly follow him out of the car and onto the observation deck at the front of the boat. There’s a soft spring breeze, thick with salt. I tousle my hair.
Before long, the ferry chugs out of the docks. Behind me, the Clarity Centre gets smaller and smaller. In front of me there’s a lot of empty sky and sea. I feel too small all of a sudden; vulnerable.
Nik takes my hand. ‘It’s gonna be fine, Lex. You’re better now.’
I nod for his benefit, but I’m not so sure.
That’s normal, right?
Through a lingering sea fret, the jagged silhouette of the mainland comes into view.
I’m going home.
It’s boring country roads – fields, trees, roadkill – until we hit the M25 and then it’s traffic jams all the way into Vauxhall.
London is still handsome in its rough-jawed way. I’ve kinda missed it. Nik follows the Thames and, as we cross Chelsea Bridge, I get a good view of Battersea Power Station, the Shard in the distance and Daddy’s hotel. We’re almost there. I take a deep breath.
We leave the car and luggage with the valets and head straight to our suite on the ninth floor, ignoring the England Rugby Team who are noisily checking out at the front desk.
It’s exactly as I left it, only now a mountain of freebies brands have sent await me, piled on my bed. Goody bags from Clinique, MAC, Selfridges, Topshop, Apple, Moschino . . . and those are just the ones on top. The maids have tidied my room, but it’s all pretty much untouched: dry-cleaning hanging on the closet handle; photobooth pictures of my friends blu-tacked to the mirror; old issues of Vogue and Glamour in a heap on the bedside table. They’re covered in coke residue next to the old credit card I chopped lines with.
I shudder.
I wasn’t expecting that. I’ve already – as part of my ‘transition’ – told Nik where he could find (and destroy) any drugs I might have dotted around the hotel. I remembered a baggy in an Alaïa clutch, a bottle of oxy in the bedside cabinet and some tabs of MDMA in a shoebox, but who knows what else I’ve forgotten.
‘You OK?’ Nikolai asks.
‘Uh. Yeah.’ I’ll throw them away. It’ll be OK.
‘Sure?’
‘What do I do now?’ I say, genuinely unsure. Yeah, Goldstein and I talked about my writing, my future, but what about the present?
‘Anything you want, Lex. You’re free.’
The first thing I do with my freedom is make a cup of tea.
I call room service and ask for a salmon and cream cheese bagel.
Then I go to the living room – put the TV on because it’s too quiet – and open my MacBook. I push a million throw cushions aside and sit on the giant suede flump of a sofa, legs crossed. Everything in our suite is tan, nude, sand or ecru – even the cascading vases of lilies. It’s beige. Everything is fucking beige.
Last week, I was informed of major world events – spoiler alert, the world is still fucked – to prepare me for real life, so I’m not completely out of the loop, but I am completely out of my loop. First up, Facebook. I look up Kurt, but he’s pretty off-grid. He’s been checked into a couple of things by Troy, Adam Greenberg (Baggy), Flossy Blenheim and various other scene girls. I follow links to various pictures of parties and launches. He’s been tagged in a couple, but always skulking in the background, not posing and gurning like the others are. Uh, he went to Mahiki. Really? God, he must have been desperate.
Nothing too dramatic seems to have happened. Nevada appears to now be in some sort of relationship with a shaven-headed musician girl called Fo – no surname – which is dimly interesting as I thought she was strictly into dick. Still, good for her. They certainly look achingly cool together.
God help me, but I load socialite.com. There’s been very little movement during my exile. Xenia Blenheim currently reigns supreme along with the usual suspects: The Aziz twins, River Knox, Chastity Horowitz, Flossy, Sailor Birling. I, on a need-to-know basis, click on my own entry. There’s nothing untoward. Someone has left a comment – ‘Where has Lexi Volkov gone? She’s super quiet rn.’ There’s no reply. Good.
Just in case, I google myself to see if any gossip columns have also noted my absence. In ‘news’ there’s nothing. Well, there’s a report from the Burdock & Rasputin party. I click the link. There I am, sandwiched between Gigi and Bella, looking like a washed-up corpse in a Miu Miu dress. ‘God, I looked like total shit,’ I mutter to myself.
There’s a mirror over the fireplace. I look better than I did in February, but still a little creased. I sigh. I’m back now. Can’t hide forever.
I pick up the phone. ‘Hi. Is that Susannah? It’s Lexi. Does Niall have any slots this afternoon? Cut and colour.’
The salon is in the basement, next door to the health centre. It’s a windowless cell, tastelessly decorated in black and gold with sparkly tassel curtains draped everywhere, giving it the feel of Aladdin’s brothel or something. But Niall is good – he’s a session stylist who does three days a week at V Hotels. He comes out of his room to greet me. ‘Oh, my god! Babes!’ He plants a kiss on each cheek. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Just with my mum,’ I say.
‘In Cayman?’
‘Yeah.’ My total lack o
f tan is a dead giveaway. ‘The weather was shit.’
‘Oh. OK. Right. Sure,’ he says in his twinkly Dublin accent. I see some of the young beauticians eye me with suspicion. They’re perma-tanned and over-contoured with draggy lash extensions. I scowl at them. I fucking pay their wages. ‘Come on through, babes. What are we doing for you?’
I want a change. He fixes my roots and I ask him to tint it a shade lighter – a colder, icier blond. When the colour’s been rinsed over the sink, he hacks a good six inches off the bottom, taking it to my collar bone. It looks sharp, new, fresh.
I look clean.
‘Like it?’ Niall asks.
‘Love it,’ I reply. ‘It was time for a change.’ He unwraps me from the cape. ‘Hey, can I use the sunbed?’
He knows better than to ask why. ‘Sure, babes. I’ll just check if it’s free.’
I have a healthy, golden tan when Daddy returns on Friday. You can tell when he enters a hotel because a nervous shockwave ripples through the building. The staff straighten their ties and adopt rod-in-ass posture. Daddy is pleasingly scary.
I hear him before I see him. Staff scurry down the corridor alongside him like pilot fish, no doubt trying to match his colossal stride. He’s six-five and almost as wide. ‘Later,’ he snaps. ‘It can wait. Tell them if they want to do business, they can wait one hour.’ He enters the suite and throws his overcoat over a chair. ‘There’s my myshka! Come here and give your father a hug!’
I spring off the sofa and throw myself into his arms. He wraps them around me like tree trunks and I am four years old again. I feel tears sting my eyes, but I can’t seem too emotional.
‘Aw, what is wrong, myshka?’
‘Nothing!’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘I just missed you is all. It’s been ages.’
‘How is your mother? She still with that durak?’