Amy, My Daughter

by Mitch Winehouse

  I’d thought for a long time that it was risky for Amy to detox without medical supervision and after her latest seizure she agreed. The next day I saw Dr Romete, who said that Amy’s detox could lead to seizures, which she was prone to anyway. I asked her to try to come up with a plan for Amy to detox with medical supervision.

  In the morning Amy felt a lot better. I put this down to her being in her ‘safe place’, the London Clinic, where she wanted to stay for now. Over the next week, she continued to do well there and I saw her almost every day. When she was discharged, I picked her up and went with her to Selfridges to buy some essentials for the Camden Square house, which she moved into that day. Her security guys had moved in a week earlier.

  I parked the cab outside the house, and Amy marched up the steps to the front door, leaving me to struggle with the shopping. She ran from room to room, telling me which bag to plonk where, and was as excited as I’d seen her for ages. ‘Put that one there to go down to the gym, Dad,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Next to the gym was her studio. She’d had her kitchen put in on the ground floor, looking out over the front, and it had a lovely retro feel, black and white with a black table. I followed Amy into the lounge, which was huge. At one end there was a gaudy 1960s-style jukebox, which Amy had ordered specially.

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said, teasing her. ‘When I’m fed up with you I can go and kick your jukebox, can’t I?’

  Amy ran over to it – the thing was on casters and it rolled into the corner when she threw herself across it to protect it from me. ‘No, Dad, no.’ She laughed.

  We wandered round the rest of the house together, and when we came out of her studio I noticed she was clutching the guitar we’d bought in Spain what seemed a lifetime ago. I was pleased to see it: maybe she was going to start writing seriously again. When it came time for me to leave, she threw her arms around me and said, ‘Thanks for getting me the house, Dad.’

  I rang her a couple of days later, and when she answered I could hear she was still strumming her guitar, the phone cradled in her shoulder. She sounded different, in a good way. ‘I know you didn’t really want me back in Camden, Dad,’ she said, ‘I know you thought it was the wrong place for me, but I gotta tell you, I feel like I belong here.’

  I was going to defend myself but she continued, ‘Thanks again for sorting this out for me, Dad. I’ll call you later because I’m working.’

  It was the same over the next few days: she was always too busy to chat for long, which was great. I hadn’t seen her focus like that since those days in Spain when she’d locked herself away and written a lot of Back to Black. Creating music – her greatest passion – seemed to be doing her more good than anything else we’d all tried.

  However, one day in early February, I went to Camden Square at lunchtime and found that Amy had already had quite a lot to drink. She wasn’t drunk, but if she’d had another couple of drinks, she would have been. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea,’ I said, and brought it to her in the lounge. I really wanted to tell her off, but I knew that would be wrong right now. Instead, I said, ‘Don’t worry, these things happen.’

  ‘I never went to bed last night, Dad,’ she replied, ‘and when I finished working I couldn’t sleep and needed something to help me wind down.’

  ‘Maybe you can go to sleep now, darling,’ I said. I covered her up on the couch, told Anthony, the security guy, to keep an eye on her and left. I wrote in my diary: ‘Are we back to square one or is this just a blip? She didn’t seem to show any remorse for her drinking today. We’ve come so far we mustn’t fall at the last hurdle.’

  Despite setbacks like this, it seemed to me that the pattern of her drinking had changed. She was putting her work first and her periods of abstention were longer. Of course she’d have lapses, but overall she seemed to be pulling things together.

  As Amy prepared to fly to Dubai for a gig, she told me that, once again, she had stayed dry for it. It didn’t last. After the gig Raye texted that it hadn’t been great. Technical problems had led to Amy’s earpiece not working, meaning she couldn’t hear herself sing. Other technical problems meant that some of the crowd, especially people at the back, couldn’t hear very well, and after three songs some of the audience had left. If that wasn’t bad enough, Raye also told me that Amy had had quite a few drinks before she went on. ‘What a disaster,’ I wrote in my diary that night. ‘Just when I thought that work would get her through the drinking, this happens. Technical problems or not, she can’t go onstage drunk.’

