Amy, My Daughter

by Mitch Winehouse

  ‘Too bad,’ I said. You’ve got to be cruel to be kind. The way I saw it, it was one less person Amy could buy from. I took out my frustration with Amy and her behaviour on the people I found hanging about the flat and probably got too much enjoyment from kicking them out forcefully. I thought it would do Amy no harm to see how angry she made me sometimes.

  She needed any distraction from drugs that we could give her, so we were all excited by the news that Raye had arranged for Amy to sing the title song for the next Bond film, Quantum of Solace. Amy was very excited about it. She’d really liked Casino Royale, and immediately started making plans to work with Mark Ronson, who would be writing the music. That was exactly what she needed: to start thinking about music again – a new project for her to work on. I wondered how she’d deal with deadlines and a brief that she had to fulfil.

  The hope was that we’d be able to make that distraction last long enough to keep her clean for her drug-test. Dr Ettlinger felt that Amy was improving but he decided to prescribe Valium to help her relax, which she was finding harder and harder to do. However, he explained that there was a problem: after 15 January Amy could not take any drugs at all, including prescription drugs, if she was to pass the drugs test to enable her to get her visa to enter the US to perform at the Grammy Awards the following month. The appointment for the drugs test had been made for 22 January.

  Although it was only for a week that Amy couldn’t have any medication, it would seem like a lifetime to her. I didn’t know if she could do it. The only thing keeping me optimistic was a conversation I’d had with Tyler. He’d been with her through her withdrawal in Mustique and was encouraged by her efforts to quit drugs. He agreed to keep an eye on her.

  On the drive home I stopped several times, for Amy to get out of my cab to buy sweets, a mobile phone and finally fish and chips for both of us. She even bought portions for the paps that were following us. Each time she was mobbed by fans. It was great to know that they saw her as herself and not as the Amy the tabloids had created. It was hilarious and Amy was on top form. We had a lot of laughs – at one point I was laughing so much I had to stop the cab. Amy jumped out of the seat next to me and into the back, as if she was a passenger.

  ‘Where to, madam?’ I called over my shoulder, playing the game.

  ‘To my flat in Camden Town, my good man, and don’t spare the horses.’

  ‘To Jeffrey’s Place?’

  ‘It’s mine, not Jeffrey’s,’ she said, and I laughed again. This was my girl, the way she used to be, before drugs. I went home feeling uplifted for the first time in ages. Maybe she could pull it off, after all.

  A day or two later I heard from Tyler that Amy had taken drugs. When I confronted her, she admitted it was true and told me Alex Foden had given them to her. I was furious but kept my temper in check and did nothing about Foden. The next day was meant to be the start of the drug-free week and there was no way round it. If she failed the test, she wouldn’t be admitted to the US. My hopes dimmed again when I went to see her at the Bow flat and, lo and behold, Geoff was there again.

  The following morning Raye landed me with a bombshell. The Sun newspaper had told him they had pictures and videos of Amy taking drugs. Upsetting as this was, I tried to stay calm: this just confirmed what everyone already knew.

  On the day we’d scheduled for the US drug test, the Sun published the story, complete with pictures of Amy apparently taking crack cocaine. To make matters worse, the video had been set up by two of Blake’s friends who had sold it to the Sun. I expected Amy to be mortified, but she maintained, in the face of all the evidence, that she hadn’t been set up, and said, ‘What do I care? Everybody thinks I take drugs anyway, Dad.’

  After the story appeared, I was inundated with calls from the press. I naturally wanted to protect my daughter and said that Amy was now in treatment and that we were all proud of her progress.

  We postponed the US drugs test until the following week but, drugs test or not, we had to get Amy focused. She was scheduled to perform a concert in Cannes, France, on 24 January; Jane and I were to go with her. However, in the wake of the photos surfacing in the Sun, Raye and I met with Lucian Grainge, at Universal Records. He told me he would not allow Amy to perform. Furthermore, unless Amy went into rehab, he would not allow her to perform at the Grammys or the BRIT Awards either. His concern was that Amy would make a laughing stock of herself. She might have been number one in the charts in France, Germany, Spain and Italy, but he was worried about the fallout for Universal.

