pop. I really wanted to fix myself; I was committed. And talking through that stuff with someone who can see the problem with fresh eyes and opinions really does help. Gaining self-awareness and new perspective on your motivations and weaknesses is always good, but it didn’t do a damn thing to fix the physical compulsion that would overcome me when I’d go too long without a drink. Eventually I gave it up. I was tired of talking about being unemployed and my rape experience. The real world was hammering down my door. I needed to concentrate all my efforts on hanging on to my house, along with the sizable emotional and financial investment I’d poured into it.
I couldn’t control my compulsion; I acknowledged that. Internally I was out of control, but at least, I reasoned, I had a home. Not a house, a home. My home. I was in control of that, of my immediate physical surroundings. The house was my anchor. I knew that I’d be lost without it.
Eventually I got down to my last salable asset. I’d even run out of my regular stash of party wine. The cellar was dry but for one last, untouchable holy relic—the French wine futures.
But I did the sensible thing; I called up Mutt’s wine buddies. Some of them hadn’t bought in time to secure the bottles they needed from the 2000 vintage, but I had all of them, every single one worth owning. I’d been storing them for three years by then, and I made them what I thought was a fair and reasonable offer, enough to keep me in my house for another three months. Their counteroffer was such an insulting lowball figure that I told them to go fuck themselves. They knew I was desperate, and thought they’d try to take advantage of my situation.
The next morning I sat and waited for the phone to ring. After an hour I needed a drink. I walked down to my wine cellar.
I gave the sex swing a push as I walked past. It rocked back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch. I sat on the edge of the Moroccan bed and watched it.
I was a mess, and the monster was taking advantage of that. I could barely think straight. My career was my life. I’d sacrificed all my other dreams—motherhood, a long-term relationship, everything—to be a working actress. And now I’d fucked up. I had nothing but a house, which I was going to lose. And 180 bottles of young French wine.
I’d thought I was indestructible, unstoppable, and now the armor that I’d carefully crafted to protect myself had been ripped away. Imagine you’re a turtle that has the shell ripped from its back. Then you’re kicked upside down so that you’re helpless and can’t get back on your feet. You just lie there, waiting to die. That’s how I felt.
I’d been sucker punched without even realizing I was in a fight. Alcoholism is a sneaky disease; it takes advantage of human weakness, creeps up on you bit by bit, and breaks down your defenses, so that by the time you realize you’re in trouble you’re already up against the ropes watching the knockout punch come hurtling toward you in slow motion. Only you can’t get out of the way. You can only stand there and watch, knowing that there’s going to be pain when you come to.
My career was sinking, and I was going down with it. I was dead broke. The house had to go.
Fuck it, the monster was right.
I picked up a bottle of gold-labeled Cristal, ripped off the anti-UV cellophane wrapper, unwound the wire cage, and popped the cork. I always liked that sound. It was like the starter’s pistol fired at the beginning of a race, the sound of something new and exciting. Champagne always made me happy. It had been with me through all the good times—maybe it could help pull me out of the bad times.
The monster liked the sound of the cork popping, too. It had waited, and its patience was now rewarded. It was the time to celebrate. It had won. Checkmate. Game over.
I raised the bottle to my lips, took a swig, and, for the first but not last time in my life, drank champagne alone for breakfast.
PART FOUR
One Little Pill
13. (LAST) RESORT REHAB
Drinking those young wines is like raping a virgin! It’s a crime against humanity!”
That’s what Mutt Cohen said when he found out I’d polished off the entire 2000 vintage he’d sourced for me. It was inconceivable to him. He rubbed his eyes as if he’d suddenly been hit with a migraine from hell.
It took me almost a year to finish them off, and what a year it was! At its end, I was down to nothing but liquor and cooking wine!
I’d consumed enough of those French wines at my Casa de Claudia parties that people believed my cover story—that I’d drunk them out of spite with my friends because no one would give me a fair price. And like all good lies it was partly true. But I kept some parties in the dungeon private. Invitation only, just one name on the guest list. I fooled everyone. Except my mom. When she senses I’m hiding something, she’s like a German shepherd. She doesn’t stop until she’s sniffed out the lie and worked me into a corner.
“How did your party go last night, Claudia? Oh, you didn’t have a party? But you must have had one this week? No?”
Next thing I knew she was standing at my front door, cell phone in hand, recycling bin beside her, its lid flipped back to reveal a full load of bottles, clusters of glass necks and bottoms sticking out at every angle—my collection of shame.
But the monster was my partner in crime now, and she thinks fast.
“What? My gardener forgets to wheel the bin out for three weeks, and suddenly I’m a drunk? If anyone has the right to be indignant it’s me. What are you doing going through my trash?”
I invited her inside to make up. I had to keep her sweet, because I was flat broke and she was lending me
