Rachel's Holiday
Page 16

‘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.