‘That’s good. But remember, addiction is both physical and mental. Your body may be free of the toxins, but your brain needs time to heal too.’
The trouble was, Alex had never been much good at patience. He had always been anxious to get on to the next thing. He had mastered the piano, so he learnt the violin, then the rest of the orchestra. Then, when he outgrew the music department at Danehurst and was due to go to the Royal Academy, he wanted to jump forward again, so he had joined a band. There was always another peak to climb. The therapists pointed out how ‘enabling’ his choice of lifestyle had been for someone prone to addictive behaviour. Yes, drugs were available in the music industry, sure, but what was damaging was the emptiness of Alex’s life. As soon as he had a nice guitar, he wanted a bigger amp. As soon as he had an Aston Martin, he wanted a helicopter. He had a nice girlfriend, but he wanted a movie star. He was constantly chasing the next high.
Finally, in group therapy one morning, another patient had asked the question he had been avoiding: ‘What are you running from, Alex?’ And suddenly, without warning, Alex began crying, his shoulders heaving with the sobs.
Glancing out of the window of the day room, a glass-fronted conservatory where the patients would sit between sessions, Alex could tell visiting hours had begun. Visitors were strictly vetted – they didn’t want your dealer turning up – and were limited to a two-hour visit twice a week. For someone who had hundreds of so-called friends all around the world, Alex had only managed one short visit from Ted Sullivan, who had filled him in on everything being done to contain the news of his ‘little break’.
Today, however, it was different. Today, Alex had a real visitor and he was as nervous as a teenager going on his first date. Unable to sit still, he walked towards the front door – and almost bumped right into her.
‘Hello, stranger,’ said Grace, hugging him warmly. ‘I love the new look.’
Alex laughed, relief flooding through him. When Grace had written to request a visit, he hadn’t known how he would react, but now she was here, he felt relaxed and comfortable.
‘I thought it was time for a change,’ he said, rubbing his hand over his straggly beard. ‘But you look fantastic.’ She was wearing a cream sweater and a grey pencil skirt – sexy but elegant, Grace Ashford’s signature look, he smiled.
He led her out into the grounds, where the sunshine warmed his face, and they began to walk slowly down towards the water.
‘Well it’s nice to see you looking so good,’ said Grace.
Alex chuckled. There were no mirrors in Second Chances – they were broken too often – but he caught his reflection in the windows at night. His eyes were sunken and his jeans hung loosely around his shrinking waist. ‘It’s kind of you, but I look like shit,’ he said. ‘Is that what they told you to say?’ He nodded towards a nurse who was subtly keeping tabs on the patients.
Grace frowned. ‘No one told me to say anything.’
‘Sorry, it’s not paranoia,’ said Alex. ‘It’s just they have this policy at Chances – no negativity. There’s a guy who was drinking lighter fuel before he came in here. His skin looks like tissue paper and his eyeballs are pink, but everyone keeps telling him how amazing he’s looking.’
Grace smiled and put her arm through his. As they walked, he filled her in on his situation. The blackouts in Soho House, the raid on the off-licence and his frantic call to Miles. From his talk with Ted, he told her how Miles’ lawyer had paid off the Korean and persuaded the police and the hospital he had been taken to not to section him – as long as he came straight to Second Chances.
‘Well he’s done a good job of keeping it quiet,’ said Grace. ‘I haven’t read anything in the newspapers about it.’
‘Apparently David Falk – the guy who owns my record label – was toying with the idea of leaking it to the press. Said the idea of me being sectioned might give me a more edgy image. But Ted and Miles talked him round and they’ve kept a tight lid on it. I don’t want to be seen as a bloody freak show.’
‘Has anyone recognised you here?’
He nodded. ‘It’s kind of hard to avoid – we do nothing but talk about ourselves in group therapy. But people are pretty cool about it and everyone wants to help each other get well. Of course there are plenty of people round here more famous than me.’
‘Really?’ said Grace, wide-eyed.
He pointed. ‘That guy over there told me he was Jimi Hendrix yesterday.’
She punched him on the arm.
‘Honestly, though, they ponce this place up with words like recovery and rehabilitation, but really it’s a psychiatric unit. A nut-house. ’
‘It’s a hospital, Alex, and they’re just here to make you well.’
He laughed. ‘You sound like the doctors.’
‘Well, maybe that’s because they know what they’re talking about.’
They walked a little way further.
‘So if I haven’t made the papers, how did you know I was here?’
She pulled a face. ‘Miles told me.’
‘Ah. Discretion was never his strong point, was it? Has he sent you to baby-sit?’
‘I wanted to come.’ She turned towards him. ‘You know, I wish you’d told me about what was going on. You needed someone, Alex, and I feel horrible that I wasn’t there for you.’
Alex waved a hand. ‘Grace, I didn’t want anyone to be there for me. Besides, I’m learning all sorts of things about myself in this place, and one of the blinding revelations is that no one could have stopped me being an arse. I had to hit bottom before I even knew I was in a hole. So don’t feel bad. Not even I knew I needed a friend.’
