How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(18)

But almost as suddenly as he hurricaned into my life, a manic whirlwind of pleasure, he began to withdraw. While the highs were up there in the cosmos, the lows brought me hurtling back down to earth with all the power and speed of a meteor.

And the fallout was extinction level.

He stopped doing coke, preferring instead to smoke himself into catatonic states. The parties stopped and he’d brush me off, blaming work and the pressure he was under to get that ‘difficult second novel’ nailed. Meetings became more frequent and when I visited his Primrose Hill house – he’d stopped coming to mine by this point – he barely raised an eyebrow to me, let alone anything else.

It was at this point I learned a lesson that would serve me well for the future, but tortured me at the time. The more I felt Adam recoil from me, the harder I tried to cling to him and the harder I clung, the further he would retreat. I’d send him absolute essays of text messages, declaring my love for him. He’d reply with one word. If at all. I’d call, frequently. He cancelled the calls almost every time. When we did speak, all he did was talk about himself and his pain.

‘I’m fucking depressed, Kitty,’ he’d snap if I suggested we went for dinner or drinks.

Then I’d cry and he’d roll his eyes, mumble a half-hearted apology and tell me that he loved me, I just needed to be patient.

‘You don’t understand the pressure I’m under from my publisher. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

Eventually he agreed to see a GP, who in turn agreed that yes, Adam was indeed suffering from clinical depression and anxiety. He was given pills, which made him even more withdrawn, while I sat by him, reading everything I possibly could on how to support a partner with depression. I read him stories by writers I knew he loved. I took him to Charing Cross Road and led him into bookshop after bookshop, trying to get the light back into his dark eyes with first editions and ‘Look! This one’s signed!’ I cooked for him and watched as the food went cold and stale in front of us. I kissed him and straddled him and tried to suck his cock, but it was as if it had died.

Adam was broken and my heart was breaking.

The pills began to properly kick in after a couple of months and – bit by bit – he came back to me. A smile when I handed him a plate of home-cooked food. A kiss when I presented him with another ‘rare find’ from a bookshop. Actual sex after an enforced walk in Hyde Park, where I encouraged him to feed ducks like a toddler. Because I’d missed these most basic of relationship needs so hugely during his crash, I treated every single one like he was handing me the keys to a magical kingdom of love.

I was pathetic.

As Adam began to shine again, his meetings became more frequent. He’d come back, to mine again now, talking excitedly about his plans for the second novel, how his publisher was certain he could repeat his success, even better it. He kept me up late talking about Bookers and Pulitzers and possible movie deals and moving to LA.

‘You have made of me a madman,’ he said one night, after sex, and I fell for him all over again. The lows of the depression were forgotten.

‘Have you considered Adam’s bipolar?’ Tor had asked me over lunch.

‘Have you considered Adam’s a fucking dick?’ Hen asked me over dinner and, even though I glared at her, still desperately loyal to my lover, I’d already begun to wonder this myself.

‘Mental illness can make you selfish,’ I attempted in a weak argument.

‘Yes, but it doesn’t make you an absolute cunt.’ She had a point. A very painful point. But I was still so much in Adam’s thrall that bringing it up with him didn’t even occur to me. Well, not very often.

As the hype about the second novel – which I wasn’t completely sure he’d written a word of – began to build, the invites and social whirl started up again. Adam loved showing me off to paps at any event he was invited to. We were constantly in the society pages of Hello! and Tatler and we had several calls from various production companies asking if we’d consider a reality show.

‘I couldn’t,’ Adam said. ‘I’d rather remain mysterious.’

The breaking point for Adam and me came in summer. He was in his bedroom, preening for another night out. I was in the lounge watching some reality rubbish on his laptop. He’d smashed his TV during one of his rages and had not replaced it. It was still there, months later, not working, glaring at the room with an angry crack across the screen, like a scowl.

As I was watching some spoiled, rich Americans argue with each other, a message popped up on the screen. He’d obviously linked his iPhone to his laptop and I registered vague surprise to see Saskia’s name.

Saskia: Hi baby. Missing you. Have you ditched the bitch yet?

Adam: She’s here now. Sorry baby, I’m trying. But I can’t just bin her off.

Saskia: Why? I’m going to start thinking you actually like her if you leave it any longer.

Adam: Kitty’s fragile. She’s still suffering with the whole dad missing thing. I don’t want to be responsible for her doing anything silly.

Saskia: Well just hurry up and get it sorted. I’m sick of feeling like your side chick.

Adam: LOL! You know that isn’t how it is. I love you. Just remember all the publicity I’m getting from her. It’s not for much longer.

Saskia: Okaaaaaaaaaay. I love you too. Just. Hurry up.