BooksBarbecue
Back Again, Rachel
Chapters (98)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. 93
  97. 94
  98. Acknowledgements

Ted could be a worry. A competent administrator and a (periodically) inspiring boss, a gleaming streak of ‘Unopposed Despot’ ran through him.

‘Two newbies already arriving this morning,’ Ted said. ‘And with Simon going, we can take another one tomorrow or Friday.’

Addiction was big business. There was a waiting list—always—for the Cloisters.

Next, each therapist gave a round-table update on their various charges, so that we all knew precisely how every single patient was doing—who was extra-vulnerable right now, who was pushing back hard—then it was time to leave for group.

Ted caught me at the door. ‘Not like you to be late.’

‘Aaaahhh…’ I could hardly say, ‘My boyfriend is off to Taos for four days and we needed some together time.’

‘. . . Rachel?’

‘Traffic,’ I said. ‘Sorry. Won’t happen again.’

Then I left to hoick Simon out of breakfast and tell him to pack his bags.

2

When people ask how I met Quin then notice my hesitation, they usually say, ‘Tinder? Hey. No shame in that.’

But it was worse than Tinder. Almost two years ago, in 2016, Quin and I had met at a meditation retreat, a silent one, held in a big old house in the middle of nowhere. I’d gone because I was a Failed Meditator. In all my years of trying, despite the hundreds of candle flames I’d stared into, I’d never been able to stop my thoughts. Fifteen minutes really isn’t that long, I just need to empty my mind empty empty empty thinking of absolutely nothing. Hey, look, I’m actually meditating. Except if I notice that I’m doing it, does that mean that I’m actually not? God, I never cancelled that appointment with the physio, I’ll do it now, well not now now but as soon as I finish my meditation…

By seven o’clock on that Friday evening in late March, about thirty of us were sitting cross-legged on yoga mats, slyly trying to check each other out without getting caught. We were just this mass of nervous, hopeful people. More women than men—always the way—ranging in age from twenties to sixties.

I’d have loved to know everyone’s reason for attending, but we were literally forbidden from speaking. Also banned were alcohol, coffee, phones, electronics, books and magazines.

Our instructors were a kind and deliciously lithe young woman (yoga, of course) and three well-meaning young men, all a bit lentilly—rough brown clothing, pale faces with sparse, whiskery beards, their hairlines already in retreat.