Chapter One
They said I was a drug addict. I found that hard to come
to terms with -- I was a middle-class, convent-educated
girl whose drug use was strictly recreational. And surely
drug addicts were thinner? It was true that I took drugs,
but what no one seemed to understand was that my drug use
wasn't any different from their having a drink or two on a
Friday night after work. They might have a few vodkas and
tonic and let off a bit of steam. I had a couple of lines
of cocaine and did likewise. As I said to my father and my
sister and my sister's husband and eventually the
therapists of the Cloisters, "If cocaine was sold in
liquid form, in a bottle, would you complain about me
taking it? Well, would you? No, I bet you wouldn't!"
I was offended by the drug-addict allegation, because I
was nothing like one. Apart from the track marks on their
arms, they had dirty hair, constantly seemed cold, did a
lot of shoulder-hunching, wore cheap sneakers that looked
like they'd been bought in Woolworth's, and were, as I've
already mentioned, thin.
I wasn't thin.
Although it wasn't for the want of trying. I spent plenty
of timeon the Stairmaster at the gym. But no matter how
much I stairmastered, genetics had the final say. If my
father had married a dainty little woman, I might have had
a very different life. Very different thighs, certainly.
Instead, like my two older sisters, Claire and Margaret, I
was doomed for people always to describe me by
saying, "She's a big girl." Then they always added really
quickly "Now, I'm not saying she's fat."
The implication being that if I was fat, I could at least
do something aboutit.
"No," they would continue, "she's a fine, big, tall girl.
You know, strong."
I was often described as strong.
It really pissed me off.
My boyfriend, Luke, sometimes described me as magnificent.
(When the light was behind me and he'd had several beers.)
At least that was what he said to me. Then he probably
went back to his friends and said, "Now, I'm not saying
she's fat. . . "
The whole drug-addict allegation came about one February
morning when I was living in New York.
It wasn't the first time I felt as if I was on Cosmic
Candid Camera. My life was prone to veering out of control
and I had long stopped believing that the God who had been
assigned to me was a benign old guy with long hair and a
beard. He was more like a celestial stand-up comic, and my
life was the showcase he used to amuse the other Gods.
"Wa-atch," he laughingly invites, "as Rachel thinks she's
got a new job and that it's safe to hand in her notice on
the old. Little does she know that her new firm is just
about to go bankrupt!"
Roars of laughter from all the other gods.
"Now, wa-atch," he chuckles, "as Rachel hurries to meet
her new boyfriend. See how she catches the heel of her
shoe in a grating? See how it comes clean off? Little did
Rachel know that we had tampered with it. See how she
limps the rest of the way?" More sniggers from the
assembled gods.
"But the best bit of all," he laughs, "is that the man she
was meeting never turns up! He only asked her out for a
bet. Watch as Rachel squirms with embarrassment in the
stylish bar. See the looks of pity the other women give
her? See how the waiter gives her the extortionate bill
for a glass of wine, and best of all, see how Rachel
discovers she's left her purse at home?"
Uncontrollable guffaws.
The events that led to me being called a drug addict had
the same element of celestial farce that the rest of my
life had. What happened was, one night I'd sort of
overdone it on the enlivening drugs and I couldn't get to
sleep. (I hadn't meant to overdo it, I had simply
underestimated the quality of the cocaine that I had
taken.) I knew I had to get up for work the following
morning, so I took a couple of sleeping pills. After about
ten minutes, they hadn't worked, so I took a couple more.
And still my head was buzzing, so in desperation, thinking
of how badly I needed my sleep, thinking of how alert I
had to be at work, I took a few more.
I eventually got to sleep. A lovely deep sleep. So lovely
and deep that when the morning came, and my alarm clock
went off, I neglected to wake up.
Brigit, my roommate, knocked on my door, then came into my
room and shouted at me, then shook me, then, at her wit's
end, slapped me. (I didn't really buy the "wit's end" bit.
She must have known that slapping wouldn't wake me, but no
one is in good form on a Monday morning.)
But then Brigit stumbled across a piece of paper that I'd
been attempting to write on just before I fell asleep. It
was just the usual maudlin, mawkish, self-indulgent poetry-
type stuff I often wrote when I was under the influence.
Stuff that seemed really profound at the time, where I
thought I'd discovered the secret of the universe, but
that caused me to blush with shame when I read it in the
cold light of day -- the parts that I could read, that is.
The poem went something like "Mumble, mumble, life..."
something indecipherable, "bowl of cherries, mumble, all I
get is the pits..." Then -- and I vaguely remembered
writing this part -- I thought of a really good title
for...
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