Читать книгу: «My Pear-Shaped Life», страница 4

Chapter 5

‘I’ve put the good stuff in.’ Upstairs in the bathroom, Emily held up her Jo Malone birthday gift set to Greta. She had also put tea-light candles onto every available surface, which were few and far between in the small family bathroom. But they did look pretty as they flickered in the dusky evening, throwing shapes and shadows on the wall. There was a large glass of red wine for Greta, which sat on the ledge beside the bath. Emily was prepared to do anything to get her daughter to relax and fall asleep without the need for any tablets. How could she have let it go on for so long?

‘I think I’ll skip dinner, Mam. Once I get out of the bath I’ll just go straight to bed,’ Greta said.

‘Are you not hungry?’ Emily asked.

‘I’m trying to cut down,’ Greta said, trying not to think about the chocolate bars from the tin. There was a time when Greta and her mam had no secrets. Emily was always on her side. She used to say, ‘Us women have to stick together! Stand united against your dad and the boys!’ It had been a while since Greta had heard that or felt it either.

‘Oh love, that’s great. I think this is your time to shine, do you know that? Just try to forget about everything and relax in the bath. Have a total switch-off and let all your worries disappear. Tomorrow is another day.’

‘To mess it all up again?’ Greta joked, but it landed wrong and just made her mam frown.

‘Ah no, love.’

‘Ah yes, Mam.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ Emily asked.

‘Course I don’t. I’m joking. Now scoot. Let me get the full benefit of your Jo Malone!’

Greta slipped out of her dressing gown and hung it on the back of the door. The mirror above the sink had clouded over with steam. She ran her hand across it and revealed her naked body. Her breasts were OK, she supposed. And her waist had always been small. But her stomach protruded so much that people thought she was pregnant. In fact, one day a guy had stood up to give her his seat on the bus. She had been too embarrassed to say she wasn’t pregnant, so Greta had patted her tummy and smiled her thanks. She’d cried herself to sleep that night.

Now, she sank into the tub and felt the sting of the too-hot water as it covered her body. This was one of the main problems she had with baths. Greta was always bored by the time the water reached optimum temperature. She preferred showers; there was less pressure to relax. The other issue with baths was that no matter which way she manoeuvred her body in the tub, parts of her white, flabby flesh were exposed through the bubbles. It wasn’t like this in the movie, where the heroine always looked so petite as she frolicked in a large bathtub. Mind you, the way her career was going right now, Greta would never have to worry about a bath scene in anything.

She looked up to the ceiling and became distracted by a crack. How long had that been there? The more she tried to relax, the more her body tensed. She should never have let her mam talk her into this. It was different when they were kids. They used to call it Splash Time. Her mam would squeeze the suds out of a yellow sponge, letting them run down Greta’s back, while she sang nursery rhymes to her. Greta blinked away tears and gulped down a mouthful of the Cabernet Sauvignon.

A fly appeared out of nowhere. There weren’t any open windows in the bathroom, yet somehow it had done a Houdini on it and was buzzing around like it owned the joint. It paused to take a rest and joined in Greta’s fascination of the ceiling above her and its new crack.

Rest. If only. Her body and mind were stretched so taut that she could feel cracks splintering through her just like the one above her. She imagined the ceiling collapsing on top of her, splashing water onto the floor. Her mam would hate that. And she loved her mam, even if she bugged the life out of her sometimes. She closed her mind to the worried frown that had been etched across Emily’s forehead as she closed the bathroom door a few minutes ago. And instead, she watched the fly, which watched the crack in the ceiling.

I’m cracking up. She grabbed her phone and saw a new text message had come in from her agent Michelle. With a shaking hand she pressed open.

Michelle: I’ve just heard from Louise. It was down to you and one other actress but unfortunately they went in a different direction for Clara. Give me a call and we’ll arrange a time for you to call in. I think it’s time we had a chat.

The disappointment was crushing. Greta was so tired of playing this game, but never winning. How was she supposed to tell her family that once again she was close but no cigar. She flicked through her feed, until she found her balm.

Dr Gale was looking directly into the camera, with tears in her eyes.

Drgretagale We’re all damaged, some of us are better at hiding it than others, that’s all. Can I get a hell yeah?

