The Girl on Paper

by Guillaume Musso

  ‘However we got here, when I wake up in the morning you’re the first thing I think of. And if you sink, Tom, we go down with you. If you let go, my life won’t make sense any more.’

  I opened my mouth to tell her to stop talking crap, but other words came out instead.

  ‘Are you happy, Carole?’

  She looked at me as though she hadn’t understood the question. As though in her struggle just to get by she had forgotten all about being happy, as though that idea had fallen by the wayside long ago.

  ‘This thing about the character from your books,’ she carried on, ‘it’s totally implausible, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is a little far-fetched,’ I admitted.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what I can do that would help, other than remind you that I’m your friend, that I love you and that I’m always here. And this sleep therapy thing, it might be worth a try, don’t you think?’

  I looked at her affectionately. Touched as I was by her desire to help, I was absolutely determined to avoid any kind of therapy.

  ‘Well, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t pay for it!’

  She brushed my objection aside. ‘Do you remember the day you got your first royalty payout? The amount was so large that you insisted on sharing it with me. I refused, of course, but you still found a way of getting my bank details and putting the money in my account yourself. Do you remember my face when I got my bank statement and my balance was suddenly over $300,000!’

  As she told the story, Carole began to look a little happier, and her eyes regained some of their sparkle.

  I couldn’t help but smile, as I remembered that happy time when I had believed that money would solve all our problems. For a few moments, life seemed a little brighter, but it didn’t last long, and there were tears of distress in her eyes as she begged, ‘Accept the offer. Please. I want to pay for it.’

  She was once again the abused little girl that I had met all those years ago, and it was to make her happy that I agreed to the treatment.

  12

  Rehab

  Death will come for me, and she will have your eyes

  Title of a poem found on Cesare Pavese’s bedside table after his suicide

  At the wheel of the Bugatti, Milo drove slowly, which was not like him at all. We sat in tense silence.

  ‘It’s going to be fine. Don’t look like that. It’s not as if I’m checking you into Betty Ford!’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  Back at my house, we had clashed again whilst looking for the keys to the car. We had searched for an hour without finding them. For the first time in our lives we had almost come to blows. Finally, after throwing a few home truths at each other, we had sent a runner over to Milo’s office to pick up the spare keys.

  He turned on the radio to lighten the mood, but the snippet of Amy Winehouse’s refrain only increased the tension.

  I said NO, NO, NO

  I lowered my window and watched the palm trees that lined the seafront whip past us, feeling even worse than before. Maybe Milo was right. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe I was seeing things. After all, I was aware that whenever I wrote I was on a knife edge. Writing plunged me into a strange limbo where reality began to fade and my characters became more and more real to me, so much so that they would follow me wherever I went. I shared their suffering, their doubts and their joy, and they would continue to haunt me well after the novel had been completed. My characters dominated my dreams and sat with me at breakfast. They were with me when I bought my groceries and when I went out for dinner. They were even there when I made love. It was at once exhilarating and pathetic, intoxicating and disturbing. However, up until now, I had always been able to stop this temporary delirium from tipping over into madness. If previously my imagination had occasionally gone too far, it had never threatened to make a madman of me. Why should it start now, when I had not written so much as a line in months?

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot. I brought this for you,’ said Milo, throwing a small plastic bottle into my lap.

  I picked it up.

  My tranquillisers.

  I unscrewed the lid and studied the little white pills that seemed to be taunting me from the bottom of the bottle.

  Why give them to me now, when you’ve tried so hard to get me off them?

  ‘It wasn’t a good idea to make you go completely cold turkey,’ he explained.

  My heart started racing and I felt suddenly anxious and alone. I hurt all over, like a drug addict waiting for the next hit. How was it possible to be in this much pain without having sustained any actual injuries?

  I found it odd that, in this instance, my best friend was my dealer.

  ‘This sleep therapy thing is going to make you feel like a new man,’ Milo reassured me. ‘They make you sleep like a baby for ten days straight!’

  He was trying to cheer me up, but I could tell he didn’t really believe what he was saying.

  I gripped the orange bottle tightly, so tightly that the plastic felt as though it were about to crack. I knew that all I had to do was let just one of the small white tablets dissolve under my tongue to feel instantly relieved. I could even take three or four and just go to sleep. They had a lovely effect on me – ‘You’re lucky,’ Dr Schnabel had told me. ‘Some people suffer very nasty side effects.’

  Determined to show I wasn’t dependent, I put the bottle in my pocket without opening it.

  ‘If the treatment doesn’t work, we’ll try other things,’ Milo promised. ‘I’ve heard about this guy in New York – Connor McCoy. Apparently he works wonders with hypnosis.’

  Hypnosis, artificially induced sleep, bottles of pills. I was beginning to tire of fleeing reality, even if at the moment my reality was a difficult one. I did not want to spend ten days in a coma induced by neuroleptic drugs. I didn’t like the lack of responsibility on my part that this treatment involved. Now I was keen to deal with my demons head-on even if it killed me.

