by Juno Dawson
I almost forget that that’s my cover. ‘Oh? What? Yeah, she’s cool. And Jorge is good too.’
Daddy humphs. ‘Jorge is a sissy man. When she wake up and realise?’
I roll my eyes. ‘I dunno. How’s Anja?’
He messes up my new hair by way of a warning. ‘Anja is still in Dubai with her mother.’
‘Best place for her,’ I say with a sly smile.
Daddy can’t get mad at me, I’m his myshka, his little mouse. Instead he gives me another big hug. ‘Aw, I missed you much, myshka. I do not work for rest of day and we go to Sky Garden, yes?’
As basic as the Sky Garden is, there’s literally nothing else I’d rather do, nowhere else I’d rather be. But this is fairly standard. Daddy is great at grand gestures: a pony! A Maserati on my seventeenth birthday! Drop everything for fancy dinner! Only then it’s back to business as usual and I won’t see him for days on end. All or nothing. Shit, I’m crying again.
‘Alexandria? Are you OK?’
‘I promise I am, Daddy. I’m just really pleased you’re back.’ He hugs me again and I realise how much, weirdly, I miss Dr Goldstein.
And Brady.
I miss Brady most of all.
The Sky Garden, a greenhouse at the top of a skyscraper overlooking The City, is a bit of a tourist trap, but the food is gorgeous. I have sea trout and – after a moment of hesitation – a bellini. I feel a little guilty for drinking and it goes right to my head. But drinking was never really the issue. At least, I don’t think it was. Was it? I vow to just have one with lunch.
Daddy sees some people he knows – that happens everywhere we go – and I sip my drink and look out over London. It’s so huge, people crawling through the street like ants. From so high up, I can see to the edges of the city, but however much I try to focus, I just think about him.
I wonder where he is right now.
I wonder what he’s doing.
I wonder if he’s thinking about me too.
St Agnes is smaller than I remember. It’s the first time I’ve been back since that appointment. The smell, polish and school dinners, is exactly the same. I remember the final walk out of Grafton’s office on the last day. I remember the girls looking on, their conversations abruptly tailing off as I strode past, trying to keep my head high.
She’s the one who . . .
Totally her fault . . .
No, but she gave her the . . .
Today I’ve come alone. I thought it was important that I did. I’m wearing black cigarette trousers with Gucci loafers and a crisp white Chloé blouse. I couldn’t look more penitent if I was wearing a fucking habit.
I wait outside Grafton’s office in a stiff leather armchair, watching girls mill around the corridors, an uptight army of claret and gold blazers and kilts, knee socks and neckties. I feel so, so far removed from them, but what other choice do I have?
Some of them have spotted me, even though I kept my shades on. ‘Is that Lexi?’ ‘Is she coming back?’ ‘I thought they expelled her ass?’ I try to ignore them.
‘Miss Volkov?’ says Grafton’s personal secretary. ‘Ms Grafton will see you now.’
I enter the office. It smells of her Eternity perfume and strong black coffee. Oil portraits of past Heads judge me from all four walls.
‘Good morning, Alexandria. Please take a seat.’
She’s hard to read. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ I say.
‘Of course, dear. Now, what can we do for you?’
My palms are clammy. I wipe them on my trousers. ‘I was wondering if it would be possible for me to resume my studies in September.’ She says nothing, but purses her peach-colour lips. ‘We . . . we could say it was a year out. I feel ready to return. I . . . I want to get my A-Levels and think about university . . .’
Grafton holds up a hand. ‘I’ll stop you there, Alexandria. I received a phone call from Lady Denhulme last week.’
‘Oh. So you know.’
‘I assure you she was most discreet and so shall I be. I was pleased to hear you sought treatment.’ She looks genuinely concerned; that’s probably a good thing. ‘That said, I’m afraid I won’t be readmitting you to St Agnes.’
My heart plummets. I feel sick. ‘You won’t?’ I just want to check I’ve heard right.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘But . . . but why? I’m clean now.’
Grafton reclines in her chair. ‘And I commend that, I really do. I don’t for one second think that what you’ve been through is easy. But that’s why I’m blocking your application. I once asked you, in this very office, when you were going to accept that your behaviour has consequences. Do you remember? If I welcome you back to the same school, with the same friends, it’s like nothing ever happened. Once again, the last year of your life is conveniently erased without consequence.’
