Clean by Juno Dawson, James Dawson

2018

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Author:	Juno Dawson, James Dawson
Genre:	Young Adult
File Name:	clean-by-juno-dawson-james-dawson.epub
Original Title:	Clean
Creator:	Juno Dawson
Language:	en
Identifier:	URI:http://www.helpandmanual.com/
Publisher:	Hachette Children's Group
Date:	1522688400
File Size:	615932.928

I can feel it swimming through my veins like glitter … it’s liquid gold.

When socialite Lexi Volkov almost overdoses, she thinks she’s hit rock bottom.

She’s wrong. Rock bottom is when she’s forced into an exclusive rehab facility.

From there, the only way is up for Lexi and her fellow inmates, including the mysterious Brady.

As she faces her demons, Lexi realises love is the most powerful drug of all …

It’s a dirty business getting clean …

Table of Content

1. Cover
2. Also by Juno Dawson
3. Title Page
4. Contents
5. Author Note
6. Dedication
7. STEP 1: I ADMIT I HAVE A PROBLEM

Face-down on leather. New car smell. Pine Fresh.
Can’t sleep now.
Tyres crunch over gravel. Sleep hasn’t helped. I still feel like I’ve been scraped inside out with fish hooks. My teeth are spongy; porous.
I sit in McBeardy’s office, knees pulled to my chest, in a sleek, tan leather chair. There is definitely vomit down the front of my dress. It reeks. He hands me a bottle of Evian and I take a sip. It helps the mouth-rot.
Nikolai uses the bathroom before we walk back to his car. I’m wrapped in a blanket and have been given some box-fresh white Vans for my bare feet. Goldstein and one of the boynurses lurk behind us.
At least the room is nice. I’m on the ground floor – which I’d normally complain about – but I remind myself this isn’t a hotel, however much it looks like one. As I’m whisked towards my suite, I get the gist of the Clarity Centre: plush carpets in palliative jade; ecru walls; walnut trim; soft up-lighting; creamy orchids in goldfish bowls. Classy 101.
Fashion Week isn’t about the shows – although some still are worth showing up for, and it’s always amusing to see the bloggers try to outdo each other in the crazy fancy dress stakes (oooh you’re wearing a Wendy house, how innovative, how Fashion Week). No, it’s about the parties.
Dr Goldstein jots something down on his clipboard. ‘And that was when you passed out?’
I’m dying.
I think it’s morning. Grey light bleeds in around the curtains. I’m frozen, cocooned in the duvet. I don’t remember if I slept at all. All I remember is hurting. It hurts so much. It feels like my bones are trying to hatch from under my flesh and make a run for it. My body doesn’t feel like mine, bent into a pretzel by giant hands.
‘If you want Kurt’s face in one piece, you’ll suck my dick.’
The Suboxone kicks in and I drift off again. My body shakes and spasms. My arms and legs jerk around like I’m a puppet on invisible strings. I don’t understand how I can feel so awful. I don’t get it.
I can’t sleep, I’m in too much pain. The ache is at the core of every bone. If I could dig them out I would. I’ve never had the bends, but I bet this is what it feels like, like I’m going to fucking snap.
They put me in a different room with grey slate tile floors, high rectangular windows and a less lavish (double) bed, albeit one nailed to the floor. If this is their version of a padded cell, they need to try harder. It’s not much different to a budget hotel room. There’s even a boxy en-suite in the corner. Hardly a punishment.
When I wake up, I’m FREEZING cold again. I pull the duvet around my body and nest all the way under the covers into the dark.
Night comes again and it’s worse. I dream Nikolai is eating Mummy and trying to shove bits of her flesh in my mouth. There are tiny, gerbil-sized naked human babies all over the floor of my room at the hotel and I keep treading on them. I dream that I wake up and feel better.
I wake in the morning and the pain is less. I feel solid. I feel . . . fluey, I guess, but at least I’m not human ramen and my kidneys aren’t on fire. I’m back in bed, but I don’t remember getting here. I wonder, honestly, if I dreamed the Scouse nurse. I figure someone must have scraped me off the toilet and put me back in bed.
I wake properly when there’s a knock at the door. ‘Lexi? Are you awake?’ It’s Dr Goldstein. He enters and I sit up. ‘How are you feeling?’
Back in my suite (from which they have actually removed the decorative pebbles) I put the TV on and half doze, half watch re-runs of Friends on Comedy Central and Big Bang Theory on E4. This scheduling tells me it must be a weekend. God, how long have I been here? The days and nights are a blurry blob. I wish I were at home. Usually Nik and I slob out and watch this shit in our pyjamas and order room service.
More days roll by. I feel defeated, deflated. I can only submit to feeling like crap. Weirdly, the more I eat, the better I feel, and the food coming from the kitchen is always yum: scrambled eggs and avocado; quinoa salad; chicken and kale; apple and spinach smoothies.
His office looks precisely as it did before my temper tantrum. I sit in the same seat while he runs me through how my days will be from now on. Apparently I’ll have individual therapy every morning, even if it’s just to check in with him or his colleague, Dr Ahmed, who I’ll meet tomorrow. There will follow group therapy until lunchtime and then our afternoons are free for ‘activities’. I wonder if ‘masturbate in the bath’ counts. The evenings will be ‘structured’, which sends a shiver down my spine, but Dr Goldstein assures me it’s only a mixture of film screenings, games nights and speakers coming to the island to ‘share their recovery stories’.