  Surprisingly, when Amy returned from Dubai, she seemed more or less okay, despite the disappointment of the show and the setback with her drinking. Before long, she’d had four non-drinking days. Riva had been going to see her every day and Amy’s friend, Naomi, had moved in. Amy, Riva and Naomi got on very well together. Tyler told me that Amy had said she was sick of being drunk and wanted to stop drinking altogether. When I saw her next she reiterated it to me. I knew that she meant it; I also knew that there were likely to be more lapses before she finally stopped drinking.

  Nonetheless, now that Naomi lived with Amy, and Riva went there every day, I began to feel cautiously optimistic about Amy stopping drinking. Naomi and Riva both reported, on 2 March, that Amy hadn’t had a drink for six days. I had seen for myself that she hadn’t been drinking, but Naomi and Riva set my mind at rest.

  The following day Raye took Amy to the US Embassy for her interview about getting a US visa. Afterwards he told me it had gone well and he was optimistic this time that a visa would be granted. When I saw Amy she opened up to me about Reg: they were not seeing each other for the time being and she was really upset about it. We spoke for at least an hour about their relationship, and although it was far from over between them, I understood how she felt about not seeing him. Reg had been working very hard and had been away a lot, shooting a film on location in Scarborough, North Yorkshire.

  ‘I tell you what,’ I said to her, ‘this is what you should do. When he’s back, sit down with him and tell him exactly how you feel.’

  ‘He knows I love him, Dad,’ Amy interrupted. ‘I keep asking him to move in.’

  ‘So what’s the problem? That’s great.’ I was pleased for them both.

  ‘He won’t, Dad. He doesn’t want people to think he’s a sponger.’

  Unlike Blake, I thought, but didn’t say.

  ‘But I don’t care, Dad,’ she carried on, ‘because he’s not, you know that.’

  ‘I do. We all like Reg. He’s a great bloke. You’ve got to keep at it with him, and you’ll get there, darling,’ I said.

  On a more positive note, Amy hadn’t been drinking, although I worried that, with Reg still away, she might start again. She didn’t – well, not that day.

  Looking back, 6 March seemed like another turning-point for Amy. Riva called me from Camden Square to say that Amy was drunk and self-harming. Jane and I immediately drove to the house. When we arrived Amy wasn’t very drunk, but she had cut herself. She said it was a delayed reaction to not seeing Reg and a response to something that had happened with Blake. My heart sank, but as soon as I’d heard she’d cut herself, I’d known his name would crop up. A week or so earlier he had been arrested by Leeds Police and charged with burglary and possessing a firearm. Amy was convinced it was related to drugs.

  Riva talked about trying to get Amy sectioned, but I told her that we had to let this play itself out. We had been unable to get Amy sectioned when she had been a thousand times worse than she was now, so I knew it would be a non-starter. I stayed with Amy for the rest of the day and when she’d sobered up we had a long talk.

  She told me some of what had happened the previous night, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. ‘When I was in the pub toilets, some girl came up to me,’ she said. ‘She asked me if I’d come and say hello to her friend who was a big fan and that. I went to the table and sat down and she was in a wheelchair. I talked with her for a while, and I asked her to be honest. Was she finding i
t tough to get by? I knew she was so I ended up giving her all the money I had on me. It was nearly a hundred pounds. She didn’t want to take it but I told her she’d got to. I insisted. That left me with nothing to pay my bar bill.’

  ‘That’s a lovely story, Amy, and it was very kind of you,’ I said. ‘D’you remember when you met that disabled kid in Nice airport?’

  ‘Nice?’ She looked puzzled. ‘Oh, yeah, the mum said she was scared to come over in case I hit her. Ha ha ha. I was doing that then, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You weren’t doing too well then, no, but the mum got in touch with me after and said you were great with her daughter. You spent an hour talking with her and she was thrilled. You’re a good girl, Amy.’