I want to fight, to argue, but I’m stunned. I wonder, honestly, if this is the first time I’ve ever been told ‘no’.
‘Alexandria, I have no doubt that, with your father’s influence, you’ll be accepted into any top-flight school in the world. But not this one, I’m afraid. I think it’s important for you that last year happened, and this will serve to remind you.’
I will not cry in front of this woman. I push back my chair and grab my handbag. ‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Alexandria, I’m sure you’ll come to understand why . . .’
‘I said it’s fine,’ I snarl. Like, what’s the point? What’s the point in everything I’ve done if no one else will forget what I did? I hold the pain in my gut and turn it into flames. ‘By the way, my name is Lexi Volkov and maybe I’ll buy this school just to watch you get fired. There’s a consequence.’ I stare her down as I walk out. She flinches first, because she knows I could.
I blast down the corridor towards the front doors like a hurricane. Two doe-eyed Second Form girls stare at me in awe as I put my sunglasses back on. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ I barge between them and back out into my London.
I’m going to burn this city down.
Because there’s nothing else for me to do.
Red lips, red nails, red soles on my Louboutins.
I can’t hide any longer. The hotel gets smaller by the day. Soon I’ll be like Alice, my arms and legs sticking out the windows. I need to go out.
Yesterday I tackled Bond Street and bought a Vivienne Westwood LBD and Burberry biker jacket. Tonight, Cramp Magazine is hosting its Spring/Summer edition party at the hotel in Shoreditch. It feels like a safe bet. If it all gets too much, I can get a room or just come back to Vauxhall. Nothing bad can happen at the hotel.
I had my Bellini with Daddy at the Sky Gardens and I hardly noticed I was drinking; it just felt like the natural thing to do. I didn’t suddenly want a whole ton of meth or anything. I think I’m safe around alcohol.
I take a hotel car from Vauxhall to Shoreditch. There are paps outside – of course there are – and it’s like I’ve never been away. ‘Lexi! Over here, Lexi! Lexi! Give us a smile!’ Camera’s flash like a strobe. I pose, hand on hip. Don’t smile too much, it wrinkles your face. I wonder what magnificent journalism will appear in the Sidebar of Shame tomorrow. Will it be Sexy Lexi reveals new do? I’m not showing off my assets upstairs so it could well be Lexi puts on a leggy display. Their mothers must be so proud.
I do my twenty seconds before turning and heading into the hotel. The paps complain, but some other thirst queen will drag her boob job down the carpet in a minute or two.
The party is already throbbing. Canapé minions weave through the crowd, trays aloft. It seems during three months in rehab London hasn’t moved on from serving miniature versions of infant party foods: I spy mini-burgers, mini-hotdogs, mini-ice-cream-cones. The DJ, some model who knows how to plug in an iPhone, pretends to cue tracks with big headphones.
Nothing ever changes. I lift a flute of champagne off a tray as one glides by.
I take a deep breath.
I can do this.
; ‘Lexi!’ I turn and see Genie pushing through the crowd, closely followed by Nevada who’s hand-in-hand with Fo. Fo is wearing her sunglasses inside.
‘Oh my god!’ I gasp, already feeling like I’m playing the role of Lexi in some weird experimental theatre piece. ‘Genie! How are you?’
Genie gives me lavish air kisses. Her red hair, padded out with extensions, falls in voluminous curls. She smells gorgeous. ‘I’m super, darling! How are you? How was Cayman?’ She doesn’t really need to add a wink or a nudge.
‘Great, thanks.’
‘Well, darling, I must say, you look phenomenal.’
I’ll take that. ‘Thank you.’ God, it’s so noisy, I have to shriek over the music. ‘Hi, Nev, how are you?’
She seems more guarded. She gives me just one kiss on my cheek. She looks as chic as ever. ‘I’m everything. Lexi, this is Fo, Fo, this is Lexi.’
‘Hi,’ I offer her a hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Fo, clearly on edge, shakes my hand and leans in for a kiss. ‘You too, hon. Say,’ she comes closer, ‘you know where a girl can score some blow?’
