Amy, My Daughter (14 page)

One day I took Amy out of Capio Nightingale briefly so that she could have a medical examination with a doctor in Knightsbridge for her visa to enter the US. It went well and Amy and I were both pleased that there was still a chance she could attend the Grammys. The US Embassy said they would let us know their decision within forty-eight hours. I held out the hope that the Grammys might work out for her. Amy seemed so much better, and Dr Ettlinger told me he was thrilled with her progress. Amy had an incredible power of recovery. Given the quantity of poisonous substances she had put into her body, it was wonderful to see her getting better so quickly.

A few days later, I had a call from Security at Capio Nightingale, who told me that Geoff had smuggled drugs into the hospital, crudely stuffed inside a teddy bear. Amy's friend Blake Wood, whom I called American Blake, didn't do drugs. He had come to see her shortly afterwards and made sure the drugs were immediately removed. By then, though, Amy had taken some. I rushed to the hospital and stayed with her all night. I was mad with frustration at her weakness, but furious with the awful, awful man who was prepared to risk her wellbeing, even her life, for the sake of a few quid. I banned all visitors who weren't on a list I had given to the hospital.

The next morning I chaperoned Amy to Pentonville for her visit with Blake. The newspaper coverage of the visit was upbeat about Amy's health and there were some nice photographs of her, smiling at the cameras. On the way back in the cab, I asked Amy what Blake had said to her when she had told him about the hospital. In fairness to Blake, around that time he appeared to be supportive of Amy getting clean.

‘We didn't talk about me, Dad,' she said. ‘We talked about him and then a bit about us, you know, Blake and me.'

I knew then that she hadn't told him.

In spite of the setback with the drugs from the teddy bear, Amy was making progress, and we all felt confident she would continue heading in the right direction. But a question mark still hung over the Grammys. We had still had no word from the US Embassy about Amy's visa and, as time was running out, Raye arranged for her to perform in London on a live link to the Grammys. It was a smart move. Not long after, we learned that the embassy had declined Amy's visa application on the grounds that traces of cocaine had been found in her blood.

Initially Amy was upset: she had wanted more than anything to play in front of her peers at the Grammys. She bucked up when I explained the plans for a live performance to be beamed to Los Angeles, but she was still very disappointed that the visa wasn't forthcoming. She had had enough of Capio Nightingale, she said, and definitely wanted to leave. I was able to keep her there one more day, but that was it. I found her a two-bedroom suite at the Plaza on the River Hotel, Albert Embankment, near the Houses of Parliament. Amy liked the fact that the suites were separate from the hotel, giving her privacy. I arranged for American Blake to stay there with her, which she was very pleased about.

At ten o'clock on Friday, 10 February, Raye, Lucian, Dr Ettlinger, Amy's new consultant psychiatrist Dr Kelleher, Amy and I had a meeting at Capio Nightingale, during which Amy was told that there must be no drugs or the live link to the Grammys would be pulled. Amy was on top form. She agreed to the terms of her leaving, so Raye and I drove her to the Plaza on the River where we discussed the plan for the live link. Amy was going to do a show for invited guests first, then perform two songs for the live link. She was very excited, and I saw the old Amy gradually emerge as we went through the details. Amy assured me that she would not take any drugs before the show. I really wanted to believe her but there was a nagging doubt in the back of my mind.

The next day I took my sister Melody and her husband Elliott to watch Amy rehearse for the following night's show. Her set sent tingles down my spine and, believe me, she didn't need that rehearsal: she could have done the show there and then – she was fantastic and there was no sign of any drugs. I had dinner with Amy at the hotel and she definitely hadn't taken any drugs, but she did drink a lot, which troubled me. I hoped it wasn't something new to worry about.

Amy's show for the Grammys was due to start at eleven thirty p.m., to coincide with the live show in LA, but I wanted to be there very early to keep an eye on her. I arrived at the venue, Riverside Studios in Hammersmith, west London, at about six thirty. The room had been decorated to resemble a nightclub and looked great. I hung out with the guys from Amy's band, who were looking forward to the gig. When show time came around, Amy looked just great and gave an absolutely brilliant performance for friends and family. It got the night off to a perfect start and we didn't look back.

Via a satellite link, Amy performed ‘You Know I'm No Good' and ‘Rehab' to us and the Grammy audience, who clapped and cheered her for ages after she'd finished. It was a real high point, and I was reminded of just how magical Amy could be, even in the midst of these very dark times. I had seen her perform on stages in front of thousands of people; I had seen her in small clubs and rooms above pubs; I'd heard her in my sitting room and in the back of my cab – but that night outstripped them all. That show was electrifying. She was vital and alive, at her peak. She knew it and revelled in it.