  She sighed. ‘Dad, seeing that girl last night made me realize how lucky I am. I really, really am fed up with all this,’ she added. ‘I’ve decided I’m done with drinking and I mean it this time.’

  I took it with a pinch of salt – I’d heard it so many times before, first with drugs and then with alcohol – but I can’t deny that part of me still clung to the hope that this might be the start of the final stretch in Amy’s recovery.

  For the next few days she stayed away from drink, and when Raye came over to see her she still hadn’t had any. She had an important decision to make: Tony Bennett had arranged to sing with her on his second album of duets, and Amy was due to choose the song that morning. Tony had given Raye five or six for her to pick from. Amy chose ‘Body And Soul’, her reason being, ‘My dad loves it.’

  I was very flattered. ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Do you know the words?’

  ‘Of course I know the words, Dad.’ She laughed. ‘I’m your daughter. You’ve been singing “Body And Soul” to me for twenty-seven years.’

  That was true. I’d belted it out in the car when I’d picked her up from school loads of times.

  I was pleased when Amy told me her non-drinking was continuing and we spoke about her flat in Jeffrey’s Place. Naomi had lived there for a while, but now that she was with Amy, it was empty. It had fallen into disrepair and looked dilapidated. Jane and I were still living in Kent, and Amy said that, during her recovery, she would be happier if we lived closer to her. She suggested that we get the flat fixed up and that Jane and I could stay there, for at least part of the week. I thought that was a great idea, and when I ran it past Jane, so did she.

  * * *

  April began badly. Amy’s drinking lasted just a day, but it was enough to depress me. She seemed to recover fairly quickly, but she was angry with herself. She told me that things were getting better with Reg, but she still didn’t see him as much as she’d like to. Reg’s work ethic meant that when he was working on a project he totally threw himself into it, often losing track of time. One evening he’d told Amy that he was going to pick her up at ten to go out for dinner. Amy was dressed and waiting, at what she said was ten (but, knowing her, was probably more like eleven), when Reg phoned to say he was still working and was going to be about an hour late. According to Amy, he didn’t arrive until two.

  ‘You need to try and understand how Reg is with his work,’ I told Amy.

  ‘I know, Dad,’ she replied. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

  The next morning Amy called to say she wasn’t feeling well. Dr Romete was with her, recommending that she be admitted to the London Clinic as her detox might be causing her to feel ill. I went there about an hour later. Amy wasn’t too bad that day, and I stayed with her, chatting, until eleven thirty p.m. The next day she was tetchy as alcohol withdrawal had really kicked in. I was learning these were temporary mood swings, and by 11 April it seemed that she had won the battle. She was well enough to leave the London Clinic for a short time and went to her gym at the Camden Square house. On doctor’s orders, she was back at the hospital by eight thirty that evening. The next day Amy told me she couldn’t stay in the London Clinic for ever and checked out. I agreed with her and drove her home.

  I went to Camden Square on 15 April where Chris, a fairly new member of the security team, told me that Amy had woken up at four a.m. and drunk a bottle of wine. She’d woken again at eight and drunk another. When I arrived at ten thirty she was totally out of it and at midday she was still asleep. When I went back again at seven she was awake and acted as if nothing had happened. This led to a big argument and I left feeling frustrated and angry.

  The next day was worse. I arrived at Camden Square mid-morning and found Amy collapsed on the kitchen floor. I got her upstairs and into bed. She was ready to go out and get more booze, but she couldn’t even stand up. She did lots of shouting and swearing, and I was just as bad. I didn’t know what to do: Amy was determined to get more drink, but in that state, God knows what might have happened to her if she’d got out. Fortunately it wasn’t long before she fell asleep, and she remained asleep until the following morning. I told Chris that, in future, if he could do it without Amy seeing, he should water down her drinks. It seemed an unlikely trick to work, but anything that might make her drink less must help.