‘I wish I’d been able to try.’
‘Tell you what, why don’t you take me out when I leave this place?’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Anywhere with food. The grub’s so awful here, I’ve started to make mental lists of all the things I’m going to eat when I get out, like prawn cocktail crisps and spaghetti carbonara and Marmite sandwiches – God, I miss Marmite!’
She giggled as they sat on a bench by the lake.
‘So what are you going to do when you get out of here, Alex?’ she said more seriously. ‘You know you’re welcome to come and stay with me and Julian at Toddington, that’s if you’re not heading back to LA.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be heading anywhere within a one-thousand-mile radius of Melissa.’
‘Have you heard from her?’
He shook his head. ‘And don’t get all sad about it,’ he said. ‘It’s funny, in the middle of all this madness I can actually see things more clearly now. Me and Melissa should never have got together. I mean, we met on the morning of 9/11, did you know that? The thing that brings people together isn’t always love. It’s timing, convenience, sadness, guilt.’
‘Like us?’
He gave a slow smile.
‘Do you ever think about him?’ Grace said finally. ‘The boy from that night?’
‘At first I couldn’t stop thinking about him,’ said Alex. ‘But then slowly it got less and less – it’s tragic, but you move on with your life. At least it seemed that way, but deep down I think I’ve always carried it with me.’
He paused, looking down at the bench, running a fingernail along the grain of the wood.
‘It’s funny, you take drugs to make yourself feel good, but since Angel I’ve never felt truly good, never really liked myself. But being here, I’ve realised that it’s not all down to one night. There’s plenty of other stuff to pick from: my dad dying, the guilt of not being able to look after my mum, the loneliness of going to Danehurst because it was what I thought she wanted. In actual fact, we’d both have been happier if I’d stayed at home.’ He laughed. ‘Sorry for sounding like a self-pitying bastard, but it’s what we do here.’
Grace put her head on his shoulder. For a split second Alex felt they had been transported out of Second Chances hospital and whizzed through the air. Now they were two lo
vers, two ordinary people, sitting by the boating lake in Regent’s Park, enjoying a happy, comfortable silence. It was wonderful, a perfect moment that made his heart want to burst. And then it hit him. He was happy because he was here, right now, with Grace. It was Grace who made him happy. I love her, he thought with overpowering clarity. Emotion welled inside him. All he wanted to do was just kiss her.
‘Alex?’
He turned round to see the white uniform of one of the nurses.
‘You have to come inside for your medication in a few minutes, Alex.’
He nodded, feeling a terrible sense of loss and disappointment as Grace let go of his hand and stood up.
This isn’t how it works, he thought angrily. This isn’t how it happens in the movies. He was supposed to take her in his arms and kiss her as a fiery sun set over the lake. But this wasn’t An Affair to Remember. It wasn’t the top of the Empire State Building. It was a psychiatric unit. No one wanted a madman to declare undying love, even if he was Cary Grant.
He tried to compose himself. ‘OK, so before you go, tell me some news from the outside world,’ he said as they strolled back towards the house.
‘Well, believe it or not,’ said Grace, ‘I’m making a film.’
‘Wow.’
‘Actually, it’s more of a documentary, and I tell you, I feel as if I’m making it up as I go along.’
‘No negativity, remember?’ said Alex. ‘I bet it’s brilliant. Hey, who’s doing the score?’
‘We’re quite a way off from that yet. Why? Know anyone?’ she said with a smile.
‘Ah, so that’s why you came here today,’ he teased.
She looked mortally offended. He nudged her arm.
‘I’d do it in a heartbeat, Grace,’ he said. ‘But something tells me I’d be a liability to any project at the moment.’
‘Well when you get out, we can talk about it over Marmite sandwiches, OK?’
They stopped at the front door.
‘I’d like that, Grace,’ he said, hugging her.
‘You know you’re going to get well, don’t you, Alex?’ she said, squeezing his hand one last time.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know I am.’
60
December 2009
‘God, I hate Christmas,’ said Josh. ‘The parties have all been shit this year.’
Sasha raised an eyebrow, looking around the palatial Chester Row townhouse belonging to Euro-millionaire Flavio Torres.
‘I do believe they’re calling it the credit crunch, darling. A lot of people have lost a lot of money the last few months. That’s why everyone is serving cava – it sends the right message.’
‘For God’s sake, it’s like swapping your Ferrari for one of those horrible Prius things.’
Sasha didn’t say so, but it was actually an appropriate metaphor for Josh’s career. For years he’d cashed in on his glamour-boy image on the Formula One circuit. There were always better drivers out there, but the media had conveniently overlooked the lack of podium places when he was twenty-five and as handsome as a movie star. But now he was pushing thirty-five, he simply couldn’t compete with the likes of Jenson Button, who had good looks and a Formula One World Championship. The rumour was that Josh’s contract with Alliot Bown, his team, wasn’t going to be renewed; and then what? She stole a sideways glance at him. For a second she couldn’t believe how long they’d been dating. What had started out as a quick fling had become a four-year on-off relationship. She supposed he was good-looking, but he’d become very snappy recently, resenting her work trips and the increasing attention as the business grew. But he was pretty good between the sheets.
