The old me would have been ‘woohoo it’s party time’ and I’d have been off on a year-long bender

When Charlotte Cripps gets a windfall after her great aunt dies, she thanks her lucky stars the cash didn’t arrive when she was in the depths of her addiction – she might never have made it out

The darkest hour is just before the dawn and this notion had never seemed truer. I had lost Alex to his business enterprise. Devastated, I consulted the psychic who continued to confirm we would be together. But when would I believe her? I was like a dog with a bone demanding proof. “Just drop it,” she said. “Just drooooooop it.” She was seriously irritated by my endless calls and endless doubts. It didn’t help that her Pomeranian fluff ball dog was constantly barking in the background. The psychic found the dog challenging too.

Then something happened. My great aunt died and some of the money that would have gone to my mum, who had died of cancer years ago, was coming to me. It wasn’t like winning the lottery but it was a once-in-a-lifetime windfall.

I sat down in shock. Thank God I didn’t get this cash while in the grip of addiction, otherwise it would have gone straight up my nose. The old me would have been “woohoo it’s party time” and I would have been off on a year-long bender. Not that my addiction was much fun; I mean, how can it be when all you think about is “finding ways and means to get more” as described in the NA Blue Book.

Every waking moment I was possessed – just like Regan MacNeil in The Exorcist – as I destroyed my body, mind and spirit. Even in recovery, had it not been for Alex, I would have spent the lot, shopping online and booking luxury holidays all over the world. But I realised he was the key to securing my future and all my hard work was finally paying off.

When I told Alex about the money, he said it was the perfect amount for a down payment on a flat. Not one to waste time on his newfound property ventures, he found an ideal place the next day. It was in the less-than-salubrious end of North Kensington, but five minutes from the Portobello Road and his new big job.

“That’s a bit quick,” I thought, “I haven’t even got the money yet. What is he playing at?” But when I drove over there and rang the doorbell, a woman holding a baby opened the door. Was it a good omen?

I knew Alex would not be there – only this very happy family sitting outside in the walled garden, playing with the baby’s toys. What a sight. Fifteen years later, I simply can’t imagine letting a baby crawl on the grass. The garden is uninhabitable. I should have listened to my friend Mel and sent the dog off to doggie boot camp in Wales, but I couldn’t bring myself to wave him off. The only nice thing in the garden is the cherry tree I planted where I scattered some of Alex’s ashes. It blooms in bubblegum pink every spring.

Back then I was more interested in getting closer to Alex than actually buying a flat. Of course, it made practical sense to invest the money. But, buying it would have given us endless issues to discuss. The psychic considered it a great idea, allowing us to plant roots for a future. “Let it come together organically,” she kept telling me. “He can’t deal with direct conversations about your relationship status.”