In all Amy won five Grammys – an unprecedented number for an overseas star – for Record of the Year, Song of the Year (both for ‘Rehab'), Best New Artist, Best Pop Vocal Album (for
Back to Black
) and Best Female Pop Vocal.

When Tony Bennett announced she'd won Record of the Year we all rushed on to the stage and hugged – Janis, Alex, Amy and me. ‘I can't believe it, Dad,' Amy said, ‘Tony Bennett knows my name.'

In her acceptance speeches, Amy kept things sweet and simple, saying very graciously, ‘Thank you very much. It's an honour to be here. Thank you very, very much.' And as the crowd chanted, ‘Amy, Amy, Amy,' she put her arms around Janis and me, and said, ‘To my mum and dad.'

When I heard those words, I started crying uncontrollably. My tears of joy were not only for her success but also for the fact that my little girl was back from the misery she had been suffering for the last six months.

The whole family partied until the early hours and we arrived back at the hotel at five thirty a.m. The room was crowded; I beckoned Amy over and told her I had something to say to her privately. We walked out onto the terrace, where we stood and shivered in the cold. I put my arm round her and said, ‘Do you know, darling? Tonight wasn't about the tabloids. It wasn't about Blake. It wasn't even about the drugs. It was about you and your music. Keep it that way and, believe you me, you'll be all right.'

13
PRESS, LIES, AND A VIDEOTAPE

The following day the newspapers were full of Amy's triumph at the Grammys. Some even reported that her visa had come through too late for her to travel to the US, rather than the truth that it had been declined. In every way it seemed this was a chance for a fresh start.

It didn't last long. Before any of us had any time to relish things, we were confronted once again with the difficult reality that drugs remained a constant problem for Amy. Despite my instructions to the hotel's security guards, Amy managed to have drugs delivered to her suite and my hopes for her recovery were dashed. American Blake had been there, but couldn't stop her. The only consolation, if you could call it that, was that she hadn't taken much, and American Blake had managed to flush away most of what she'd bought. But what difference did it make how much she had taken? The fact was, she was still addicted. We had gone from the incredible high of the Grammys night to another low. I said to Jane, ‘Is this what our lives are going to be like from now on? Up, down, up, down?' It wasn't enough to say I was disappointed, the truth was I was simply exhausted.

Around that time I had a call from Roger Daltrey – he wanted to congratulate Amy on her Grammy wins. He and I ended up having a long chat about addiction. I got off the phone feeling slightly better because Roger had convinced me that it was possible for Amy to get clean – but part of me still worried about what was coming next.

I spoke to Amy later that day and, understandably, she didn't want to discuss drugs. Instead she said she wanted to visit Alex Foden, who'd gone into rehab while she was in treatment. When he came out, she said, she wanted him to become her personal assistant. The minute I heard those words, I knew it was a load of rubbish. Personal assistant? Drug buddy, more like.

The next day Amy went to see him, Foden checked out of rehab and Amy installed him in her suite at the Plaza on the River Hotel. Unable to deal with what he knew was to come, American Blake left, and I didn't blame him. With Foden staying, I knew it wouldn't be long before there was trouble. Sure enough, a couple of days later, Amy took drugs again and, as a result, she missed her visit to Blake in prison. I went to the hotel and told Foden he had to leave. I agreed that we would pay his rehab bill if he went back in. Amy wasn't too pleased but in the end he went.

American Blake moved back into the suite and, once again, Amy promised not to take drugs. I told her that her promises were worthless to me, and I would only be convinced that she meant what she'd said if she had a urine test every day. She didn't like that but agreed to it. While I was encouraged that she'd said yes, I doubted she would stick to the regime. I pointed out that the BRIT Awards were looming, and even though she wasn't nominated for anything, they wanted her to perform and receive a special achievement award. I explained to her, though, that unless I knew she wasn't taking drugs, I would make sure she didn't perform.

‘I'm gonna do it, Dad,' she insisted. ‘Look, I've even emailed Ronson about it.'

She showed me what she'd sent him.

 

SUBJECT:
My God you're ugly.

TEXT:
Are you coming to the BRITS, you savage, savage man.

I would prefer Maud, but Madonna couldn't even fast-track the quarantine laws. I did everything, trust me. I go bananas over you.

Levi Levine

p.s. Frank Sinatra is and always will be God.