#timetoletgo #wellness #drgretagale #whatsinyourcupboard #mindfulness #inspire #drgretagale #positivethoughts #findyourtribe

Once again it was as if Dr Gale was speaking directly to Greta’s pain. The pain of rejection, the pain of being ‘Big G’. She put the phone back in her toiletry bag, her fingers brushing against a pack of cotton-wool pads.

Greta had another swig of wine as the fly landed with a tickle on her right shoulder. He was fearless. Or stupid.

‘There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, Perhaps she’ll die,’ Greta sang, remembering one of her childhood nursery rhymes. ‘Run for your little life, fly, before this old lady goes in for the kill.’

She swiped him off her with a gentle pat. Now that the rhyme was in her head, it refused to leave, and over and over again she repeated each line until she wished the ceiling would collapse, if only to put an end to the blasted song.

Like a guilty kid reaching for the good biscuit tin, Greta watched the door in case her mam was hovering outside ready to pounce. She counted to ten, and when the handle didn’t move, she reached inside her toiletry bag and took out the pack of cotton-wool pads. She removed a bundle of them until she saw what she was looking for. Her sleeping pills. She had kept an emergency stash hidden from her parents. And there was no doubt that this was a code red emergency.

‘I’m sorry.’ She apologized to her family. She’d made and broken promises to them and to herself. Then she swallowed a tablet with another gulp of red wine.

With great clarity, she realized that – because of the terrible week she had just been through – one more tablet couldn’t hurt. In fact, she reasoned, as she shook the tablets out into her hand without really counting them, her taking a second tablet was for her mam’s sake. Because when she got into bed and slept, Emily would think her bath had done the trick. She popped them into her mouth just to be safe …

Safe, that’s all I want to be, safe and sound, asleep, away from all of this …

Safe, not sorry.

Minutes moved on, or at least she guessed they did. Greta began to feel the familiar, heavy, melting sensation snake its way through her arms and legs. She loved and craved it. Greta sank further into the tub, and the water felt as if it was giving her a warm hug; no longer shaming her, it was her friend. Her eyes were heavy, and she couldn’t see the fly any more.

‘There was an old woman who swallowed a fly …’ Greta mumbled.

And as she finally felt that blessed relief of sleep, her last thought was: Perhaps I’ll die …

Hands, rough, tried to grip Greta’s body, but they kept slipping with the soapy water.

‘Is she dead … Stephen, is she dead, please god, no, is she dead … my poor baby, is she dead?’

Who was Mam talking about? And why was Mam screaming like that? Ow! That hurt. Greta tried to open her eyes, but they felt so heavy, so she closed them again. She awoke feeling something cold and hard underneath her. The tiled floor. Glimpses of the drama unfolding slipped through the slits in her eyes. Her dad and Ciaran. Her mam, hysterical, kneeling beside her, sobbing. Greta was cold.

Someone placed a towel over her naked body. She trembled not just with the chill but with shame. It must be a nightmare. She willed herself to wake up, to make it stop. I don’t like this. Please. No more.

‘Oh love, what did you do, oh my love.’ Emily was cradling Greta’s head in her arms, stroking her hair and sobbing.

She tried to speak, but no words would come out. Why was her dad so wet? His two arms were stained with water, right up to the collar of his shirt. Ciaran was the same. Only his joggers were wet too. Had he jumped in water?

The bath. She had been taking a bath.

And now she was on the floor with a towel covering her, with her mother crying and her father and brother wet. Greta opened her eyes and saw the fly one more time. It paused for a moment before it escaped through the open bathroom door, past Aidan and Ciaran.

I’m dead and this is hell, with me naked on a cold floor.

But Greta wasn’t dead. She was in the centre of a tornado, spinning so fast and fierce that she might never leave it.

No one has ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum

Part Two

Chapter 6

Hope Crossing Addiction Treatment Centre, Tipperary, Ireland

Greta went to the small ensuite bathroom and splashed water over her red puffy face. There was no mirror over the sink, or in fact anywhere in her new bedroom. Greta wondered if it was because people might be tempted to smash the glass and cut themselves. Not an hour in rehab and her mind had already gone to self-harm. By the time she’d finished her three-week stint here, she’d be a basket case.

Not that she cared about the mirror. She didn’t need reminding of how she looked. She knew that her eyes, once one of her best features, were now dull and small, like pebbles lost in her round face. Her skin was blotchy and red.

