Twice in the past seven weeks, Ella had posted odd stuff on the company account – a mad-sounding conspiracy theory about the US government and a wildly libellous claim about the ‘real’ father of Prince Louis. If it hadn’t been for Ella’s boss – someone called Boyd – taking them down before they’d gained any traction, she’d definitely have been fired.
It was always a rush when a new person came into my care; the chance to help them change their lives was exciting. The potential, the possibility of it – of them. Sometimes, of course, it didn’t work out. They didn’t think they really were addicts, or they weren’t ready just yet to give up their best friend.
Frequently, they reappeared in the Cloisters a year or two later, a lot more battered, much more humble.
I started sending emails and making calls to the significant people in Ella’s life, trying to establish as much detail as possible. As well as Jonah, there was her best friend Naaz, plus her parents and two brothers. In here, clients gave only the most sanitized, tragic version of themselves. To get the full picture, you had to talk to everyone who knew them. It was a little like investigating a crime.
Speaking of which – Dennis! Although I had several written testimonies on his shenanigans, it was proving difficult to get actual human beings in here, to confront him.
His wife Juliet had blackmailed him into rehab by threatening to leave him. But the few times we’d spoken since, it was clear she’d burnt up all of her energy getting her husband as far as us. What she wanted now was some magical transformation and for Dennis to be delivered back, all fixed. But it wouldn’t take place without her input, so I rang her again.
‘I don’t know, Rachel,’ she said. ‘This coming week is bad …’
‘What about your daughters?’
‘They don’t want to. It was hard enough for them to write those testimonials.’
I’d already been spurned by Dennis’s GP and his best friend and two men he worked with on the local council. They were scared, all of them, and this was far from unusual. Outing a loved one as an addict or alcoholic was usually a painful, protracted process. Because you loved them, you wanted them to get help, but you also wanted to avoid confrontation.
Sometimes a friend or family member arrived here, blazing with righteous fury, all set to tear the addict a new one. But just as often, people were tangled up with guilt and confusion.
‘Juliet, you need to come. Otherwise, you’re wasting your money.’
‘Maybe the week after next. What about …？’ Her voice lightened. ‘You could try his brother, Patch. I’ll text him your number, tell him to call you.’
‘But –’ She was gone.
My trainers had arrived!
‘Three pairs?’ Brianna asked.
‘Different sizes.’
She slid me a knowing glance. ‘That right?’
HemHEM, it’s not healthy to lie, even about the small stuff …
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘They were all beautiful and I couldn’t decide and, as I was paying for one delivery, I might as well take a look at the others …’
‘Other stuff came.’ She pointed a pen at a neat stack of parcels. ‘If I was a betting woman’ – she passed me a small square parcel – ‘I’d guess it was a Pomegranate Noir candle.’
It actually was. Then I read the card. ‘How nice! From – remember Fiona Headley?’
‘Sex addiction? About fourteen months ago? She’s obviously still okay, if she’s sending thank-you candles.’
‘Yep.’
‘I help them too!’ Brianna said. ‘I do all their paperwork perfectly. But I never get sent fancy candles.’
‘Have it.’ I thrust it at her. ‘Seriously, you more than deserve it. I insist!’
‘Okay, thank you, I accept!’
‘Pass me that other package. What is it?’ I read the sender’s details and exclaimed, ‘It’s my planting trowel!’
‘Open it!’
Like me, Brianna ‘dabbled’ in gardening.
Pulling the stainless-steel implement from its packaging, I bounced it in my hands. ‘Feel how light it is!’
She took it from me. ‘Even though the handle is cherrywood.’ We marvelled at such ergo-dynamic efficiency.
‘You can never have too many trowels,’ I said.
‘Or watering cans.’
‘Or hoes.’
‘Or shears.’
And it was the truth. Once you started down the path of buying gardening tools, there was always going to be something fancier, stronger, lighter, in a better metal, or in a nicer colour.