110 ·^ COSMOPOLITAN
’m crouching on
the floor surrounded
by Jimmy Choo,
Christian Louboutin
and Prada heels –
they’re all scattered
across the thick
carpet like confetti
(I was instructed
to remove my
own shoes – a pair
of plain white
plimsolls – as soon
as I stepped through the front door).
Now upstairs, I root around the
walk-in wardrobe, picking up shoes
and discarding them one by one.
The sound of a woman sobbing
echoes up the stairs.
I reach deep inside a snakeskin
Isabel Marant boot. I have to stretch
my fingers so they can feel right into
the toe, where I grab what I’ve been
looking for: a tiny bag of pills, wrapped
up tightly in clingfilm. I pull it out and
pop it into my pocket. Then it’s into
the bedroom, where I begin padding
down the long ivory curtains, searching
for more carefully hidden contraband.
It’s Monday morning and this is how
I begin my week as a nurse for The
Psanctum Practice, which offers
addiction counselling in people’s own
homes. We are contacted directly or
have referrals from Sober Services, who
offer everything from light support to
24/7 care. My job means that our
clients – who range from former teen
pop stars to socialites found in the
back pages of celebrity magazines – no
longer need to check into The Priory
to dry out, and escape the risk of being
papped entering a clinic.
For the past year I’ve been on hand,
as the clinical services manager, to keep
a watchful eye over them. I had been
working in a GP surgery before this,
but found myself getting so frustrated
at the lack of mental health care
provisions I could offer people. When
I was headhunted for The Psanctum
Practice, it appealed because it’s so
hands-on – you’re in these people’s
private homes, willing them to have
hope, and to trust in someone or
something again.
But Renton from Trainspotting
barricaded in his childhood bedroom
this is not. These homes, which are
often four storeys high, offer a wealth
of hiding places – and the thorough
house search to remove all temptation
is the first part of the process. The
owner of the Carrie Bradshaw-rivalling
shoe collection, who I am taking
to task today, is 30-year-old Eve*. The
daughter of a financier, she lives alone
in her three-bed townhouse in central
London, with everything funded by
Daddy dearest. I find laxatives in her
boots, diuretics stashed in the lining
of her curtains and vodka hidden in
her bottle of mouthwash. She’s an
alcoholic with an eating disorder, and
as soon as I entered her bathroom,
the first thing I did was unscrew the
lids of all her bottles – this is the most
common hiding place for alcohol,
as our clients know that it’s the one
place they can be alone. All it took
was one sniff to identify that it
definitely wasn’t mouthwash inside
that bottle. And I didn’t stop there:
I opened every box and drawer. I’ve
found whisky miniatures inside
tampon boxes before, so I know
how creative addicts can get when
it comes to hiding their vices.
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
As I shut Eve’s door behind me, after
leaving her in the company of one
of the 25 nurses I manage, I look
up at the Grade II-listed properties
with their shiny black doors and
brass knockers and know that chaos
could lie inside. One client of mine
had two beautiful stately homes, the
kind with long drives, perfectly pruned
rose bushes and land that stretched for
miles behind. But as soon as I stepped
inside, the stench of rotting food hit
the back of my throat, and I wandered
through the rooms stepping over bin
bags rustling with rats and cockroaches.
Deep in the throes of an alcohol and
I
“You’re in these
people’s homes,
willing them to
have hope again”
Charlotte deals with
self-destruction inside
her clients’ homes