 

I laughed. ‘I suppose Maud's his dog? And why'd you call yourself Levi Levine?' But Amy had drifted off to sleep.

Despite my lectures and threats, Amy's first urine test confirmed that she was back on drugs. I warned her again about the BRIT Awards and told her that this was her last chance. American Blake told me he was leaving again because, despite his best efforts, Amy wasn't going to stop taking drugs. I thanked him for his support and a black cloud of despair fell over me. At least while he had been with Amy I'd had eyes and ears in the suite. Now anything could happen without me knowing about it. Later that night I had a rambling call from Amy. She told me that the prison had called her to say that Blake been cut.

‘Bloody good job. I hope it was his throat,' I said, and hung up on her. Never mind my daughter swanning around on a beach in the Caribbean: I needed a holiday – from her.

All at once, everything began to unravel. American Blake had left, and Amy moved back into Jeffrey's Place in Camden Town and started getting high, refusing to go to hospital. She was upset because Blake had told her that Georgette had a tape of me saying I hated Blake. A couple of days later Alex Foden's rehab clinic told me Amy had sent a car for Foden and he was leaving. I berated Amy, but my reproaches fell on deaf ears. Her progress in getting clean had been halted and she was right back where she had been before she'd gone into Capio Nightingale. Just like that, almost two months of hard work were gone.

The BRIT Awards were the next day and I had serious doubts about Amy being there. I arrived at around six thirty and waited on tenterhooks for her appearance. She performed
‘
Valerie' with Mark Ronson and ‘Tears Dry' with her own band. I didn't know whether she was on drugs or not but she was a bit shaky on her feet. She got through it without a disaster, but it certainly wasn't the best performance I'd seen her give.

Phil Taylor, a journalist at the
News of the World
, told me they were going to publish pictures of Amy with bruising and swelling on her face in the next edition. ‘Would you like to comment on this?' I declined, and had a little laugh to myself: Amy had recently been diagnosed with impetigo, a highly contagious but fairly minor bacterial skin infection. She hadn't been in a fight, as Taylor had implied. However, when I saw the picture in the
News of the World
, there was indeed a big swelling on her cheek so perhaps she had been in a brawl. I never found out the truth.

As always, another tabloid was there with a theory. A few days later the
Sun
printed a story saying that Amy had caused the swelling on her face. I didn't dismiss this because I knew that, since she'd been with Blake, Amy had self-harmed at least once, that night at the Sanderson Hotel, although she hadn't done so for a while. It seemed that it was usually a reaction to intense and self-inflicted pressure. According to the
Sun
, Amy had been smoking in a restaurant and when she was asked not to she had stubbed out the cigarette on her cheek. I couldn't bring myself to talk to her about it. I was running out of strength.

In one of our more desperate ideas, Raye and I went to see Blake in prison to ask him to join us in a united front to get Amy clean. It was dancing with the devil, but we were reaching the end of our options. Amy had to want to get better, and Blake was one of the few people whose opinion mattered to her. However, all Blake wanted to talk about were his own problems. We left not knowing whether he would support us.

Blake started talking to Amy a lot more, but it rarely did her much good and it certainly wasn't about getting her clean. In fact it seemed to make everything worse. In mid-March, Amy was scheduled to do a private gig at a party for Universal executives that Lucian had brought in from all over the world. That day, I went round to Jeffrey's Place to wish her luck, but when I got there she was in a bad way. She'd been talking to Blake, who had upset her so much that she no longer wanted to do the gig.

While I was there, Amy was talking to him on and off for at least two hours. I could never understand how a prisoner was allowed to make so many calls; it seemed he was able to use the phone whenever he wanted to. In the end, thanks to Blake, Amy cancelled the gig and ruined the party for all the people who had travelled across the world to see her. She should have done the show no matter how much Blake had upset her – it was her responsibility to fulfil her obligations – and I angrily told her this.

During one visit, Blake told Raye he wanted a divorce from Amy. If only we were that lucky! He was all talk, though – he didn't want a divorce, he just wanted to create drama. It was his way of getting attention. I always knew when Amy had been speaking to Blake, because almost every time she mentioned money, he was behind it. It seemed to me that Blake's ideas had one thing in common: they benefited Blake.

 

*   *   *

 

At the end of March 2008, Amy moved out of Jeffrey's Place to a house just around the corner in Prowse Place. Unprompted, she announced that she wanted to get clean and that she wanted to find a way of doing so quickly. I couldn't believe my ears. I'd waited so long for this moment.