  I had long been fascinated by the links between mental illness and creativity. Camille Claudel, Maupassant, Nerval and Artaud had all gradually succumbed to madness. Virginia Woolf had drowned herself in a river; Cesare Pavese had ended his life with an overdose of barbiturates in a hotel room; Nicholas Staël had thrown himself out of a window; John Kennedy Toole had run a hose from the exhaust pipe of his car to the inside of the vehicle; not to mention the great Hemingway, who had blown his face off with a rifle. Same again for Kurt Cobain: a bullet in the skull on a pale Seattle morning, leaving nothing but a note addressed to his imaginary childhood friend: ‘It’s better to burn out than fade away.’

  As good a way to go as any, I suppose.

  Each one of these artists had tried to make their way in the world, but it always ended the same way. If art exists because real life isn’t enough, perhaps there comes a point where even art is no longer enough and the only logical conclusion is madness and death. And even if I was not as gifted as these particular individuals I was unlucky enough to share their neuroses.

  *

  Milo pulled into the parking lot of a modern building surrounded by carefully planted trees. The building was a striking combination of pink marble and glass: Dr Sophia Schnabel’s private clinic.

  ‘We’re your allies, not your enemies,’ Carole reminded me, as she met us on the steps leading to the entrance.

  The three of us went in together. At reception, I was surprised to find an appointment had already been made for me, and that my stay in the clinic had been planned the previous evening.

  Resigned to my fate, I followed my friends into the lift without putting up a fight. The glass capsule took us up to the top floor, where a secretary led us into a huge office, assuring us that the doctor would soon be with us.

  The room was light and spacious, with a large desk and white leather sofa.

  ‘Cool chair,’ whistled Milo in admiration as he sat down on a seat shaped like a hand.

  There were several Buddhist sculptures dotted around the room, wh
ich created a serene atmosphere, no doubt useful for relaxing more difficult patients. A bronze bust of Siddhartha, a Wheel of Law made of sandstone, a pair of marble gazelles complete with fountain in the middle – all the usual suspects were there.

  I watched Milo trying to come up with one of his customary jokes. Between the statues and the interior design, there was enough material for an entire stand-up show, but he remained silent. That’s when I realised that he was hiding something serious from me.

  I looked at Carole for reassurance, but she avoided my gaze by pretending to study the various diplomas that Dr Schnabel had hung on the walls.

  Ever since the murder of Ethan Whitaker, Schnabel had been the hottest psychiatrist to the stars. She counted some of the biggest names in Hollywood as patients: actors, singers, producers, politicians, sons of this one, sons of sons of that one.

  She even had her own television series, where viewers caught a glimpse of the inner life of ‘real people’, who got the chance to have a live session with the ‘Celebrity Shrink’ (that was the programme’s title) and describe in detail their unhappy childhood, their addictions, their sexual exploits and how they’d always wanted to try a threesome.

  Half the entertainment industry adored Sophia Schnabel. The other half feared her. After practising for twenty years, it was rumoured that she possessed files that rivalled those of Edgar Hoover. She had thousands of hours of recorded therapy sessions that must have contained some of the darkest, most unspeakable secrets in Hollywood history. These files were of course completely confidential and kept under lock and key, but they nevertheless had the power to destroy the entire entertainment industry, not to mention the havoc they could wreak in the world of politics.

  A recent event had further consolidated Sophia’s hold on the entertainment world. A few months earlier, Stephanie Harrison, the widow of the billionaire Richard Harrison, founder of the Green Cross chain of supermarkets, had died of an overdose at the age of thirty-two. At the autopsy, traces of sedatives, antidepressants and slimming pills were found in her blood. There was nothing unusual in that. Except that the doses were worryingly high. The deceased’s brother had accused Schnabel on live television of being entirely responsible for his sister’s death. He had engaged an army of lawyers and detectives who searched Stephanie’s apartment and found more than fifty prescriptions. They were made out to five different pseudonyms, but all signed by Sophia Schnabel. The discovery had proved extremely damaging to the psychiatrist. With the shock of Michael Jackson’s death still fresh in the public’s mind, the media suddenly turned on the vast network of doctors that was more than happy to write out endless prescriptions on demand for its wealthier clients. Anxious to limit this dangerous practice, the State of California lodged a complaint against the psychiatrist for writing fraudulent prescriptions, a complaint that was then suddenly and inexplicably withdrawn. This was highly unusual as the prosecutor had all the evidence he needed to charge her. The change of heart, which many put down to a lack of courage on the part of the magistrate, effectively rendered Sophia Schnabel untouchable.

  To enter into the privileged inner circle of patients, you had to be recommended by one of her former clients. She was one of the ‘hot tips’ that celebrities liked to pass around amongst themselves, like the answers to Where do you find the best coke? Which trader will get you the best investments? How do you get courtside seats at the Lakers’ game? Who do you ring to get a call-girl-who-doesn’t-look-like-a-call-girl? (the men) or Who do you call to get breasts-that-don’t-make-it-look-like-you’ve-had-your-breasts-done? (the women).

  I had been given Sophia’s number by a Canadian soap actress that Milo had tried to chat up, without much success. Schnabel had treated her for a severe form of agoraphobia. At first I had thought this girl bland and uninteresting but she was in fact cultured and discerning, and through her I discovered the charms of John Cassavetes’ films and the paintings of Robert Ryman.

