‘You sexy bitch,’ he murmured into my ear, and I nearly fainted again. I felt like a sexy bitch. Powerful and desirable.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get your bag, we’re leaving.’
We didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I was vaguely aware of the rest of the Real Men and Brigit staring in astonishment at us, but I didn’t give a damn.
This kind of thing didn’t happen to me, I thought in confusion, this kind of uncontrollable lust. Or at least it wasn’t usually reciprocated.
We got a taxi immediately and as soon as we were in, he pushed me flat on my back onto the seat and slid his hands up under my top. I wasn’t wearing a bra and when he put his hands on them, my nipples were already rock hard. He pinched them between his thumb and finger and two shocks of pleasure zipped through me.
‘Jesus,’ I croaked.
‘Rachel, you’re beautiful,’ he whispered.
Frantically I pulled my skirt up and forced his groin down on top of mine. Through my knickers I could feel his erection. I put my hands on his bum and pressed him down into me, so hard it hurt. Delicious pain.
‘I have to have him in me,’ I thought.
Feverishly I put my hands under his T-shirt to touch his skin, then I put my hands back on his bum because I couldn’t bear to not feel it.
In a daze I realized the taxi had stopped and I thought the driver was telling us to get out because of our terrible antics. But we had actually arrived at Luke’s apartment. I should have known better. A New York taxi driver doesn’t care what you do, so long as he gets paid and tipped. You can murder someone in the back of the cab for all he cares, just so long as you don’t get blood on the seats.
I can hardly remember getting into his apartment. All I know is that, holding hands, we ran up the four flights of stairs because we couldn’t bear to wait for the lift. We went straight to his bedroom and he kicked the door shut behind him, a gesture that I found unbearably sexy. Although I was so filled with desire for him by then that he could have done anything, he could have thrown up, and I would have found it sexy.
Then he shoved me onto the bed and in seconds all his clothes were off. They were nearly off anyway. His big, sexy man’s buckle on his leather belt was already open and so were the top two buttons of his leather trousers. I supposed I must have done this in the taxi, although I barely remembered doing so.
Without his clothes he was beautiful.
I went to take off my clothes but he stopped me. First he pulled up my top so that my breasts rolled free, but he didn’t take it off. Grinning, he knelt on my arms so that I couldn’t move. He played with my nipples, running the slick tip of his erection over them, the slightest touch sending me twitching with desire.
‘Now,’ I said.
‘Now what?’ he asked innocently.
‘Now can we do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘You know,’ I begged, as I arched against him.
‘Say, please.’ He smiled evilly.
‘Please, you bastard!’
So he tore off my clothes. As soon as he entered me, I started to come. And come and come. It went on for ever, I’d never known anything like it. I held onto his shoulders, paralysed, as my body contracted with waves of pleasure. And then his breathing became hoarser and more ragged and he groaned and started to come. ‘Oh Rachel,’ he panted, his fingers tangled in my hair. ‘Oh Rachel!’
Then all was silence. He lay on top of me, goosepimples prickling his skin, his head in the curve of my neck.
Finally he sat up on his elbows and stared into my face for a very long time. Then he smiled, a wide, beautiful, almost beatific smile. ‘Rachel, babe,’ he said, ‘I think I love you.’
7
‘That’s it, that’s the Cloisters.’ Dad slowed down the car (which was rather hard as he had driven the entire way from Dublin at about twenty miles an hour, much to Helen’s disgust) and pointed into a valley. Helen and I clambered for a look. As we gazed silently across bleak winter countryside at the big, grey, Gothic house below, I noticed that I had a knot in my stomach.
‘Janey, it looks just like a laughing house.’ Helen sounded impressed.
Frankly, I was slightly alarmed. Did it really need to look so much like an asylum? The house looked scary enough but, to make matters worse, it was totally surrounded by a high stone wall and dense, dark evergreens. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see bats circling its turrets against a backdrop of a full moon, even though it was eleven o’clock on a Friday morning and it hadn’t any turrets.