8. STEP 2: THE CHOICE TO RECOVER IS MINE TO MAKE

I smoke a cigarette on one of the sunloungers outside my suite. It’s a pretty dusk, the colour of pink grapefruit juice. Apparently my little breakthrough in Goldstein’s office earned me an unlocked patio door. I see now that my room is part of a modern annex grafted on to the side of the mansion.
I’m weirdly nervous about my first therapy session. I don’t know why; I’ve been seeing therapists since I was fourteen. Daddy was worried about us when Mummy finally left. It had been a long time coming though. I wonder if it’s more the prospect of group therapy that’s bothering me. The prospect of performing some contrite flagellation before total strangers doesn’t exactly fill me with glee.
You hear people talk about love all the time. It’s just flopping out of people’s mouths every minute of the day: I love you, I love this burger, I love my mum, I love my new Balenciaga. Love, love, love, all the goddamn time, right?
‘Anything else?’ I ask. ‘I can go into more detail if you’d like.’
I inhale two cigarettes back-to-back on the communal decked terrace. It’s fucking freezing, but I’m trying to put off meeting the other fuck-ups for as long as possible ahead of Group. I suppose it’s better to get it over and done with; rip off the plaster. As I light my third cigarette, I’m joined by a very posh boy. I can tell he’s posh before he even opens his mouth. He’s got that inexplicable floppy posh-boy Boris haircut and his collar is turned up. They always look a little like confused hedgehogs coming out of hibernation.
Group is held in a different room in the old part of the house, possibly a dining room, library or billiard room at some point. This house is a life-size Cluedo board. There’s a handsome fireplace, in which a low flame crackles, and two big windows looking out over the lawn. Vaguely arranged around the fireplace and coffee table are three sleek grey sofas and two armchairs.
After a circle-jerk goodbye for Melissa, we head to lunch. It’s my first lunch in the ‘restaurant’ and it’s not as high-school-canteen as I’d feared. It’s sleek and modern, with two circular white tables, each seating eight. Everyone sits together and I can’t very well sit by myself. Guy explains there’s restaurant staff. I guess this is where our money’s going. I admit I’ve probably eaten in worse restaurants.
Brady volunteers to take me to the stables and I don’t mind one bit. Not only is he easy on the eye, he’s also the most chill of my fellow inmates, and that suits me. It seems we’re to be trusted. I guess it’s not like there’s any temptation on the whole island. Nikolai only sent my mauve Marc Jacobs biker jacket, but Kendall lends me a scarf and a beanie hat. It’s not quite spring yet.
I can’t sleep.
‘So, tell me about your family,’ Dr Goldstein says. Today Dr Ahmed hasn’t joined us.
When I was about ten, Daddy made me and Nikolai have a Russian tutor. Like he felt it was important for us to connect with our heritage or something. The tutor was kinda cute in a dorky way – he was finishing his Masters at UCL I think.
OK, I know I’m tired and emotional because the memory of that night makes my eyes sting. ‘Would you like a tissue?’ Goldstein asks.
After the session, I’m allowed to check my phone again. This time there’s a text from Kurt.
We’re in Group.
In the afternoon, I go back to the stables. It’s that or fucking macramé.
That night I do join the others for dinner. Not just because Brady invited me, but because I’ll chew my own hands off if I have to spend another night alone in that room with the Kardashians on E!.
I wake up in the middle of the night. The clock on my nightstand reads 2.34 a.m. God, it’s only about an hour since I finally nodded off. I roll over to go back to sleep when I hear footsteps – light, scurrying footsteps.