  Sophia Schnabel and I had never really seen eye to eye. Our sessions now mostly consisted of me simply picking up my medication, which made us both happy: she got paid for a full consultation for only five minutes’ work, and I had access to all the chemicals I wanted to pump into my body.

  *

  ‘Good morning,’ Dr Schnabel greeted us as she walked into her office. She always wore the trademark welcoming smile from her television programme, and today sported the familiar tight leather jacket left open to reveal a low-cut blouse underneath. Some people thought she was stylish.

  As always, it took me a few moments to get used to her shock of hair, which she tried to tame with a strange perm that made her look as if she were wearing the still-warm corpse of a small poodle.

  I could tell by her greeting that she had already spoken with Milo and Carole. I was excluded from the conversation as if they were my parents and they had already taken a decision on my behalf that I had no say in at all.

  What I found most disturbing was seeing Carole so distant and cold after the emotional conversation we’d had just an hour ago. She was uncomfortable and hesitant, visibly upset at being part of a scheme she didn’t approve of. On the surface, Milo looked more sure of himself, but I sensed that this was an act for my benefit.

  As I listened to Sophia Schnabel’s ambiguous words, it became obvious that a course of sleep therapy had never been the plan. The battery of tests she wanted me to undergo were just an excuse to lock me up in here. Milo was trying to have me put away so he didn’t have to deal with the financial mess he had made! I was familiar enough with California law to know that a doctor could enforce involuntary committal of a patient for up to seventy-two hours if they judged the patient to be so unstable as to present a danger to society, and in my present state I fitted into that category pretty well.

  I had clashed with the authorities more than once over the past year, and it would be a long time before I was off their radar. I was currently on bail awaiting trial for possession of drugs. My encounter with Billie – which Milo was currently recounting to the doctor in vivid detail – would be enough to class me as psychotic and prone to hallucinations.

  Just when I thought there could be no more surprises, I heard Carole describing the bloodstains on my shirt and the terrace windows.

  ‘Was it your blood, Mr Boyd?’ asked the psychiatrist.

  I chose not to explain; she wouldn’t have believed me anyway. Her mind was already made up, and I could almost hear the report that she would later dictate to her secretary:

  The patient has self-harmed, or has tried to inflict serious wounds on another party. The patient’s judgement, clearly impaired, renders him incapable of understanding his need for treatment. This justifies involuntary committal.

  ‘If you don’t mind, we’re going to start the tests.’

  Yes, I did mind. I didn’t want any testing, I didn’t want to be put to sleep, I didn’t want any more pills! I got up to end the conversation.

  I walked over to the polished glass screen that stood in front of the sculpture representing the Wheel of Law, decorated with little flames and floral motifs. The Buddhist emblem was about three feet tall and had eight spokes, which were supposed to indicate the path that led away from suffering. Dharma’s wheel worked thus: follow the path toward ‘what must be’, and explore the path until you find ‘the right decision’.

  I had a sudden epiphany and lifted the wheel, hurling it with all my strength at the bay window, which shattered into a million tiny glass diamonds.

  *

  I can still hear Carole’s scream.

  I still see the satin curtains fluttering in the wind.

  I still feel the gust of wind that rushed in through the gaping hole, scattering papers and overturning a vase.

  I still hear the cry that seemed to come from the heavens.

  I still feel how I just let myself fall into the void.

  I still feel my body tumbling.

  I still remember the tears of the little girl from MacArthur Par
k.

  13

  The escapees

  People ask me when I’m going to make a film with real people. What’s real?

  Tim Burton

  ‘You took your time!’ I heard a voice complain.

  It was not an angel, much less St Peter.

  It was Billie Donelly.

  Clinic parking lot

  Midday

  I had fallen two storeys and now found myself tangled in a curtain on the roof of a beaten-up old Dodge, parked exactly under the window of Sophia Schnabel’s office.

  I had one cracked rib, and my knees, neck and ankle were killing me. But I was alive.

  ‘I don’t want to hurry you,’ said Billie, ‘but I’m worried that if we don’t get out of here pretty damn quickly they’ll stick you in a straitjacket.’

  I saw that she had once again helped herself to Aurore’s clothes and was wearing a white camisole with a pair of faded jeans and a belted jacket with silvery edging.

  ‘Come on, unless you want to spend all night on this roof!’ she said, jangling a bunch of keys on a Bugatti key-ring.

  ‘So you’re the one who nicked Milo’s keys!’ I exclaimed, climbing down from the Dodge.

  ‘You’re welcome!’

  Incredibly, I seemed only to have sustained a few minor injuries, but when I put weight on my foot I couldn’t stop myself crying out in pain. I had a badly sprained ankle and found I couldn’t walk properly.

  ‘THERE HE IS!’ shouted Milo, who had suddenly appeared in the parking lot and was now sending three male nurses built like rugby players after me.

  Billie got into the driver’s seat of the Bugatti and I threw myself in beside her.

  She slammed down the accelerator and headed for the parking lot exit just as the barrier was coming down. Without a second’s hesitation she screeched to a halt on the gravel.