‘The Cloisters,’ I murmured, trying to hide my anxiety with a flip remark, ‘where I finally meet my Nemesis.’
‘Nemesis?’ asked Helen, in excitement. ‘What do they sing?’
Although, I thought, trying hard to tune her out, it had a certain kind of austere charm. It couldn’t go round just looking like a luxury hotel, even if that was exactly what it was. No one would take it seriously.
‘Are any of them good-looking?’ clamoured Helen.
It was great to be out in the countryside, I told myself, determinedly refusing to hear Helen. Just think! Clean air, simple living and the chance to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city.
‘Are they all here?’ whinged Helen. ‘Or only som…?’
My anxiety overflowed. ‘Shut up!’ I shouted. I wished Helen hadn’t come, but she had been insistent ever since she had heard about the pop stars.
Helen looked thunderous and Dad intervened quickly. ‘Go easy on her, Helen.’
She glared, then wavered. ‘OK,’ she said, in a burst of rare altruism. ‘I suppose it’s not every day she’s committed.’
When we got out of the car, Helen and I did a quick scan of the grounds, looking for stray celebrities, but nothing doing. Dad, of course, had no interest. He had once shaken Jack Charlton by the hand and nothing could top that. He trudged ahead of us up the grey stone steps to the heavy wooden door. He and I weren’t speaking much, but at least he had come with me. Not only had Mum refused, but she hadn’t let Anna come either. I think she was afraid they’d keep Anna in too. Especially after Helen swore blind she’d read that the Cloisters was doing a special ‘Two for the price of One’ offer for the month of February.
The front door was good and heavy and wooden and swung open with solemn weight. Just as it should. But then I was surprised to find that we were suddenly in a modern office reception area. Photocopiers, phones, fax machines, computers, thin cardboard walls, a sign on the wall that said ‘You don’t have to be a drug addict to work here, but it helps.’ Although maybe I imagined that bit.
‘Good morning,’ sang a bright young woman. The type of young woman who answered ads looking for someone ‘Bubbly’. Blonde curly hair, bright smile, although not too bright as to seem insensitive. After all, this was not a happy occasion.
‘I’m Jack Walsh,’ said Dad. And this is my daughter, Rachel. We’re expected. And that’s Helen, but don’t mind her.’
The bubbly one flicked a nervous glance at Helen. She probably didn’t often find herself in a room with a girl who was better looking than herself. Then she gathered herself enough to smile a professionally sympathetic smile at Dad and me.
‘She’s, ah, had a bit of trouble with, you know, drugs…’ said Dad.
‘Mmmm, yes.’ She nodded. ‘Dr Billings is expecting you. I’ll just let him know you’re here.’
She buzzed Dr Billings, smiled brightly at Dad, smiled sadly at me, scowled balefully at Helen, and said. ‘He’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘It’s not too late, is it?’ asked Dad. ‘For Rachel. She can be helped, can’t she?’
Bubbly looked alarmed. ‘It’s not for me to say,’ she said quickly. ‘Dr Billing will do the assessment and only he would be qualified to…’
Mortified, I elbowed Dad. What was he doing asking this child if I could be saved?
My father always behaved as if he knew everything. What had I done to reduce him to this?
While we
waited for Dr Billings I picked up a glossy leaflet on her desk. ‘The Cloisters. Deep in the ancient Wicklow hills…’ For a minute I thought I was reading the back of a mineral-water bottle.
Dr Billings looked uncannily like John Cleese. He was about eight foot tall and nearly bald. His legs ended somewhere up around his ears, his bum was up around the back of his neck and his trousers only came to mid-calf where they flapped around showing a good six inches of white socks. He looked like a lunatic. I found out later that he was a psychiatrist, which made perfect sense.
To a backdrop of Helen’s sniggers, he ferried me off to be ‘assessed’. Which consisted of convincing both of us that I was bad enough to be admitted. He did a lot of staring thoughtfully, saying ‘Hmmm’ and writing down nearly everything I said.
I was discomfited to find that he didn’t smoke a pipe.