9. STEP 3: I WILL LEARN TO TRUST IN MYSELF AND OTHERS

Dr Goldstein thinks my life has lacked routine since I left St Agnes. Now I have routine:
In the afternoon it starts to rain, tip-tapping against the windows of the old house. Wind howls through the walls. The weather was bad enough for the ferry to be cancelled, and the personal trainer and tutors couldn’t make the crossing.
Another day, another downpour.
There’s more drama at dinner time. Kendall isn’t gaining weight – and I know why – so they’ve upped her calorie intake. It doesn’t go down well and she’s kept back after we all leave to finish what’s on her plate. The others gather in the gym for yoga and meditation.
After Gary has wiped away the blood and cleaned the wound and stuck a plaster on my head, I go out onto the terrace for a cigarette. I feel a bit woozy. It’s probably just adrenaline comedown. I’ve had worse comedowns; I’ll live.
‘Would you say you were happy?’ Goldstein asks. It is very sunny and I’d rather be outside instead of looking at blue sky over his shoulder through the window.
After the session I try to ring Kurt. It rings, but then goes to his voicemail. I try three times but he doesn’t answer. ‘Pick up, you asshole,’ I mutter.
‘Babe, you do not mess with these people,’ he once told me, pacing the hotel suite. I was naked on the bed, tangled up in bed linen. He was in a pair of saggy boxers, desperately trying to get hold of Baggy. ‘Why the fuck isn’t he answering?’
‘Kurt, it’s Lexi. I hope you’re alive. Answer your phone for fuck’s sake. I’ll try again at the same time tomorrow.’
Group is lively today.
I sit on the back steps, the mossy stone freezing my butt. It’s not nearly as warm as it looks. Ruby and Kendall sit alongside me as Saif and Brady half-heartedly pass a basketball between them. Guy is smoking a cigarette.
After I’ve changed out of my wet clothes, my curiosity gets the better of me. On the way down to lunch, I see the coast is clear to the Safe Room. Interesting.
The encounter with Sasha weirded me out. I can’t tell anyone she hurt herself without landing myself in trouble and I wonder if she’ll grass me up. I get now why the others are so on edge. How do you ever relax around someone so unpredictable? I wonder . . . I wonder if that’s what I was like to Nik?
‘Well, where did you last have it?’ Kendall asks. We’re all in the dining room. Saif has lost his Rolex.

10. STEP 4: I AM STRONGER THAN I THINK I AM

In the night I dreamed I’d be speaking to Nik through a Perspex screen via a telephone, but I’m told there’s not a set ‘Family Room’ as such. The receptionist calls the phone in my room just as I’m putting some mascara on. ‘Good morning, Miss Volkov. Your brother is waiting for you in reception.’
When I get to the dining room that night, I see Sasha is there. They must have her meds sorted: she’s neither lobotomy chill or freebasing. Still, Dr Ahmed is also joining us for dinner, which she doesn’t normally. She sits alongside Sasha and tonight there are no tea lights on the tables, making it decidedly less ‘bistro’ and much more ‘school dinners’.
After dinner we have a guest speaker – a former patient who’s now six years sober. Good for him. Six years without a drink. Jesus. Where will I be in six years? I’ll be twenty-three. I try, but I can’t see past the island perimeter.
The next day starts with the arrival of a jumbo-size, ultra-heavy-flow period. It looks like the last scene in a slasher movie down there. With everything going on, it didn’t even occur to me that I’ve unwittingly come off the pill. This is my first period in about a year. No wonder I nearly had a little boo-hoo when Saif shouted at me.
After the session, I’m allowed my allotted phone time. I have a text message from Nikolai: I saw Kurt. He’s fine. You can stop worrying. N x
I check no one’s about and breeze upstairs. I’m powered by anger. Anger and hormones. I’m on the blob, so I won’t fuck him, but there’s plenty of other things we can do.
I was not expecting that. ‘What? Are you kidding?’
‘It’s never one thing,’ Brady says in Group. I wonder if he feels the need to explain himself after what just happened. ‘You know, I’d go sober for a while . . . say that I won’t do it again, but then – just when you let your guard down – you hit the Fuck-It Button. You tell yourself, “oh, it’s so-and-so’s birthday and it’s just this one last time”.’