‘Right, right, listen,' I said. ‘I've got some brochures in the boot of the cab outside. I'll go down and get 'em. You can go anywhere in the world, anywhere you want.'

‘Dad, hang on a minute,' she said. ‘I'm not getting on a plane or a boat to go to rehab … Well, I might go to Osea Island.'

I roared with laughter. Until she said, ‘I want do the detox and withdrawal here.'

I was astonished. ‘Here? Are you mad? In the house?'

I knew that would be fraught with problems, but it was her choice. At seven o'clock on 31 March, Dr Ettlinger, his practice partner Dr Christina Romete, Dr Kelleher, Raye and I met with Amy at her house to discuss the detox. It wouldn't be easy, but Amy was confident she could do it.

Amy was to start her drug-replacement programme on 2 April 2008. Two nurses, Sandra and Brenda, were to work shifts to administer the medication. The treatment got off to a terrible start: Brenda called me to say that she was unable to administer the drugs because Amy had taken others; if she took heroin that day she couldn't have the replacements the next day either. The next day the story was the same: Sandra called to say that she couldn't administer the replacements because Amy had smoked heroin the previous evening. Amy told me she wasn't happy with Sandra, probably because Sandra was doing a good job and being strict with her, but Raye and I set about finding a new nurse. Amy had to be drug-free for twelve hours before a programme could begin – which meant waiting another day before we could start again. Amy's big recovery seemed over before it had begun.

Further complicating the drug treatment programme was the fact that Amy was supposed to start work on the new Bond movie theme tune with Mark Ronson. She hadn't been in the studio with him since they'd worked together in New York, in December 2006. Mark was to write the music for the theme to
Quantum of Solace
and Amy the lyrics, but when the date to begin work rolled around in the second week of April, she was in no fit state to start. After she'd missed studio appointments with Mark, he said that he didn't want to work with Amy while she was high, and that something needed to be done.

The studio where Amy and Mark were to work on the Bond song was in Henley, Oxfordshire, and was owned by Barrie Barlow, the sixties/seventies progressive rock band Jethro Tull's sometime drummer. It was in the grounds of Barrie's home. It was self-contained and comprised two bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom upstairs with the studio downstairs – a perfect environment for Amy and Mark to work in. But we couldn't get Amy there.

When Mark had been waiting for four days for Amy to show up at the studio, he started making noises about going back to the US, which would have meant the end of the Bond film for Amy. He was understanding, but he wouldn't hang around for ever – why should he?

Amy seemed incapable of leaving her house. There was always an excuse not to go to the studio; drugs seemed all-consuming. When she wasn't high, she was as passionate about her music as she'd ever been, but those moments were further and further apart.

On Tuesday, 8 April, Amy finally made it to Henley. I spoke to Raye, who was with her, and he told me that she and Mark had begun work. He also said that Amy hadn't taken any drugs and that a nurse was coming to administer the replacements. She might have been drug-free, but within hours, the withdrawal symptoms were making her restless and unable to work. A nurse and a doctor were with her; the doctor gave her diazepam to help her sleep and changed the replacement drug from methadone to Subutex, which started the following morning.

That combination seemed to help. The next day Amy had a meeting with one of the Bond film's producers, Barbara Broccoli. I wasn't there but, according to Raye, they had an immediate rapport and ‘Amy charmed the socks off her'.

On the Friday I went to the Henley studio and met David Arnold, who was writing the music for the film. He told me that everyone involved, including Barbara Broccoli, was very excited that Amy was doing the song and he was looking forward to working with her. I had taken Amy some of her favourite Jewish deli food: smoked salmon, fish balls, bagels, chopped liver, and egg and onions. She was asleep upstairs when I arrived, and when she woke, I was told, the first thing she did was to smoke crack. How did that happen?

Someone said to me, ‘She's sneaky with it, Mitch. We didn't even know she had anything with her.'

I went upstairs and tried to talk some sense into her but it was a waste of time. When she was high, she would babble about whatever came into her head. It was painful to watch and even worse to listen to. At one point Amy told me to cancel a proposed deal to license a perfume with her name attached to it.

‘I don't want to hurt my credibility,' she told me, as she sat there high on crack.

‘Hurt your credibility? What do you think smoking crack cocaine is doing to your credibility?'

It was an impossible conversation. I stormed out, with Amy shouting for me to come back. I felt as low as I'd ever been. I didn't think Amy would die, but I just couldn't see a way out of this. You don't become an expert in anything overnight, and I was still learning how best to deal with an addict. Somehow or other I had to speed up the learning process.