When I paid a dodgy dealer with Monopoly money through the letterbox, I knew things had to change

Looking red-carpet ready as she opened the door to Alex for their breakfast liaison was exhausting but Charlotte Cripps looked a damn sight better than she had when in the depths of her addiction

(Illustration by Amara May)

Everybody needs good neighbours – and luckily my new one is Alex. Looking back, this was where the real magic began. I can almost see his front door from mine if I strain my neck. He’s at number 60 and I’m at number 7. Who would have thought that being 58 doors apart from each other would be the winning formula? I often show Lola and Liberty his old front door like it’s a landmark – along with the place we used to feed horses under the Westway flyover. There’s a posh village-like cafe with a dry-cleaning shop between us. Alex says the food is too salty in the cafe – but he’s always sitting outside it having a massive fry-up.

I obviously needed a valid reason to be walking up and down my road when I see him – in those days I had no dog. The trouble is there is no dry cleaning to dig out – I don’t have that sort of wardrobe. I take all my coats one by one – sometimes even turning back if he isn’t around because it is a wasted trip. He must have been looking out for me too: he slams on the breaks and pulls over when he spots me.

In no time at all, we seem to be living together. He’s over at mine for breakfast, lunch and supper, just like he’s on full-board at a hotel: is he in love with me or just ravenous? These were the days before Deliveroo. Quite frankly I doubt I’d have seen him if it had existed then?

The reality is my cooking is really bad, so he must want to spend time with me. But I don’t want to turn into his mother. The psychic tells me to look red-carpet ready. This is hard: I am also trying to work in between the timetable of mealtimes.

 He’s over at mine for breakfast, lunch and supper, just like he’s on full-board at a hotel: is he in love with me or just ravenous?  

I start washing his clothes as the items mount up. Eventually, he brings over a laundry basket. When he sometimes takes a bundle of clothes home, my heart sinks. I cling to a jumper just to smell it – it is primal – I want his children. Who would have thought I would have had them after his death – flying his sperm from London to Alicante to St Petersberg on a manic mission to conceive? .

The physic reminds me that this never-ending cycle of meals is all good practice for the future when we will be together. But now we are living in each other’s pockets, at what point do you ask why are we paying two sets of bills? “Always keep hold of the purse strings when you are together,” she emphasises. It’s a pity we never got to that point but I’m feeling happy and fulfilled – if not a little cautious.

I was exhausted blow drying my hair every morning, waiting for his arrival and trying to looking calm and serene as he waltzes in. I open the door as if I have just woken up – rubbing my eyes but looking like I’d just stepped out of a salon. It is a passionate and romantic interlude – with siestas in the sun. Yet I would still wake up alone – he legged it home with insomnia – with just enough time to get coiffured and dressed up for the next breakfast liaison.

But I was looking a whole lot better than 21 years ago, when I would wake up looking like something out of Fright Night while in the depths of my addiction.

I was living in a rental house in Westbourne Grove at the time, and when I paid a dodgy dealer with Monopoly money through a letterbox, you could say that things had definitely become more hair-raising.

I moved in with my extremely rich dealer in Willesden, who had been in love with me all along. He didn’t drink but was selling substances to the rich aristocrats in Notting Hill, often returning with a grand portrait or a family heirloom instead of cash.

He had tons of money and dug a hole each night in the communal gardens to bury it. I never saw where he hid it. If I had I’d probably be dead

He had tons of money and dug a hole each night in the communal gardens to bury it. I never saw where he hid it. If I had I’d probably be dead. It was a strange time – watching Judge Judy on daytime TV as he did the rounds. But I got sick and tired of being sick and tired. And he was fed up to the back teeth with me complaining that I wanted to get clean and sober.

One day he packed all my stuff in a black bin liner and dumped me at my dad’s house. He rang on the door and handed my dad an envelope with £2,000 in cash. “Hi Brian, please get her detoxed,” he said to my dad who’d never met him before but was half-thankful to him as they had given up on me. The dealer didn’t want blood on his hands and left, handing my dad a card with the name of the private clinic to go to.

I was lucky my dealer helped me because I would never have made it without him.