  This was serious. While he was not talking about Universal dropping Amy, he was insistent that she had medical treatment in rehab. It was clear that his intentions were good and that he, like all of us, just wanted to see Amy back to her best so she could use her talent. I had been through so much with her over the last year that I had serious doubts about her agreeing to go to rehab. Lucian, though, was adamant, telling me to bring Amy to a meeting at Universal at one o’clock the following day. If she failed to show up, no excuse would be acceptable.

  The next day I went to collect Amy to take her to the meeting. Of course she wasn’t ready but after a lot of messing about we eventually left. On our journey Raye called to say that Amy was going to be arrested on drugs charges relating to the Sun video. We finally arrived at Universal an hour and a half late. I could feel the tension the moment we walked into the room. Lucian, Raye, Alan Edwards and Chris Goodman from the Outside Organization, Dr Ettlinger and Dr Pierides were all there.

  For once, a doctor wasn’t leading the discussion, which might have been helpful. Lucian laid down the law, instructing Amy that unless she went into rehab that day he would stop her working. Resistant as she was to the idea, she couldn’t ignore the threat to her career. With that, and reinforcement from everyone else in the room, she reluctantly agreed to be admitted to Capio Nightingale, a leading private psychiatric hospital in London’s St John’s Wood.

  That day I drove her there, but it wasn’t long into the journey that she started to change her mind, pleading with me to stop the cab and turn round, swearing she’d beat it herself and didn’t need to go into hospital. In the end I didn’t literally have to drag her in, but it was a struggle. She calmed down a bit but once she was in her own room, she kicked off again and threatened to kill herself. I didn’t believe a word of it because I’d heard all this in the car, but the doctors ran in from the corridor, now convinced that she was a threat to herself, and told me they would section her, which meant she would be compelled to remain in hospital if she tried to leave. For someone to be sectioned, their doctor, clinical psychologist and the local area health authority have to agree to it, which, given the state Amy was in, they would have done.

  During the initial consultation I broke down several times. What a terrible thing it was to see my baby in that situation, but I knew she was in the best place. It was breaking my heart to see her so distressed and I had to bury my natural instinct to scoop her up and take her away from what was scaring her, and the horrible days ahead. I knew this time I couldn’t fix it and that she had to go through each step of the recovery process. On her own.

  Later that evening Kelly Osbourne came to see her, and I left them to it while I drove back to Bow to collect some things Amy needed. When I got back to the hospital at about eleven o’clock, she seemed more settled, which was good for everyone. I learned later that if she had left the clinic, she would have been arrested over the Sun crack-cocaine video. I stayed until she fell asleep, kissed her goodnight and left.

  To stop unwanted calls or callers at the hospital, we devised a password system. The password was ‘Gordon’, my mother’s maiden name. I called the hospital early the next day and spoke to Dr Pierides, who said that Amy had had a comfortable night and they were sedating her so she could rest. He thought it was best that she had no visitors that day.

  Rest was a crucial part of the programme for the first few days, and Amy spent quite a bit of time sleeping. At one point, Raye s
poke to Blake who surprisingly said he was pleased that Amy was in hospital. As much as I didn’t care about his opinion, it would be important for Amy that she had his support in her recovery when she got out.

  His mother, though, was anything but supportive. As Amy was trying to get clean, a different drama was unfolding around Blake. Once again he had been refused bail. Before Amy had gone into treatment, Georgette had been hounding her about paying his legal fees. Given Amy’s position in relation to Blake’s case, no one thought that was a good idea. Numerous solicitors had said as much. While Amy remained a suspect, it could be detrimental to her case to pay Blake’s legal fees. Still, Amy wanted to help Blake, and I’d attempted several times to talk her out of it. Eventually she agreed, reluctantly, to wait until she was cleared of charges before she paid for Blake.

  Needless to say, Georgette was not happy about any of this. On Sunday, 27 January, an interview with Georgette and Giles was published in the News of the World. They referred to me as the Fat Controller, which I thought was quite funny. What was not funny was that they went on to accuse me of taking money from Amy. These stories in the press were anything but helpful, and a lot of the ‘facts’ published around that time were inaccurate to say the least.