  The next morning when I arrived at Camden Square, Amy was sitting in the garden sipping a latte. Considering the amount of alcohol she had consumed, she looked remarkably well. Neither of us brought up her behaviour of the previous day – I didn’t have the energy for another argument – so we had an unusually awkward conversation, both dancing round the subject.

  ‘Did I tell you? Me and Jane are going to Tenerife again next month,’ I said to her.

  ‘Oh, that’s good, Dad,’ she replied. ‘Oh, yeah, Anthony’s had to call the air-con people. It’s on the blink again. Must be nice in the cab when it’s warm like this with the air-con.’

  ‘Oh, it is. I’m taking the cab in for a service on Friday.’

  I got up and walked to the end of the garden and looked back at the house, jingling the change in my pocket. It was fabulous. Everything Amy had had done made it very special, the first proper grown-up house she’d owned. I called to her, ‘The place looks great from here, doesn’t it? A real home for you.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, Dad. I love it so much, I can’t see me ever moving out.’

  It was time for me to go. As I was leaving, Amy stopped me. ‘Dad, sorry about yesterday.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s just part of getting better.’

  ‘Aaaah, thanks, Dad,’ she said. She got up and ran over to give me a big hug, in the inimitable Amy fashion.

  On 21 April Amy told me again that she was through with drinking. I’d heard it all before, and was fully prepared that, after two or three days, she’d start again, but at least she was still acknowledging she had a problem: six months or a year previously she wouldn’t accept it and insisted she could stop whenever she wanted to. So, in reality, Amy’s statement didn’t mean she was going to stop drinking: it meant that she was beginning another period of abstinence, which, every time, I hoped would last longer than it had previously.

  Over the next few weeks Amy did really well. Dr Romete was seeing her regularly, and kept telling me how pleased she was with her progress. Amy was a bit miserable and moody, but she was determined to maintain her sobriety.

  Then on 11 May she was readmitted to the London Clinic. She wasn’t very well and blood tests showed her potassium and glucose levels were high. She was told that this might result in heart problems, which frightened her. Dr Romete felt it might relate to how Amy had been detoxing. She was put on a drip to stabilize any immediate problems, and by the following day she felt a lot better. After another blood test, where the results were normal, Amy was discharged.

  She abstained for a while and things looked good. I rang Camden Square one Saturday evening to see how she was doing and Reg answered. Before he passed me over, he said he wanted to tell me they’d just got back from a fabulous day out in the West End. They’d been strolling about after lunch and gone into a bar in Kingly Street where a house band was playing. The two of them had sat down and when the band were about to start their second set, Amy ha
d, on the spur of the moment, called, ‘D’you fancy having a female vocalist with you?’

  They immediately invited her up and she sang a whole bunch of songs with them. That was like the good old days, when she’d been so happy to entertain her fans in that way.

  I flew to LA two days later, but as soon as I arrived at the hotel, I got a call to say that Amy was drinking again. She had been off alcohol for more than three weeks and I had no idea what had caused her to start again. Everything was going well with Reg, she had started writing songs again, she’d put on all of the weight she’d lost and was looking really good. I really couldn’t fathom it, but I reckoned that this was probably the longest spell she’d had of not drinking and I was encouraged by that. The longer between the lapses, the more progress she was making, or so I thought.

  On 17 May Raye called: Amy had been rushed to the London Clinic because, after drinking all night, they had been unable to wake her. She’d come round now, and seemed to be responsive, but she was being kept in the hospital for overnight observation. The following day she discharged herself and went home to Camden Square.

  A few days later I arrived back in London and went straight to see Amy at Camden Square. She was drunk. Dr Romete was there and told me that she could no longer be Amy’s doctor as whatever she said to Amy wasn’t going to stop her drinking. She handed me a letter to give to Amy that set out all of her medical problems, along with the events of the previous couple of days. The letter said Amy was in immediate danger of death; it said she had been in a coma on 17 May, and less than twenty-four hours later, against medical advice, she had discharged herself from the London Clinic.