Then it occurred to me that I’d have to wait until Devin finished because the heating system couldn’t handle two hot showers simultaneously. Breathing angrily, I stomped about, organizing my clothes, only to remember that all of my T-shirts were in the airing cupboard.
The shower was still running. Good stuff, I thought, I was safe. So, out I went – and disaster struck.
During her time living here, other boyfriends of Kate’s had stayed over – twice or three times the infamous Isaac （an arse）， and there was some other one-off randomer she’d found somewhere. I couldn’t have cared less what they’d thought about me, but there was a real fear that Devin might suddenly drop some disparaging remark at the dinner conversation, with Luke present. You know the way young men carry on about any woman over the age of sixteen? The utter scorn they pour on us? ‘Ew, the state of Kate’s auntie. I saw her in her literal pyjamas! Imma poke myself in the eyes with a rusty compass before I’d go through that again!’
Fuckers, the lot of them.
Seriously, though, what the hell had he been at?
Maybe he’d been keeping the water running so it was nice and hot for Kate? In which case, wasteful! Think of the planet! Or perhaps he’d planned to lure her into the shower for some early-morning shenanigans? In which case, bad manners!
This was very, very uncomfortable.
You’ll get used to it.
‘I fecken won’t,’ I muttered.
You’ll see. You will.
‘Parcel for you,’ Brianna called as soon as I got to work. She held a wrapped box up to the light and squinted. ‘Looks like chocolates. Lily O’Brien’s.’
I groaned with longing but the mood I was in, if I ate one, I’d eat them all. ‘Keep them.’
‘Seriously?’ Brianna was delighted.
‘Seriously.’ I opened the attached letter, which was from a man who’d been in for alcoholism about two years ago. I went straight to the end of the letter to see if he was still sober – he was – then folded it into my bag to read later. Right now, Trassa needed to be checked on.
‘I’ll share them,’ Brianna said.
‘Whatever you like, just don’t give any to me.’ Not today.
Trassa was at the breakfast table, holding a cup of tea and staring into space. Apparently, she’d eaten almost nothing of last night’s dinner and had gone to bed at eight o’clock.
Twenty years earlier, I’d been the same when I could no longer outrun the fact that I was an addict – when it was suddenly clear that I wasn’t simply a recreational user, that I couldn’t stop.
The avalanche of truth had been overwhelming. Seeing the damage I’d done to others – and myself – had shocked and shamed me. Worse, suddenly knowing in my bones that my best friend, the thing I loved most in the world, the only substance that brought me genuine relief, could no longer be part of my life, well, it was like a death. The end of the greatest love story ever.
But it had to be gone through. I’d had to do it. Trassa had to do it. There could be no recovery without it.
My new arrival was due this morning. Ducking into one of the small interview rooms, which had a window overlooking the front grounds, I skimmed her file again. ‘Bronte, forty-three, a heroin addict. Married to Eden Tollemarche, Viscount Kilsharvan.’ It wouldn’t be the first time a member of the aristocracy had landed in here: addiction was no respecter of titles.
Has been abusing heroin on and off since her twenties, but it got out of control six years ago. After a year of intravenous abuse, she went to rehab in the UK. Stayed clean until she broke her ankle last June and was prescribed opiate painkillers. She blames them for her relapse. For the past eight months she’s been injecting heroin. At the assessment her husband seemed supportive.
My attention was caught by a muddy Land Rover coming through the gates, slightly too fast. It whizzed into a parking spot and almost immediately a tall, ruddy-faced man jumped out, strode to the boot, extracted a bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
Bronte was slower to appear. Reluctantly, she extracted herself from the car. Dressed in jeans, a shrunken jacket and a giant felt scarf wrapped around her neck and shoulders, she looked about fourteen.
She paused to cast the house an apprehensive look. For most people, being checked into rehab is the worst moment of their life. They can’t believe it’s really happening – for a long time their lies and manipulations have kept them ahead of the posse but the game is finally up, and everything is about to change forever.