  As it turned out, Amy couldn’t pay Blake’s legal fees anyway. Her accountant, Margaret Cody, informed me that she couldn’t afford to. Of course, the money problem was only short term as a lot of royalties were due to be paid later, but our discussion highlighted the fact that Amy wasn’t working. The royalties were coming in, but there was no plan for what would happen when they ran out. Something had to change.

  * * *

  I visited Amy as often as I could at the hospital. When you’re dealing with someone who’s recovering from drug addiction, you look for small signs of progress wherever you can find them, such as when I saw her eating. That pleased me because she desperately needed to put on some weight.

  After only a few days, it was clear there were other positive effects. On one of my visits, Dr Pierides mentioned that he was pleased with Amy’s progress, and Amy was also pleased with it. She was beginning to feel a little better and, to my surprise, she said she wanted to stay in the hospital. She also said she wanted to move out of the Bow flat as she felt the people there were a big part of her problem. I thought this was a major turning-point for Amy, and that she’d come to it after so long left me feeling more relieved than I’d been in days, if not weeks.

  The following day Dr Ettlinger called me to say that they were transferring Amy to the London Clinic, in the West End, not far from Harley Street, which is stuffed with high-end private medical practitioners. She was admitted for rehydration as she had lost a lot of weight through vomiting. The plan was that she would stay there for three or four days, then go back to Capio Nightingale. I went to visit her at the London Clinic; I knew the place well as I’d dropped punters off there. The entrance was imposing but old-fashioned, in that red-brick London way, but I’d never been inside and was impressed by the clean modern lines. Amy told me she was feeling a lot better and didn’t want to go back to Capio Nightingale. I said she had to, and she reluctantly agreed. My worst fear was that she would go back to Capio Nightingale, then just walk out, which would leave her open to arrest over the Sun crack-cocaine video. The police were now saying they were willing to drop the drugs charges against Amy – if she was willing to name the people who had taken the video of her so they could be arrested for drug-dealing. Now definitely wasn’t the time to put this to Amy though.

  Sadly, despite the progress she’d made, her leaving was a very real possibility. And if Amy wanted to leave, no one could stop her because she had improved to the point at which they could no longer section her. Amy was feeling so much better that she thought she was cured. Of course, she was far from that. I knew that if she left Capio Nightingale, it wouldn’t be long before she was back on drugs. I really didn’t know what to do and it seemed that no one had a solution. It was sending me round the bend. The people I thought would know best what to do, how to help Amy, how to heal her, could only do so much, and then it was down to her.

  One day I took Amy out of Capio Nightingale briefly so that she could have a medical examination with a doctor in Knightsbridge for her visa to enter the US. It went well and Amy and I were both pleased that there was still a chance she could attend the Grammys. The US Embassy said they would let us know their decision within forty-eight hours. I held out the hope that the Grammys might work out for her. Amy seemed so much better, and Dr Ettlinger told me he was thrilled with her progress. Amy had an incredible power of recovery. Given the quantity of poisonous substances she had put into her body, it was wonderful to see her getting better so quickly.

  A few days later, I had a call from Security at Capio Nightingale, who told me that Geoff had smuggled drugs into the hospital, crudely stuffed inside a teddy bear. Amy’s friend Blake Wood, whom I called American Blake, didn’t do drugs. He had come to see her shortly afterwards and made sure the drugs were immediately removed. By then, though, Amy had taken some. I rushed to the hospital and stayed with her all night. I was mad with frustration at her weakness, but furious with the awful, awful man who was prepared to risk her wellbeing, even her life, for the sake of a few quid. I banned all visitors who weren’t on a list I had given to the hospital.

  The next morning I chaperoned Amy to Pentonville for her visit with Blake. The newspaper coverage of the visit was upbeat about Amy’s health and there were some nice photographs of her, smiling at the cameras. On the way back in the cab, I asked Amy what Blake had said to her when she had told him about the hospital. In fairness to Blake, around that time he appeared to be supportive of Amy getting clean.