11. STEP 5: I ACCEPT I AM NOT A BAD PERSON

I remember the day I first met Antonella. It was Second Form at St Agnes. On the first day back after the summer vacation, we had a year-group assembly. That August, we’d been on our final holiday as a family to Antigua. I know now it was a last-ditch attempt to hold the marriage together. It didn’t work.
The rain has eased off. In fact, from the terrace, I can see black clouds carrying it out to sea like a sky armada. And yes, it smells of Basic.
When people say you’re ‘out of it’ they mean it. I was. I’d checked out of life in London and now everything feels . . . well: I feel. Heroin is an anaesthetic, after all. I was pleasingly numb. Now, it’s all tangible and I feel both the goods and the bads again. This Kurt and Brady stuff is somehow like a migraine and indigestion at the same time. Great.
I spend the afternoon at the stables as has become my new regime. Feeble spring sunshine is giving it like thirty per cent, but still trying to break through. I busy myself, helping Elaine with Patty and an injured mare called Tia before turning my attention to Storm. ‘Do you want to see my bruise?’ Elaine says. She rolls up her trouser leg to reveal an almost perfect hoof print. It’s a painful purple and yellow.
Everyone loved Antonella Hemmings.
Since arriving at Clarity, I’ve been slumming it: ignoring make-up and grooming completely. For whatever reason – or because I know Brady will be at Group – I put on a little kohl, mascara and Chanel lip stain. I rarely see Brady at breakfast – he works out in the morning so he eats early, or ‘juices’. When did we allow that to become a verb?
Before Group, I have a fag and think about Siddhartha. The prince who would eventually become the Buddha. Guru Rachel told me all about him. He grew up in a palace with bling and privilege. So sheltered was he that he didn’t even know about illness or ageing, until he escaped beyond the gates. Once he saw suffering, he rejected his royal name and dedicated his life to poverty, spirituality and the quest for Nirvana.
At first I freeze. I just stand there.
While Ahmed waits with the body – with Saif – Goldstein takes control and I am grateful. It feels like nothing bad can happen with him around. Father figure/Daddy issues.
I’ll be faster on horseback. I slip out of the building without being seen and pelt through the woods. I tumble out of the overgrown pathway that leads to the stables and mess up my footing. I sort of flop to the gravel track, my left knee taking all the impact. Pain shoots all the way up my leg and through my spine. My tights rip and I see I’ve skinned it – mud mixing with red blood. Shit. I hope it’s not as bad as it looks.
The words ring in my ears and I swear my heart just stops for a second before rebooting.
We lay by the fire until we, and it, are all burned out.

12. STEP 6: I WILL STRIVE TO BE A BETTER PERSON

‘We should head back,’ I say when the fire is embers and the sky is dark like a bruise. ‘We’re gonna be in so much trouble. They must be looking for us.’
When will you acknowledge, Miss Volkov, that your actions have consequences?
Goldstein mirrors her expression now. Brady and I stand before his desk, metaphorical caps in hand. ‘Do you have any idea how concerned we were? We were seconds away from calling the coastguard.’
After a very sombre dinner, we’re gathered in the drawing room where we have a very special edition of Group. Kendall cuddles up against Brady on the sofa and I don’t mind – there’s nothing between them; he comforts her like a brother. I’m with Ruby on the other one. Sasha plays with her braids in front of the fire. Our group feels a lot smaller. Now, with all the drama spent, we’re left with an empty armchair.
Jesus knows we need something to lighten the mood, so before bed we watch Zoolander 2 in the lounge. Kendall gets the hump because she says it’s transphobic. Goldstein stays with us too. I can’t deny I feel safer with him around tonight.
I’m deep, deep in a warm, porridgey sleep when I wake up. At first I don’t even know why I’m awake until there’s another delicate rat-a-tat-tat on the door of my suite. It’s still pitch black outside the French windows and my body clock tells me dawn is still miles away.