He asked me about the drugs I took and I tried to be truthful. Well, truthfulish. Strangely, the amount and variety of drugs I took sounded far worse when described out of context, so I toned it down a lot. I mean, I knew my drug-taking was perfectly under control, but he mightn’t understand. He wrote stuff on a card and said things like ‘Yes, yes, I can see that you have a problem.’
Which I didn’t like to hear. Especially considering I’d lied. Until I remembered that me being a drug addict was worth several thousand pounds to him.
Then he did something that I’d been tensed for him to do since I went into his office. He rested his arms on the desk and made a steeple of his fingers. Then he leaned forward and said ‘Yes, Rachel, it’s obvious that you have a chronic drug-abuse problem, etc, etc…’
Basically, I was in.
Then he gave me a lecture about the place.
‘No one is forcing you to come here, Rachel. You’re not being sectioned. Perhaps you have experience of other institutions?’
I shook my head. The cheek of the man!
‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Many of our clients do. But once you have agreed to come here, there are certain conditions that we expect you to adhere to.’
Oh yes? Conditions? What kind of conditions?
‘The usual length of time people stay here is two months,’ he said. ‘Occasionally, they may want to leave before the two months have elapsed, but once they’ve signed in they’re committed to staying three weeks. After which they’re free to go, unless we think it would be against their best interests.’
That started an icy little trickle of something akin to apprehension. It wasn’t that I minded staying three weeks. In fact, I planned to stay the full two months. It was just that I didn’t like his tone of voice. Why did he take it all so seriously? And why would people want to leave before their two months were up?
‘Do you understand this, Rachel?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Dr Cleese,’ I mumbled.
‘Billings,’ he frowned, and dived for my card and wrote something. ‘My name is Dr Billings.’
‘Yes, Billings,’ I blurted. ‘Of course, Billings.’
‘We don’t take anyone against their will,’ he went on. ‘Neither do we take anyone who doesn’t want to be helped. We expect your cooperation.’
I didn’t like the sound of that either. I just wanted a nice, hassle-free rest. I wouldn’t cause any trouble. But I didn’t want any demands made on me either. I’d been through a lot and I was here to regain my strength.
Then Dr Billings went extra-weird on me.
‘Rachel’. He stared deep into my eyes. ‘Do you admit that you have a problem? Do you want to be helped to recover from your addictions?’
I figured it was OK to lie. Just not as OK as I had expected.
To hell with it, I thought uncomfortably. Think of the magazine reading, the jacuzzis, the exercise, the sunbeds. Think flat stomachs, lean thighs, clear glowing skin. Think of rubbing shoulders with celebrities. Think of how Luke will miss me, and how he’ll suffer when he sees me on my triumphant return to New York.
Dr Billings continued outlining the conditions of my stay.
‘Visitors on a Sunday afternoon, but not for your first weekend. You will be allowed to either make or receive two phone calls a week.’
‘But that’s barbaric,’ I said. ‘Two phone calls. A week?’
I usually made two phone calls an hour. I had to speak to Luke and I might have to make lots of calls. Did it count as a phone call if I got his answering machine? Surely it couldn’t because I wouldn’t have actually spoken to him? And what if he hung up on me? That wouldn’t count either, would it…?
Dr Billings wrote something on my card and said, looking at me carefully, ‘That’s an interesting choice of word, Rachel. Barbaric? Why do you say barbaric?’
Oh ho, I thought, as realization dawned and I prepared to nimbly sidestep his trap of a question. I’m wise to your psychoanalytical tricks. I’m not your usual poor eejit. I’ve lived in New York, you know, second only to San Francisco, for shrink-speak. I could probably psychoanalyse you.
I fought back the urge to stare steadily at Dr Billings and say ‘Do I threaten you?’
‘Nothing.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘I meant nothing by it. Two phone calls a week? That’s fine.’ He was annoyed, but what could he do?
‘You will refrain entirely from mood-altering chemicals during your stay here,’ he went on.
‘Does that mean that I won’t get wine with my dinner?’ I thought I’d better bite the bullet.