I recoil slightly. Wow, that was quick even by London fashion party standards. ‘No,’ I say too sharply. ‘I mean, just throw a canapé into the crowd, see who it hits and get some off them.’
‘You not packing?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Cool. No worries.’ Fo whispers something in Nevada’s ear and vanishes into the crowd, presumably to score.
‘She seems nice,’ I say. ‘So, you’re a lesbian now?’ I ask with a grin.
Nevada laughs. ‘God, get into it. I’m sexually fluid, Lex.’
‘Gosh, how radical.’ I lick my teeth. ‘She seems cool.’
‘She’s an asshole when she’s on coke.’
‘Who isn’t?’ It’s nice to be back with old friends. ‘Come on, let’s get a booth.’
It’s nice. Away from the speakers, I can hear them. They fill me in on school gossip, and – while I admit nothing – I tell them it was nice to spend some time away from London. A bottle of champagne doesn’t last long between four and soon we’ve finished our second. I already feel quite merry.
The crowd is a mix of hipster writers and their club-kid friends (penniless art students ferreting finger food in their handbags for later), New Faces from Prestige and IMG, grime rappers who aren’t very grimy, and us: the It Kids and minor royals. Eventually the club-kids, having had their fill of free food and drink, start to drift further east for their DJ slots or door-whore gigs.
‘Where are we going now?’ Genie says.
‘I think I’m heading back to Vauxhall if you want to come? We can chill in the suite.’
Fo, who mostly communicates via Nevada, mutters something in her ear. ‘There’s a party in Chelsea,’ Nev relays. ‘The Aziz twins.’
I shake my head. ‘They’re brats. Aren’t they, like, ten?’
‘Duh, they’re in Fifth Form.’ The year below us. ‘I admit I’m curious to see their house. Apparently their super-basement goes down five floors and they have a casino.’
‘Gross.’
‘Lexi! Come on!’ Genie says. ‘It’ll be fun!’ What she really means is, don’t leave me alone with Nevada and her mute, coked-up girlfriend.
Oh, fuck it. ‘Sure, OK.’ To be fair, Chelsea is just the other side of the river from the hotel, so we have to head in that direction anyway.
Feet starting to hurt in heels, we totter out of the hotel and bundle into the back of a limo. I fight the urge to pull the Louboutins off. Once they’re off, there’s a risk they won’t go back on.
As we pull away, Fo takes out a wrap of coke. ‘You mind?’
Nevada and Genie look to me.
‘Go nuts,’ I say. I mean, it had to happen sometime, didn’t it? Unless I want to become a recluse.
She chops out four lines on the silver tray reserved for champagne (and, let’s be honest, coke). She snorts one with a rolled twenty and passes the tray to Genie who does a line too. ‘Oh my god! That’s good stuff!’ She hands me the tray. ‘You want some, Lex?’
I can’t be the only person not on coke. That’d be unbearable. I’m so woozy from the champagne that a line of coke might get me through an hour of the party, and then I’ll come down and go home to sleep. Yes, this feels like the sensible thing to do.
I’m proud of myself. I always knew, sooner or later, I’d have to manage myself around drugs.
I hold my left nostril shut and snort the line off the tray.
Coming up makes the journey from Shoreditch to Belgravia lightning fast. I’d forgotten how good the rush to your head feels.
‘I heard,’ Nevada says, ‘that Waleed Aziz bought this place two years ago for a hundred and thirty million. And that was before they put the super-basement in.’
I’m unimpressed. Only poor people talk about money like that. Like, if you have to count your money, you don’t have enough. I can picture the house before I’ve even seen it.
The limo pulls up outside a handsome townhouse. I step on to the kerb, unsteady in my heels. I already hear the gentle thud of bass from within, although the house is suitably soundproofed. This is Chelsea after all. Arm linked with Genie, we head inside.
It’s an expensive house that desperately wants you to know it’s expensive. The entrance hall is ceiling-to-floor marble, the sweeping staircase flanked by gleaming onyx Egyptian statues – the dog one and the cat one. Chandeliers drip gold from above. Tacky, tacky, tacky. You can’t buy class.
All of the oil heirs are here. I think about Saif. These would have almost certainly been his friends. None of them seem to be in mourning, put it that way.