13. STEP 7: I WILL EMBRACE CHANGE – IN MYSELF, OTHERS AND MY ENVIRONMENT

The next few days are subdued. It’s clear Goldstein and Ahmed are going through the motions with slightly deflated tyres. In One-To-One, I tell Goldstein that Saif’s death wasn’t his fault: ‘Wasn’t that like Step 2? We can only get better if we want to. Saif was pretty happy. It . . . it was just an accident.’
Ahmed takes us for Group. Since the morning of the sunrise, I’ve steered clear of Brady. My hands are like little magnets, I just want to touch him, and that’s not good for either of us. Kurt feels a million miles away. Brady feels like a holiday romance, but a holiday in a fictional world where nothing I do counts. This isn’t the real world – it’s an ornamental snow globe. I’m somewhere between missing London and never wanting to return.
I spend the afternoon taking Storm for a run on the beach. He needs it. I need it. The wind in my face blows all the fog off my brain. My hair feels salty and wild and mermaidy, and I like it.
Back at the centre, I run a hot bath. After galloping around on Storm all afternoon, I needed a soak before I could function.
So, that night.
It was every bit as awful as I’d feared. Worse. Cash bar. I ask you. The organisers hired circus performers (standard) and you couldn’t move more than a metre without crashing into some cunt on stilts or an out-of-work actress dressed as a ‘sexy clown’ trying to sell jelly shots. I don’t know who thought ‘awful kid’s party’ was something to aspire to in adulthood.
‘LEXI!’ Sasha screams in my ear so loud it hurts. ‘There’s a boat!’
‘Lexi? Are you OK?’ It’s Goldstein.
I spend a very long time in the bath. Despite having almost drowned, I submerge myself. I’m reminded of The Bell Jar, that quote about baths curing all of life’s woes, but I can’t quite remember it. The water is almost too hot, but I like it. My skin turns sausagey and pink, but I can feel my core defrosting. I take down the shower attachment and wash my hair twice, ridding it of stinky eau de seaweed.
I wake the next morning, stretched diagonal across the bed. Creamy vanilla light seeps through the drapes and I feel the need to stretch like a satisfied cat. I remember falling asleep in Brady’s arms, my head resting on his sticky chest. ‘Brady?’ I call, kicking my legs. I’m still naked, tangled up with bed linen.
I crouch over the toilet for a minute, because my head is spinning and I might faint.
I can’t face therapy with Goldstein. I tell him I’m sick, although I do ask if I can check my phone.

14. STEP 8: I ACCEPT I HAVE HURT MYSELF AND OTHERS

I’m over it.
I can’t sleep – maybe because it’s barely after eleven. With so few of us now, bedtime has been getting earlier and earlier. We’re bored shitless. It also feels very female – almost like being back at St Agnes.
She leaves the next morning. There’s some slight excitement as a Mercedes with blacked-out windows crunches up the drive to collect her. We all gather around, wondering if we’ll get a glimpse of the man a lot of people think will be the next president.
And tomorrow is Kendall’s turn. I’m gonna miss this bitch, and not just because she reminds me of Antonella.
The following afternoon we’re back on the driveway like the Railway Children. I give Kendall a long hug. ‘Promise you’ll email me,’ she says. ‘I’m only like half an hour outside London. We can meet up.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to Kurt?’ Goldstein asks.
I was drunk on the day I wasn’t expelled.
I sit on the edge of my bed, surrounded by bulging, lumpy bags and an overstuffed case, straining at the zipper. The silver Miu Miu dress I arrived in, although laundered, sits at the bottom of the bin.
I rest my head against Storm’s head. I don’t say any words. Partly because he’s a horse, but also because I’ll cry again.
Nikolai drives us down the ramp and onto the ferry. There’s only one other vehicle – a catering van bringing frozen stuff to the kitchens. ‘This time you don’t have to lie in the back,’ Nik says.
It’s boring country roads – fields, trees, roadkill – until we hit the M25 and then it’s traffic jams all the way into Vauxhall.
The first thing I do with my freedom is make a cup of tea.
I have a healthy, golden tan when Daddy returns on Friday. You can tell when he enters a hotel because a nervous shockwave ripples through the building. The staff straighten their ties and adopt rod-in-ass posture. Daddy is pleasingly scary.
Red lips, red nails, red soles on my Louboutins.
Coming up makes the journey from Shoreditch to Belgravia lightning fast. I’d forgotten how good the rush to your head feels.
We find the others gathered around a table in a yurt. They’re sat in a circle, on velvet cushions, around a low bronze coffee table. ‘What’s all this then?’ Kurt asks as we enter.
The trips starts after about thirty minutes. The others come up first. At first I observe them, bored and wondering if I wasn’t going to come up at all. But then the room starts to turn like a fairground carousel – either I’m spinning or the walls are. It goes slowly at first but then gains speed. It’s dizzying.

