Under any other circumstances she would have laughed. An addiction worker quoting Winnie the Pooh?
‘Proved by the fact,’ he continued, ‘that you’ve brought yourself here. Admitted you’ve got a problem. That takes a lot of guts. And in my experience, the people who succeed are those like you who self-refer – not the people forced here by relatives, social services or the courts. Honestly, there are lots of positives.’
The chair rocked as she slumped back into it, but after a moment, she sat up a little straighter than before.
‘And you won’t be on your own. We’ll offer you as much education and mental rewiring as we can.’
She blew her nose and followed him back out into the waiting room while he fetched her allotted case worker. The baby. She was doing this for the baby. She mustn’t run out of the door.
Butcase worker. How had it come to this? They were for people who’d grown up on deprived council estates. For underage single mums who needed support. For people with mental health issues. Not Emma. She’d got a couple of A levels and grown up in a village where the worst crime was sabotaging a neighbour’s efforts for the summer fete bake-off.
A door left of reception opened and a woman with tousled greying blonde hair appeared. Black-framed glasses. Flowing floral shirt. Baggy slacks. Flip Flops.
Emma liked the Flip Flops. Someone prepared to show their curled toenails and cracked skin was familiar with imperfection.
The woman consulted her clipboard and peered over the top of her glasses. ‘You must be Emma. Emma Bonneville.’
Sounded posh, didn’t it? She never mentioned her surname on the streets. It was French. So was her father, apparently. That was all he’d given her – a name no one could pronounce.
She stood up, heaved her rucksack over one shoulder and followed the woman through the door and along a corridor. They stopped outside a small room and went in. It was sparse, like the other one.
‘My name’s Lou. Lou Burns,’ the woman said, and they sat down. Lou opened her laptop on a nearby table and rested Emma’s paperwork on her knees. ‘I’ve looked through your details.’ She put down her pen. ‘Tell me about when it all started to go wrong, Emma. How long have you been drinking heavily?’
‘I wrote all that on the form.’
Lou took off her glasses and placed them next to her laptop. ‘This is your first serious attempt to get sober?’
‘I tried lots of times on my own,’ Emma said, ‘but it never worked.’
‘And your family – are you in contact? You haven’t written down a next of kin.’
‘They’ve disowned me. Everyone has.’ Tears trickled down her face. Was this what getting better was going to be like? Her body expelling liquid instead of taking it in?
Lou studied her for a moment. ‘You must feel very lonely. Well, you aren’t alone any more. We’re here to help.’
A tiny light ignited inside Emma’s chest. She’d felt lonely for such a long time, even when she’d lived at the farm surrounded by family and animals.
Lou put her glasses back on. ‘Okay… let’s get things moving.’ She handed over a timetable of therapy sessions. ‘We offer a lot at Stanley House. And after your detox I’ll be pitching a case for you to go to rehab. If you attend regularly here, that will strengthen your case.’
‘Strengthen my case?’
Lou stopped tapping at her laptop for a moment. ‘Our funding is stretched. You’ve got to show willing, Emma. I’ll refer you to our Listening EAR programme – EAR for Education and Reduction. It’s two hours of group therapy, here, three times a week.’
‘Grouptherapy?’ She failed to keep her voice steady.
Lou reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘I know it’s tough. But rehab is group therapy too.’
‘But all our stories will be different.’
‘On the surface, yes, though I think you’ll be surprised. The feelings of fear and despair, the reasons for using… they’re usually pretty much the same. It’s a level playing field. Even the facilitators have had problems in the past.’ She sat back and stared hard at Emma. ‘So are you up to the challenge? Do we go ahead?’
Emma clenched her fists tight. She could do this. She couldn’t go on waking up every morning wishing she were dead. And more importantly, the baby deserved the best chance.
‘Yes. Please. I haven’t meant to sound ungrateful. It’s just I’m so confused at the moment…’
‘I understand. This is a massive step.’
‘There’s something else.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m about eight weeks pregnant.’