It’s already heaving. I’m greeted mostly by people I recognise from school. I air kiss Reena Aziz, one of the twins, and thank her for having us. She’s all hair and switchblade eyebrows. Truth be told, I’m a little terrified of her. She’s one of very few people at St Agnes I wouldn’t want to cross. She’s in a good mood though. ‘Wander! Get lost! Enjoy yourselves! Cinema and pool in the basement. Moschino swimsuits and towels for everyone!’ She dismisses us with her gold nails. ‘Go! Have fun!’
Cocktail waiters circulate with drinks. The martini glasses are filled with murky amber fluid. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Rattlesnake,’ replies the pretty waitress. ‘Whiskey, absinthe, lemon juice and egg white.’
Why the hell not? I take a glass and have a sip. Man, it’s strong. Delicious though. ‘Come on,’ Genie says. ‘Let’s explore.’
The gaucheness continues as we descend into the basement. The kitchen and dining room backs onto an opulent garden party – decorated like some sort of souk with lanterns and hookah pipes. Belly dancers weave, shake and shimmy through the crowds. Guests are seated on low bean bags.
And that’s when I see him.
Always the way, isn’t it? Just when your guard goes down.
Kurt sucks on a hookah pipe, reclining in one of the Bedouin tents. The sight of him winds me. Shit. I don’t know if I’m ready. Everything is slow motion. I wonder if I can retreat.
Too late. His shark-like eyes scan the garden and he clocks me. He too looks shocked for a second. I haven’t strictly told him I’m back yet. I was building up to it. I swear.
He looks even better than I remember. The icy blue of those eyes, in stark contrast to the black lashes. He exhales a mouthful of swirling smoke and the corners of his lips curl. His left hand extends out, fingers like the barrel of a revolver and he shoots me. And I feel it. He got me.
‘You want another line?’ Fo says to Nevada.
I’m going to need one. ‘Yes.’
After doing another line in a gold-plated bathroom, I figure I can’t avoid him any longer. I return to the garden, but don’t see him. I take another Rattlesnake from a waiter and wander through the crowd. Maybe it’s psychological, but it smells of Marrakesh – of orange trees, honey tea and myrrh.
And then I feel his breath on my neck. Goosebumps. I somehow sense h
im. ‘Nice hair,’ he says.
I turn to face him. He kisses me on the cheek.
‘Were you planning on telling me you were back?’
‘Eventually.’
‘Eventually?’
‘Kurt. Guess what? I’m back.’
He reaches up and ruffles his quiff. ‘I missed you, kid.’
It is and isn’t what I need to hear.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
I sigh. ‘Let’s get a drink, yeah?’
He waggles a half-finished bottle of Jim Beam. ‘I’m all good.’
We find an abandoned love seat under a fairy-light infused pear tree. He takes a swig of bourbon and I sip my cocktail. ‘Are you real?’ I finally say.
He grabs my head and kisses me hard on the lips. ‘I’m that real.’
‘Kurt, don’t.’
‘Don’t kiss you?’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’ I down my cocktail and wince. ‘Look, I met someone in recovery.’
He laughs cruelly. ‘You hooked up in rehab? Classy, Lex, real classy.’
‘Oh, fuck off, Kurt. Like you haven’t fucked half of London while I was away.’
He actually looks hurt. ‘Lexi, I love you. I missed you and I love you.’
I’m speechless again. Everything I wanted to hear at the exact wrong moment. Timing is such a bitch. Now, then, and Brady. We shouldn’t have ever met. But we did. ‘Things are different now.’
‘Maybe I can be different. You don’t know.’
‘Kurt . . .’
‘Do you love me?’
I push my hair off my face. ‘I’m not sure what we have is love. It’s too chaotic.’
Those eyes. God, I’d forgotten how handsome he is; how powerless he makes me feel and how much I enjoy the weakness.
‘Love is chaotic,’ he says. ‘You can choose who you like, but you don’t get a choice with love. That’s why it’s so cool. It’s out of control.’
This isn’t fair. ‘Kurt, you never change!’ I’m getting mad now. ‘You let me drift away downstream, you get bored of me, and just when I’m almost free you reel me back in like a fish on a hook! It’s not fair!’