‘Why?’ he pounced. ‘Do you like wine? Drink a lot of it?’
‘No, indeed,’ I said, although I never usually said things like ‘No, indeed.’
‘Just asking,’ I added.
Dammit, I thought in disappointment. Thank God I’d brought my Valium with me.
‘We’ll have to search your suitcase,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all,’ I smiled graciously. Good job I’d stashed the Valium in my handbag.
‘And your handbag, of course,’ he added.
Oh no!
‘Er, yes, of course,’ I tried to sound calm. ‘But first, can I use the ladies?’
There was a smug, knowing look about him I didn’t like. But all he said was ‘Down the corridor on your left.’
My heart pounded as I rushed to the ladies and banged the door behind me. I wheeled around the little room in panic, looking for somewhere to get rid of my precious little bottle or – far preferably – somewhere to hide it so I could retrieve it at a later date. But there was nowhere. No bin or sanitary-towel disposal thing, no handy little nooks and crannies. The walls were smooth and even, the floor empty and exposed. It occurred to me that perhaps this dearth of hiding places was deliberate. (I found out later that it was.)
How paranoid were they here? I thought in a burst of impotent anger. Fucking paranoid, fucking lanky, fucking mad, fucking fucking fuckers!
I stood with the bottle in my hand and felt lightheaded as anger swam into fear and back again. I had to get rid of it somewhere. It was very important that I wasn’t caught with drugs, however mild and harmless, on me.
My handbag! I thought joyfully. I could put it in my handbag! No, wait a minute, that was why I was standing here, sweating, in this small toilet, because I couldn’t put it in my handbag.
I looked around again, hoping that I might have missed something on the last twirl. I hadn’t. Regretfully I realized that I’d better at least get rid of the tablets. And quickly. Dr Billings was probably wondering what I was doing and I didn’t want him to think badly of me. At least not yet. I mean, he was bound to eventually, everyone in authority always did, but it was too soon, even for me…
A voice in my head interrupted, urging me to get moving and remove any identifying details. I don’t believe this is happening to me, I thought, as, with sweaty hands, I tore the label off the bottle. I felt like a criminal.
I threw the label into the toilet and then, with a brief, though fierce, spasm of loss poured a small torrent of little white pills in after it.
I had to turn my
head away as I flushed.
As soon as they were gone I felt naked and exposed, but I couldn’t dwell on it. I had bigger worries. What was I supposed to do with the empty brown glass bottle? I couldn’t leave it there, someone was bound to find it and they’d probably be able to trace it to me. There was no window that I could open and throw it out of. I’d better bring it with me, I thought, and hope that I got a chance to get rid of it later. My handba…! Oh no, I kept forgetting. Better carry it on my person and hope – little laugh – that they didn’t do a body search.
My blood ran cold. They might do a body search. Look at how thorough they were being with my suitcase and handbag.
Well, I’d refuse to let them do a body search, I thought. How dare they!
In the meantime, where on my body would I carry it? I’d left my coat in reception and I had no other pockets. Hardly believing what I was doing, I lifted up my jumper and stuck it under my bra, between my breasts. But that was agony because my chest was so badly bruised, so I took it back out. I tried it in one of the cups of my bra, then the other, but you could see the outline clearly through my clingy angora jumper (‘my’ being a figure of speech, of course. The jumper was actually Anna’s), no matter which cup I chose, so out it came again.
There was nothing else for it, there was nowhere else it could go. I put it in my knickers. The glass was cold against my skin and I felt foolish in the extreme, but I took a couple of steps and it stayed secure. Success!
I felt quite good until I caught a quick mental image of myself and something seemed wrong.
How did I end up like this? Surely I was living in New York, young, independent, glamorous, successful? And not twenty-seven, unemployed, mistaken for a drug addict, in a treatment centre in the back arse of nowhere with an empty Valium bottle in my knickers?
8
‘Poor bastards,’ I thought in sympathy, as I looked at the long wooden table where the alcoholics and addicts sat eating their lunch. ‘Poor, poor bastards.’
I was now an official inmate.