I know what you’re thinking. You’ve read about us in the papers, haven’t you? Something scurrilous in
the Mail with a picture of our perfect family, our perfect daughter, before she burnt it to the ground, or
an ‘opinion piece’ in a broadsheet masquerading as a treatise on modern life. You’ve probably seen that
terrible picture of Nick and I coming down the stone st eps of our house – correction, my house – his arm
lassoed around my shoulder, looking more like a harness than an expression of love. You thought how
much older I looked than in the previous shots, how unkempt. It’s ironic: I used to think nothing of a
blow-dry or a manicure for some pointless drinks party in Sh epherd’s Bush on a Thursday night, and
now I’m so far divorced from my old life that I’m pr epared to be googled into perpetuity looking like
some kind of crazed bag lady.
It pains me to admit it, but Nick was probably right to hold me back. He knew how much I wanted to
scream at the huddle of journalists – bedraggled and desperate in the grey drizzle, like foxes skulking
around the bins – to tell them that it was her who needed restraining, not me. I won’t say her name.
Whatever she says, whatever Rachel’s behaviour implies, it’s a lie. They’ve re-cut the truth, stitched a
false flag from the scraps. I loved Rachel with all my heart – with a mother’s heart – even when she was
at her very worst. All I wanted to do was protect her, from herself most of all.
What I know now is this: you don’t know what rock bottom feels like until you’re face down on the
ground.
One Year Earlier