Baldly, he said, ‘I know what “in recovery” means.’
That was a good start because most people haven’t a clue. Then, when they get it, they usually run for the hills. I’ve often said there should be a Tinder for us Twelve Step types.
‘Have you been clean for long?’ And that was an excellent question, an informed one. He wanted to know if I was stable or if I was likely to slide and lapse.
‘Years.’
‘O-kay!’ Suddenly he no longer looked tightly wound. ‘So can I have your number?’
Why not? That was what I thought. What harm could it do?
He said he’d be in touch, then slid into his 1970s, flashy-stroke-beautiful car and roared away.
3
A client leaving before completing their six weeks was always disappointing. But this was the second time Simon had broken the rule forbidding sexual contact with other clients. And still, even as he was being bounced from rehab, he had that flirty gleam. He just couldn’t help himself.
‘You’re thirty-seven,’ I reminded him. ‘Too old for this behaviour.’
‘And you’re … what?’ He studied me with a dirty grin. ‘Thirty-five? Thirty-six?’
I’d never see my thirties again and he knew it. ‘Old enough to know I’m being played. Do your cheesy lines ever actually work?’
‘All the time.’
‘They ever work on women who aren’t vulnerable?’
At that, a shadow scudded over him.
‘If you don’t get serious about recovery,’ I said, ‘your addiction will kill you.’
He shrugged. ‘Live fast, die young.’
‘That option is no longer available, Simon. You’re too old.’
But he was impervious. He was going back out into the world and the first person he’d call would be his dealer.
Between fifty and sixty addicts a year passed through my hands and I cared a lot – maybe too much – about every one of them. If there was anything I could do to help Simon, I’d have done it. Letting him go was really painful.
I over-identified with my charges. Of course I did. I’d once been one of them.
Walking into the Abbot’s Quarter （in reality, just a draughty ex-dining room） for this morning’s group, the chatter was both anxious and giddy – rumours were hard currency in here. The possibility that Simon had been expelled would have unsettled them all. Intense bonds formed very quickly in rehab. That’s not to say that everyone got on – often they absolutely hated each other. But indifference was rare.
Chalkie was the first to notice me. ‘Sketch!’ he hissed. ‘She’s here.’
I took my seat – the second worst one in the circle. That was the bad thing about being late to group, all the comfortable chairs were gone. I’d have to endure at least two hours in this low-backed upright thing with the wonky leg – and do it without demonstrating discomfort. Any display of vulnerability would erode my power.
My little flock of ducklings was quiet now, flicking looks at the last empty place – where Simon would have sat – waiting for me to speak. But their response to this upheaval was information for me, so I assumed my blandest face and prepared to wait it out.
Would today be the day that Fedex delivered my new trainers, I found myself wondering. I’d only ordered them yesterday but sometimes they arrived the next day. Usually, though, it took two days. Occasionally, three. （That was hard. I’d be all geared up, my head generating pre-dopamine and then the cupboard would be bare …）
‘Someone say something,’ Dennis pleaded. ‘I’m sweating like a pig from the silence!’
Right, back to work! Dennis, an alcoholic who had arrived yesterday, was still locked tight in the fiction that there was nothing wrong with him. Apparently, he was only here to ‘shut up the wife’。 Today – just like yesterday – he wore a wrinkled suit with soup stains on the trousers. His tie was askew, two buttons were missing from his shirt and his straining belly overhung his belt. A local councillor in the town he hailed from – one of those close-knit places in the middle of nowhere – I found him impossible to dislike.
‘What’s wrong with silence, Dennis?’ My voice was cool but the rocky chair leg, tilting me forwards, then backwards, as I spoke, definitely undermined me.
‘’Tis too quiet.’
Couldn’t argue with that.
‘Can I ask a question?’ Harlie’s voice shook. ‘Has Simon been kicked out?’