At only six p.m. the rest of the evening loomed ahead of her. She flicked through a bundle of leaflets that sat on the bedside locker. One was a schedule of group classes for the forthcoming week, counselling, meditation, yoga, meal times. Another outlined the treatment plan.

We holistically approach addiction, working with mind, body and spirit to come together in one healthy life.

Addiction. There was that bloody word again. Every time Greta heard it she wanted to jump in a shower and scrub herself clean. She felt like a fraud. Greta was not an addict and was most probably taking a bed from someone who genuinely needed it. Once again she asked herself how had this happened to her? And the sting in the tail was that she wasn’t even famous. She was forever reading about A-listers in Hollywood disappearing to the Betty Ford for a reboot when life got too difficult for them. She’d even daydreamed about being that famous and needing rehab herself one day too.

But not like this. There were no celebrities here. It was most likely full of junkies and alcoholics, who’d been found huddled under a railway bridge, shooting up or sculling cans. Not ordinary people like her. OK, things may have got out of control lately, but she was handling it.

The fallout from her bathtub incident had been apocalyptic. Her mam had started to cry and said, ‘You never sat still, not even for a moment, when you were a child. But now it’s as if a tornado is tossing you around and around. I can’t reach you to pull you out. And you can’t get out yourself either. Let us help you, please G.’

So here she was, at Hope Crossing, feeling like Dorothy dropped into the Land of Oz. She looked down at her red Converse and clicked her heels to escape. Unfortunately this was real life, not a childhood fantasy.

Greta was still smarting from her first encounter with Caroline, the rehab nurse, who had searched Greta’s bags the second she’d arrived.

‘You can’t do that surely!’ She was indignant at the invasion of her privacy.

‘You have nowhere to hide in this place. Learn that little lesson right up front, and it will be easier for you to settle in,’ she replied, not unkindly. The first things to be confiscated were Greta’s phone and iPad. ‘We find that it’s in the interest of patients to have time away from all outside distractions. Think of your time here as a digital detox. If you need to make a call, you come to find me, and we can discuss it.’

Caroline then rifled through Greta’s make-up bag and took out her tweezers and nail clippers.

‘Why are you taking those?’ Greta ran her hand over her chin, already feeling the start of regrowth of a hair. ‘What do you think I’ll do with them? Pluck myself to death?’

‘Never mind your tweezers, how will we call our daughter if she has no access to her phone? Or the family WhatsApp group!’ Emily was stricken at the thought.

‘Sorry, but there are no phone calls from family allowed until Greta’s counsellor says it’s OK for her to make or take them. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you informed of any issues that you need to know about,’ Caroline replied.

And it was in that moment that it hit Greta that if they had her devices, she couldn’t log on to Instagram. No Dr Gale. For three whole weeks. No lovely supportive messages from her Uncle Ray, who always seemed to know what to say to cheer her up.

She had to find a way to keep her iPhone and iPad. She looked at Caroline and decided she was probably more of a reader than a social media lover. She had that geeky look about her. It was time for a white lie. ‘When I can’t sleep, I like to read my Kindle app on that iPad.’

Caroline was unmoved.

So Greta ploughed on, ‘I won’t switch on the Wi-Fi, you have my word on that. I get that you don’t want me to talk to the outside world. And, quite frankly, I’m ready for some solitude. I just want to read my books.’ She tried to think of a title of a book to throw in, just to validate her argument. Her mind went blank. What was that book she did in school? She should have listened more. ‘Dickens and the like.’

She could feel her mam and dad’s eyes on stalks as they listened to her. OK, she may not have read much of the classics before, but she might do if she had her iPad.

Caroline shrugged and placed the devices with the rest of her contraband in a box, then she stuck a white label onto it with her name typed across it. ‘All of these will be waiting for you when you leave. We’ve a pretty decent library in the TV room, so you’ll have lots to choose from there. Not sure if we have any Dickens, but I’m sure we can find some if you let me know the exact title you prefer.’

Greta gave her the stink eye. Wagon.

‘And now, all that’s left to do is search you.’

‘For what?’ Greta took a step backwards. This was going from bad to horrific.

‘You’d be surprised what people try to sneak into rehab.’ Caroline said this in the same cheery voice that made Greta want to reach over, and punch her.

‘My daughter wouldn’t be that stupid.’ Stephen said, backing his daughter’s integrity in a statement that would come back to bite him in moments.