‘OK, if you’re not feeling festive,’ she said, putting her flute on the white marble mantelpiece, ‘let’s get going.’
‘Come on, Sash. It’s Christmas.’
‘I thought you just said the party was terrible.’
‘What’s the option? Going home?’
‘I’m sorry if that sounds like such an unappealing prospect.’
‘Let’s at least have a mingle.’
‘Ten minutes.’ She sighed. ‘And if Elton’s not here, I’m going home.’
They walked around the ground floor of the house. It was a beautiful place with high ceilings, wonderfully decorated with long gilt mirrors and old oils. Sasha knew Flavio a little and she was sure it was the work of an interior designer; Flavio’s taste was slightly more exotic. The house was crowded. Josh was right that the crunch had led to some rather anaemic Christmas parties, so when someone like Flavio did it properly, the beautiful people came in droves.
‘I’ve just seen Steve Darling,’ said Josh into her ear.
‘That awful sports agent?’
‘He’s not that bad,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, he said the party’s really happening upstairs. Come on.’
Reluctantly, Sasha followed him up the marble staircase. The disadvantage of dating a sportsman – if you could calling driving a car a sport – was that they tended to flock together: the drivers, the footballers, the boxers. Some were very nice, of course, but many were just plain chavvy. All that gold jewellery and tattoos: she shivered. No, she really needed to start rethinking her relationship with Josh, especially as he’d been badgering her about his idea for a men’s clothing line. Like that would ever work.
‘There he is,’ said Josh eagerly, taking Sasha’s hand and leading her into a darkened bedroom. There were half a dozen people lounging around watching two girls dancing to banging dance music. Steve Darling came over wearing a brown silk shirt and a fixed glassy smile. Sasha instantly stiffened.
‘Hey-hey!’ cried Steve, throwing his arms open wide.‘The glamour couple are here, now the party can really get started.’ He held up a rolled note and gestured towards a bedside table where lines of cocaine were already chopped out. ‘Fancy a nose-up? It’s Christmas after all.’
Sasha saw the look of interest on Josh’s face, but after a glance at her, he shook his head. Sasha never took drugs and he knew she didn’t approve. ‘Maybe later, eh, mate?’
‘Well have a drink then,’ said Steve, turning to a blonde girl in a red minidress who was gyrating her hips against a tall man Sasha recognised as Premiership footballer Gary Shute. ‘Here, Louise, get Josh and his lady friend a drink, will you?’
The girl flashed Sasha a narrow look as she reached for a bottle chilling in an ice bucket. Sasha almost laughed out loud. Like I’d ever be interested in some footballer, sweetie, she thought.
‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘In fact, we’ve got to be going, haven’t we, Josh?’
‘Come on, not yet,’ said Steve, stroking the shoulder of the blonde. ‘Louise here is a dancer and she was just going to put on a show for us.’
Not waiting to hear any more, Sasha turned and walked straight down the stairs. Josh came clattering after her.
‘Sash!’ he called. ‘Hey, where are you going?’
She stopped on the landing and turned to face him. ‘I’m getting as far away from your sordid little friends as I can.’
‘They’re all right,’ said Josh defensively. ‘Train hard, play hard – they’re just a bit pissed, that’s all.’
‘If you say so. Either way I’m going home. Are you coming?’
‘No, I think I’m going to hang out here for a while.’
‘Fine,’ said Sasha. And as she stalked towards the front door, she found she was actually very relieved to be leaving Josh behind.
Sasha was woken by an insistent ringing.
For a few moments, she tried to ignore it, pulling the warm duvet tighter around her, but it was no use. Moaning, she switched on her bedside light and groped for her watch: 5 a.m.
‘What the hell?’ she whispered. It was still pitch black outside, and as the doorbell kept on ringing, her annoyance quickly turned to fear. She adored her four-storey Chelsea townhouse, but for several months now she had been thinking about moving into an apartment with CCTV and twenty-four-hour concierge, or at least getting
her study turned into a panic room. You couldn’t pick up a newspaper these days without hearing horror stories leaking out of the smartest enclaves of London. There was Karin Cavendish, the swimwear designer, who had a stalker. Then there was that violent robbery in Chelsea. No, you couldn’t be too careful these days. Especially when you were beautiful. Or had money. Or both.
She grabbed her mobile, tapping in 999 . . . they could be here in minutes . . . but before she could press ‘call’, the phone began vibrating in her hand. ‘Josh’ read the LCD display. ‘Bastard,’ she muttered.
‘It’s me,’ said Josh as soon as she picked up.
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