  ‘We didn’t talk about me, Dad,’ she said. ‘We talked about him and then a bit about us, you know, Blake and me.’

  I knew then that she hadn’t told him.

  In spite of the setback with the drugs from the teddy bear, Amy was making progress, and we all felt confident she would continue heading in the right direction. But a question mark still hung over the Grammys. We had still had no word from the US Embassy about Amy’s visa and, as time was running out, Raye arranged for her to perform in London on a live link to the Grammys. It was a smart move. Not long after, we learned that the embassy had declined Amy’s visa application on the grounds that traces of cocaine had been found in her blood.

  Initially Amy was upset: she had wanted more than anything to play in front of her peers at the Grammys. She bucked up when I explained the plans for a live performance to be beamed to Los Angeles, but she was still very disappointed that the visa wasn’t forthcoming. She had had enough of Capio Nightingale, she said, and definitely wanted to leave. I was able to keep her there one more day, but that was it. I found her a two-bedroom suite at the Plaza on the River Hotel, Albert Embankment, near the Houses of Parliament. Amy liked the fact that the suites were separate from the hotel, giving her privacy. I arranged for American Blake to stay there with her, which she was very pleased about.

  At ten o’clock on Friday, 10 February, Raye, Lucian, Dr Ettlinger, Amy’s new consultant psychiatrist Dr Kelleher, Amy and I had a meeting at Capio Nightingale, during which Amy was told that there must be no drugs or the live link to the Grammys would be pulled. Amy was on top form. She agreed to the terms of her leaving, so Raye and I drove her to the Plaza on the River where we discussed the plan for the live link. Amy was going to do a show for invited guests first, then perform two songs for the live link. She was very excited, and I saw the old Amy gradually emerge as we went through the details. Amy assured me that she would not take any drugs before the show. I really wanted to believe her but there was a nagging doubt in the back of my mind.

  The next day I took my sister Melody and her husband Elliott to watch Amy rehearse for the following night’s show. Her set sent tingles down my spine and, believe me, she didn’t need that rehearsal: she could have done the show there and then – she was fantastic and
there was no sign of any drugs. I had dinner with Amy at the hotel and she definitely hadn’t taken any drugs, but she did drink a lot, which troubled me. I hoped it wasn’t something new to worry about.

  Amy’s show for the Grammys was due to start at eleven thirty p.m., to coincide with the live show in LA, but I wanted to be there very early to keep an eye on her. I arrived at the venue, Riverside Studios in Hammersmith, west London, at about six thirty. The room had been decorated to resemble a nightclub and looked great. I hung out with the guys from Amy’s band, who were looking forward to the gig. When show time came around, Amy looked just great and gave an absolutely brilliant performance for friends and family. It got the night off to a perfect start and we didn’t look back.

  Via a satellite link, Amy performed ‘You Know I’m No Good’ and ‘Rehab’ to us and the Grammy audience, who clapped and cheered her for ages after she’d finished. It was a real high point, and I was reminded of just how magical Amy could be, even in the midst of these very dark times. I had seen her perform on stages in front of thousands of people; I had seen her in small clubs and rooms above pubs; I’d heard her in my sitting room and in the back of my cab – but that night outstripped them all. That show was electrifying. She was vital and alive, at her peak. She knew it and revelled in it.

  In all Amy won five Grammys – an unprecedented number for an overseas star – for Record of the Year, Song of the Year (both for ‘Rehab’), Best New Artist, Best Pop Vocal Album (for Back to Black) and Best Female Pop Vocal.

  When Tony Bennett announced she’d won Record of the Year we all rushed on to the stage and hugged – Janis, Alex, Amy and me. ‘I can’t believe it, Dad,’ Amy said, ‘Tony Bennett knows my name.’

  In her acceptance speeches, Amy kept things sweet and simple, saying very graciously, ‘Thank you very much. It’s an honour to be here. Thank you very, very much.’ And as the crowd chanted, ‘Amy, Amy, Amy,’ she put her arms around Janis and me, and said, ‘To my mum and dad.’