15. STEP 9: I WILL MAKE AMENDS

‘Are you an angel?’
Turns out, all I had to do to get back on opiates is launch myself down the stairs at the Aziz mansion.
Later, I’m all alone. I’m feeling pain now. They won’t give me the really good painkillers for obvious reasons. I ache all over. My teeth hurt, my cheeks, everywhere. That staircase kicked my ass.
This time I make the journey in the back seat again, but only because Mummy and Daddy want to come and meet this miraculous doctor I’ve been telling them about. We take about five wrong turns on the way to the ferry and they bicker. Of course they do. I don’t know why I wanted them to be together. It’s a nightmare.

16. STEP 1: I ADMIT I HAVE A PROBLEM

‘Where’s Sasha?’ I ask.
I resign myself to the Ten Steps. Yes, it’s a bit cult-like; yes, it’s dogmatic; but it gives me something to focus on.
Dear Nevada
Dear Kurt
Hey there!
Dear Lexi,
‘It’s about time,’ says Goldstein in our session, ‘to start thinking about reintegrating you with your family.’
That night, I have a cigarette before bed on the lounger by the pool. It’s warm enough to swim outdoors now. There are lights under the water and the turquoise pool glows and shimmers. It’s a balmy evening. I wear only a baggy T-shirt and my pants. I’ll go to bed soon, I have some reading – Paradise Lost – to do, but I can’t stop thinking about Brady.

17. STEP 10: I UNDERSTAND RECOVERY IS AN ONGOING, LIFE-LONG COMMITMENT

Tomorrow I go back to London. Again. I’m shitting bricks. This time, I’m going back knowing full well I fucked it up the last time. I also know my old friends don’t ‘get it’. I’m not sure I can be around them ever again. I know that life can’t be the same as it was. I know I have to avoid Kurt at all costs. Even so, I’m nervous. I can’t go through all this again. I can’t keep ricocheting back and forth to Clarity every other month.
TEN (MORE) STEPS
I take the letter and slide it behind the mirror. It doesn’t fall out of the back. I don’t know if anyone will find it, ever, but knowing it’s there will amuse me greatly. And who knows, maybe it’ll help someone, somewhere down the line.
Nikolai flops onto my bed like a beached whale. ‘Lex,’ he says, ‘you have to leave the hotel. Your room smells like mouth.’
I’ve been back about a month when Kendall has an appointment at the Tavistock Clinic so we arrange to have lunch at the Garrison on Bermondsey Street. I count down the days until I can see her. I’m starving for company. Since I got back, I’ve only seen Nevada and that was for dinner at the hotel. Safer that way. Fo, thank god, has gone on a US tour and they’ve decided to call it quits for now.
After lunch, we walk towards Waterloo along the Southbank, following the Thames. It’s almost aggressively sunny. I wear Dolce sunglasses and smoke. We get iced caramel lattes from a van. My feet sweat in ballet pumps.
Back at the hotel, I go to the roof gardens. An absolutely stunning gay couple lie side by side on sunloungers, hands held in the middle. They say nothing, soaking up the sun on the poolside. They’re so silently in love it’s noisy.
The next morning, I make some calls.
I’ve nodded off in the back of the cab. ‘Miss?’ the driver says, and I wake with a start. ‘I think this is the place.’
While that kiss would be the last scene in the film adaptation of my life, the credits didn’t miraculously roll over the night sky. Is Jennifer Lawrence too old to play me now?
At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow.
Time passes and it’s Autumn. It can get brutally cold up here in the mountains, so most nights Brady and I build a big fire in the lounge. I enjoy nothing more than perving over Brady as he chops logs with an axe in the yard, chest and arms glistening with sweat. There’s a great big sofa, but we rarely sit on it, preferring instead to lie on the shaggy rug, watch a movie, or Netflix, or sometimes just watch the fire burn out, as weird as that sounds. We talk and talk.
As fun as playing house with Brady is, I need to use my brain again. It turns out with a recommendation letter from Roehampton, I can apply to American colleges. I shop around and decide to enrol at Colorado State University.
The next day, while Brady runs errand in New Castle, I sit down with a pad of paper and a pen. The ranch has a gorgeous study that smells of decades-old cigars and whiskey, like they’re engrained in the wood. I swivel around in the big leather desk chair. How did I go from hotel heiress to where I am now? I chew my pen.
My name is Lexi Volkov, heiress to the V Hotel Group fortune.
CLEAN