‘You could at least buy me dinner first,’ Greta laughed, trying to distract Caroline, who was relentless in her search as she patted her down. Her hands were everywhere.

And then, to Greta’s horror, Caroline paused as she came to Greta’s breasts. Without too much effort she had found her secret stash of pills, hidden in her bra. She could feel her parents’ disappointment fill the air between them. Once again she had messed up. You’d think she would get used to that feeling, but it always took her by surprise.

‘This …’ Caroline pointed to the tablets, ‘goes down the toilet. And, just so you know, if you are found with any contraband in the future, you will be asked to leave.’ She didn’t sound so cheery anymore.

Until her parents walked out the door, ignoring Greta’s pleas to take her with them, she didn’t quite believe that this was happening to her. She looked down at her hands which began to shake and tremble. The bedroom started to close in on her, the four walls pulsated as they moved nearer and nearer. If she didn’t get out of this room, straight away, she knew that she would suffocate.

Sticking her hands in her pockets to try and stop the shaking, she made her way to the TV room. About a dozen people were sitting in front of the TV, with a few reading books. They looked up briefly as she entered, then lost interest and went back to whatever they were doing. That was fine with Greta. Because her plan was simple. She was going to avoid talking to any of her fellow … what should she call them?

Patients?

Addicts?

Inmates?

Yes, inmates. They were all prisoners.

‘First day?’ A voice said from behind her. ‘First days are the worst.’

The voice belonged to a tall man, youngish, she guessed in his mid- to late twenties. He looked at Greta with interest. ‘Come over and sit with me if you want.’ He nodded towards a table at the back of the room. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m Sam.’

Greta wasn’t sure she wanted to sit with him or anyone else. She had no interest in adding a junkie friend at this stage in her life.

‘Or don’t. Suit yourself,’ Sam said, then walked away.

On the other hand, Greta didn’t fancy going back to her pulsating bedroom. Maybe Sam was her best bet for now. He had good taste in movies at least, wearing a Jurassic Park T-shirt, one of the originals, baggy and worn with age. She followed him over to a table in the corner of the room, where two men were playing a game of dominos and a woman was reading a battered copy of Unravelling Oliver. She knew the feeling; she was unravelling by the second here.

‘Say hello to another newbie,’ Sam said to the three people seated at the table. They gave Greta the once-over. ‘That’s Rory, Tim and Eileen.’

‘Hey.’

‘What are you in for?’ Rory asked.

Greta wasn’t prepared for that question. It made her sound like she’d committed a crime. And in truth, she didn’t know how to answer it.

‘Booze by the look of her, I’d say,’ Tim piped in.

‘Well I won’t lie, I could do with a glass of red right now,’ Greta said, which made them laugh.

‘I’d say painkillers. Most of the under thirties are in for drugs of some kind,’ Eileen said, then grinned triumphantly when she saw recognition flash in Greta’s face. ‘Knew it.’ They all began high-fiving her.

‘Excuse me, I don’t take painkillers,’ Greta said loudly just as the room went quiet. She felt eyes on her from all directions, looking to see what the hullabaloo was about.

‘If it’s not painkillers, it’s definitely pills of some description. We’re a nation under sedation,’ Eileen said.

‘Give the lady some space lads,’ Sam said. ‘She’s just arrived. Here, take a load off.’

Greta sat down beside him and to her horror realized that she had to squeeze her hips between the two arms of the chair. Bulges of fat spilt out from under the wings on either side. If they noticed, they didn’t say anything. But every part of her cringed in embarrassment.

‘It can get boring in here. So we play the “Guess the Addiction” game to pass the time. No offence meant,’ Sam said.

Greta couldn’t help herself; she was now wondering what he was in for. And as if he pulled the thought from her brain, he said, ‘Gambling.’

‘Alcohol,’ Rory said.

‘Booze for me too,’ Eileen added.

‘Heroin,’ Tim said.

‘So what’s the deal here? Do I have to make a big Hollywood dramatic reveal and say, I’m Greta Gale, I’m a drug addict?’ Greta asked.

‘It doesn’t have to be Hollywood but it does have to happen,’ Sam said.

