days they came back. I met them at Battersea Heliport, but Amy brushed past me and got into the back of the car. I banged on the window and made her open the door.
‘Why’d you leave early, Amy?’ I asked, trying hard to sound reasonable.
‘I ain’t talking to you, Dad. It was you made us go to that place.’
She slammed the door and told the driver to take them home. I was left standing there alone. As I replayed the events in my head, I was sick about it all. I was devastated that Amy had given up on rehab so quickly, but even worse, this was the first time that Amy and I had fallen out. All I’d been doing was trying to prevent a dangerous problem becoming worse – I hadn’t expected gratitude (I’m not that naive), but I was shocked that she wouldn’t speak to me.
The newspapers were all over this story like a rash. I was struggling to know what to think, let alone say about it. The next day the
I couldn’t sit and let things just happen. On Wednesday, 15 August, we had a crisis meeting at Matrix Studios, a media centre and recording studios in south-west London, partly owned by Nigel Frieda, who was also a part-owner of the Causeway Retreat. Dr Mike McPhillips, of the Causeway, Dr Ettlinger, Shawn O’Neil and John Knowles, representing Universal, Raye and I were at the meeting, which went ahead with Amy and Blake’s agreement. Georgette and Giles were invited to attend and would bring Amy and Blake with them. They never showed up. In their infinite wisdom, Georgette and Giles had decided it would be a better idea to take Amy and Blake to a pub for a drink instead.
The following day there were pictures in the newspapers of Amy and Georgette, arm in arm, coming out of a pub. They had been taken while the rest of us were pulling our hair out, trying to decide the best way to help Amy and Blake. Later, when I confronted Georgette about it, she said the whole situation had been thrust upon her and Giles and they’d needed time to take it in. I thought it was a pity I hadn’t thrust harder.
In the absence of Amy, Blake and his parents, the meeting concluded that Amy and Blake should go back to the Causeway Retreat and, after much cajoling, we managed to get them back on Osea Island two days later. As I saw the helicopter leave Battersea Heliport for the second time, I breathed a sigh of relief. I just hoped that this time they would stay and be helped. Sadly, though, it wasn’t to be. Somehow or other a friend of Blake’s, someone I’ll call Geoff for legal reasons, got on to the island and into the Causeway to give Amy and Blake drugs. So much for the impenetrable Osea Island and second-to-none security.
Two days later – again cutting their stay short - Amy and Blake left the Causeway Retreat and checked into a ?500-a-night suite at the Sanderson Hotel in London’s West End.
On Wednesday, 22 August, my son Alex went to visit Amy and Blake at the Sanderson. They ended up having a big row about drugs. When Alex phoned me, I could tell immediately that he was upset. I calmed him down and arranged for Amy and Blake to meet us in a restaurant in Goodge Street, not far from the hotel, so he and his sister could make up. We had a nice dinner together that night – Amy and Alex could never stay mad at each other for long and, for Amy’s sake, I was polite to Blake, but I felt as if we were all walking on egg shells.
We left the restaurant at about nine thirty. Amy and Blake went back to the hotel and Alex and I went home. Then, at about three thirty a.m., all hell broke loose at the Sanderson. Amy and Blake had had a huge bust-up. The first I heard of it was from the next morning’s newspapers. The
At some point during the fight Amy had run out of their room, out of the hotel and into the street. This was when the paparazzi had got their shots. Blake had followed – I don’t know if he was chasing her to bring her back or to continue the fight. Amy hailed a passing car and jumped in. She was dropped off nearby and walked back to the hotel where she and Blake made up. I raced to the hotel to see Amy. Blake was out and she told me that they’d had a terrible row and she had cut herself. Later she admitted that she had hit and scratched Blake, but she wouldn’t tell me if he had hit her.
‘What were you fighting about?’ I asked, while she climbed back into bed.
‘Not now, Dad,’ she replied. ‘I’m tired.’
Upsetting as it was, I knew she wouldn’t tell me any more, but my most pressing concern was that she was okay. ‘As long as you’re all right now.’
She was drowsy and murmured, ‘I’m fine, Dad. Let me sleep.’
There was no doubt in my mind that the fight had been drug-fuelled, even though there was no drug paraphernalia in the room. I wanted to wait for Blake to come back so I could talk to him. How could someone treat my little girl in this way? When Amy fell asleep, I went downstairs and checked into the hotel. I had to keep an eye on them in case there was a repeat of the previous night’s events, and I was frightened for her.
That afternoon I found out that Blake’s parents had arrived as well; they were staying at the Monmouth Hotel, in nearby Covent Garden. As much as I disliked them, I decided to go and see them. I hoped to persuade them to try to talk some sense into Blake. They were out, so I left a message for them to contact me. They never called.
I went back to the Sanderson and was informed by the concierge that Amy and Blake had left the hotel arm in arm to go for a walk. I felt helpless and, unusually for me, unsure what to do next. Until now, I’d known what to expect from Amy in any given situation, but I was out of my depth. There is no way to describe how it feels to wake up to photos of your daughter covered with blood on the front page of the newspaper. It was unimaginable that we had gone from the excitement of
The drugs made her behave erratically, and I was living on a knife edge. Anything might happen. In the end I went back to my room and told the front desk to inform me immediately if any trouble was reported from Amy and Blake’s room. It was a quiet night.
The following day Georgette, Giles and Blake’s younger brothers, then thirteen and fourteen, arrived at the Sanderson. Georgette left the boys with Amy and Blake while we went off for a talk. It was a waste of time: the Civils wouldn’t accept that Blake had introduced Amy to class-A drugs and blamed her for Blake’s addiction.
The next day the Civils told me they blamed Amy’s career and record company for her and Blake’s problems. Even now, when I look back, I can’t get over their behaviour. For me, they came to epitomize everything I disliked about Blake and what he’d done to Amy.
Later that afternoon I went up to see Amy and Blake and found out they had spontaneously decided to go on holiday to St Lucia. They had been in touch with Juliette to ask her to bring their passports and some money to the hotel. They were planning to leave the next day.
‘What are you thinking?’ I asked Amy, when I found out. ‘Are you mad?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘You two need to go back to rehab, to Osea Island, not swan about on some bloody beach.’
‘And you need to mind your own business,’ said Amy, laughing – she and I both knew that I never would.
I’d been keeping Jane, Janis, Alex and Raye up to speed with everything that was happening in the hotel, and they laughed too, when I told them what Amy had said. I suppose it was quite funny, really. A couple of hours later Juliette arrived with the passports and three thousand pounds in cash; I overheard Blake on the phone arranging to go to Hackney, east London, to pick up some drugs.
That was it. I’d had enough and told him as much. I didn’t care about the consequences, I said, I was going to the police to tell them what I’d heard. That seemed to work: he didn’t go to Hackney that afternoon. Instead, out of the blue, he accused Juliette of stealing a hundred pounds from the money she had brought them, which Juliette would never do. There was a horrible row and I tore into Blake – in front of Amy for the first time. And then Juliette left.
The next day Amy and Blake flew to St Lucia. Amy texted that they’d arrived safely and, I have to admit, part of me felt relieved. I wasn’t foolish enough to think that all of the problems were over, but at least they were a bit further away; I needed to forget about the past couple of weeks and spend some time with my wife, whom I’d been neglecting. I poured into my diary everything I’d seen and felt to get it out of my mind. I didn’t know where else to turn.