‘I blame my mother’s addiction to soap operas. Irish, UK, American, Australian, she watches them all. And that’s all very well when it doesn’t affect my life. All they do is make her overactive imagination worse. And to make matters even more dire, she’s riled up my dad and my brothers too. There’s not a member of my family now who isn’t convinced that I’m a druggie. When the truth of the matter is that I have gotten a little too reliant on sleeping pills. No big deal. So, for the purpose of accuracy, I’m Greta Gale, and my parents think I’m a drug addict.’

Sam, Rory, Eileen and Tim smiled knowingly, like they were privy to some private joke.

‘Hey!’ Eileen said, pointing at Greta. ‘You’re not the doctor who wrote all those books, are you? That Doctor Greta Gale who is always on TV!’

‘Sorry to disappoint but I’m the messed-up Irish version who lives at home with her parents. And if I were that Greta, I’d demand a better room than the one I have.’

‘It ain’t the Shelbourne for sure,’ Eileen agreed.

‘Are there any celebs here, by the way?’ Greta asked.

‘No. But there is a guy who looks a lot like Donald Trump. He even has the weird hair,’ Eileen answered.

‘I saw him on the way in,’ Greta shuddered. ‘Not a good look.’ She held her shaking hands out. ‘And to add insult to being here – no offence – I think I’ve caught some kind of weird virus. I can’t even Google it to see what it might be.’

Sam reached over and placed his hands over Greta’s to quieten them, ‘How long since you had any pills?’

Greta looked at him sharply, to see if he was taking the piss, but could only see concern on his face.

‘The shakes are from detoxing,’ Sam explained.

Greta chose to ignore his diagnosis. ‘I need a coffee. Is there a Nespresso anywhere?’

‘There’s a tea and coffee station in most common areas.’ Sam nodded in the direction of the kettle.

She stood up to investigate, taking the chair with her. She pulled her bum from its clutches and, with as much dignity as she could muster, walked over to make a drink. ‘Anyone want one? This is all herbal teas and decaf. Where’s the real deal?’ She picked up a raspberry and fennel tea, sniffed it, then put it back.

‘Caffeine is a stimulant. So it’s banned,’ Eileen shouted over. She looked almost gleeful at Greta’s obvious annoyance.

‘Sshh.’ A wild-looking woman with wiry grey hair shouted, ‘Some of us are trying to watch the TV.’

‘You get used to the herbal stuff. Try a peppermint. Will help with your stomach,’ Sam said.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.’

‘Just wait,’ Sam said.

Greta didn’t care for the doom-and-gloom forewarnings. She was scared, and she felt rubbish. If she ran out the front door, she wondered if she could hitch a lift home to Dublin? Knowing her luck, she’d be picked up by a serial killer. Could she get a message to Uncle Ray? He’d get in the car and come and get her. She could hide in his house. But when her family had staged their intervention and insisted she come here he’d ignored her pleas for help and agreed with her parents. She was on her own. The loneliness floored her. She’d never lived away from home before. She wanted her mam. But most of all she wanted to go home.

‘I think I’ll give it a miss. Nice talking to you all,’ Greta said, waving goodbye to them. She walked, half jogged back to her room, throwing herself onto the bed, panting. Then she sobbed until there was nothing left inside of her. She blew her nose and realized that she was alone, with only her thoughts for company. She wondered if Dylan had sent her any more messages. She hadn’t told him where she was going, just that she was sick and wouldn’t be in work for a while. He must be so annoyed with her. And she couldn’t get the scrappy little dog that had been hanging around their street out of her head. She’d asked Ray to find his owners before she left. She hoped he was OK.

When Caroline brought her to this room earlier today, she’d given Greta a green journal. She explained that keeping a diary was compulsory. What could they do to her if she didn’t comply? A vision of herself locked in a padded white room, in a straightjacket, sprang to mind. Could they do that? Bloody Caroline was certainly strong enough to put her in one.

Greta picked it up in desperation, hoping it might give her something to do to help pass the time. At the top of each blank page, there were prompts to fill in.

Hours slept.

How I felt.

My truth.

She hadn’t the first clue as to what to write. Despite receiving lots of pink, secret diaries with padlocks over the years from Santa as a kid, she’d never written a word in them. She wasn’t one of those reflective types who continuously needed to self-analyse. But things had changed a lot in the past twenty-four hours. She was in prison now – or as good as. Sighing, she realized that she could lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling with her eyes wide open. Or she could give this a go. With nothing else to do and the whole night to do it in, she picked up a pencil and wrote her first entry.