Chapter 2

“We mustn’t keep Madame de Villeneuve waiting,” one of the men in scrubs said.

The other man nodded. “Madame de Villeneuve is not a patient woman.”

Gabrielle couldn’t see their mouths moving. They both wore white surgeons’ masks. The harder she squinted to look at them, that farther away they seemed. And yet she could feel them dragging her body toward the mansion house. Her feet conspired with the hired hands. What was happening?

“I’m not Suzanne,” she told them.

Her body was not her own. It moved with them as they chuckled in a gritty, cruel fashion.

“Honestly! I’m not!” She wriggled, but their hands were too strong. Anyway, she felt partially hypnotized, like they were controlling her in some weird way. “You don’t believe me? I’m telling the truth. My name is Gabby, not Suzanne. Whoever you think I am, I’m not her. I’m me!”

They said nothing as they led Gabrielle to the grand entrance of the manor house. They didn’t even laugh.

As they stepped past a line of suitcases and up the wobbly stone steps, Gabrielle asked, “Are you looking for the girl from the town car? I saw her. She ran away. She ran into the ravine. That’s her luggage. She’s not me. I’m not her.”

Both men’s hands slid down from Gabrielle’s shoulders to grasp her arms. Hard. Their strength made her feel about as hefty as a drinking straw. One false move and they could strike her dead, easy as pie.

“Will you let me go?” Gabrielle pleaded as the men pushed open a set of wooden double doors. “I can walk on my own. You don’t need to hold me like I’m a child.”

Their thumbs dug into her arms as they heaved her into the Victorian mansion.

The moment Gabrielle crossed the threshold, she felt like she’d gone back in time. The afternoon sun gleamed across the highly polished floor. The walls were panelled in dark wood, and in the centre of the plaster ceiling hung the most glorious chandelier she’d ever seen.

“Wow,” she said, more to herself than to her escorts. “This place is like a movie set. It’s like… I don’t even know what. Like England!”

She stood still as the two men tugged her arms. It wasn’t so much that she was afraid—more that she hadn’t finished taking in the full glory of the vestibule. To one side, there was a dark wooden staircase with carvings on the risers and a gorgeous sculpted railing. When the men pulled her down the hallway, she realized there was a stained glass window at the top of the staircase. It painted a gorgeous gemstone spectrum across the mouldings.

Celebrity rehab! Who knew it would be this glorious?

Gabrielle didn’t whine as the men dragged her down the ever-darkening corridor. There was too much to take in. She couldn’t think and speak at the same time. To her right, two doors with leaden glass windows let her spy on an empty drawing room complete with a magnificent grand piano. She could just imagine evenings there, when celebrities took to the keyboard, performing duets for one another’s amusement.

On her left was a luscious library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and leather armchairs. It even had those old-timey ladders on rollers, so you could climb up and reach the top shelves. There was nobody inside, as far as she could see beyond the open pocket doors. That library would be Gabrielle’s go-to hang-out if she was a patient at this facility.

A heady aroma hit her, just then. Turkey and stuffing? With mashed potatoes and candied yams and pumpkin pie? Were they really serving a big meal like that in the middle of the summer? Oh, no dispute—if she was a patient here, she’d split her time evenly between the library and the dining room. Okay, and she’d also join the evening’s celebrity sing-along. Just for fun.

When they arrived face-to-face with a panelled door, both men knocked simultaneously. Their solid raps echoed through the hallway, which was starting to feel smaller and darker than it had before, like some kind of creepy Alice in Wonderland tunnel.

“Madame,” one of the men in scrubs called through the door. “We have brought you your latest arrival.”

“Thank you,” a sultry voice called back. “You may show her in.”

The men opened the dark door and pushed Gabrielle beyond the threshold. She fell to her knees and skidded across the floor. By the time she’d turned to scowl at her captors, the woman they’d called “Madame” had already closed the door behind her.

“Hello, Suzanne.” The woman stood tall in a pinstriped skirt and ruffled blouse. Her clothes looked nearly as old as the house, and her office décor wasn’t much newer. There was even a Freud-style fainting couch along one panelled wall.

While Gabrielle was busy taking in the sights, the very proper woman repeated herself. “Did you hear me, my dear? I said hello, Suzanne.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Gabrielle picked herself up off the floor with the help of an oxblood leather chair. A nameplate on the desk caught her eye: it read Mme de Villeneuve in gold lettering. “I tried to tell your guys, but they wouldn’t listen. See, I’m not supposed to be here.”

Pursing her pink lips, Mme de Villeneuve cocked her head and considered Gabrielle. “Many patients feel that way when they first arrive at Loindici Manor.”

“I thought it was a rehab centre,” Gabrielle cut in. “That’s what it said on the sign. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mme de Villeneuve shot Gabrielle in intrigued look. “You are not at all as I thought you’d be, Suzanne.”

“That’s because I’m not Suzanne.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose with curiosity. “I see. Who are you, my dear?”

“Gabrielle. Suzanne ran away. She ran into the woods. I don’t know where she went.”

“I see.” Sitting swiftly at her desk, Madame de Villeneuve pulled a set of what could only be called spectacles (you wouldn’t call them glasses, that’s for sure) from a desk drawer. She uncapped a wooden pen with a fancy nib—a calligraphy pen, looked like—and dashed a few lines on a creamy piece of paper.

Gabrielle could see the thick black ink staining the paper, but she couldn’t read the words. “What language is that?”

Madame did not respond.

“What are you writing?”

She didn’t acknowledge Gabrielle’s question in any way.

“Is it about me? I’m not Suzanne, you know.”

Setting the calligraphy pen beside the paper, Madame removed a blotting sheet from her desk and set it over her writings. “Your parents are very concerned about your behaviour, as I’m sure you are aware. That is why they wish you committed to my care. Now that I have met you, young lady, I must say I am concerned as well.”

Gabrielle sat a little straighter. In her house growing up, “young lady” always went along with “you’re in big trouble.”

“Your parents are of the opinion that you present a danger to yourself and to others. Would you agree with that assessment, Suzanne?”

With a nervous laugh, Gabrielle said, “I’m not Suzanne. Remember? I told you Suzanne ran away. She ran into the woods.”

Madame removed the blotting paper and continued writing, filling the sheet and then moving on to another.

Gabrielle didn’t want to intrude, but she’d been waiting long enough. “What is this place, anyway?”

At first, Madame did not respond. Then, setting down her pen, she said, “Did your parents not explain it to you? Loindici Manor is a facility for those with afflictions—and with money. My novel therapies can cure any disorder. Anything at all.”

So Gabrielle got it right: this place really was a celebrity rehab centre! And the girl who’d run away was probably some billionaire’s daughter. Oh, what Gabrielle wouldn’t give to see famous people hitting rock bottom. And, hey, if she snapped some pictures she could earn a few bucks selling them to the tabloids! This staycation might just turn into an unexpectedly lucrative holiday. All she had to do was play along.

“Okay,” Gabrielle said. “Tell me why I’m here.”

Madame de Villeneuve shook her head. “No sense playing games with me, child. Your parents have been concerned for some time about your sexual digressions. You engage in risky behaviours. You have come home beaten and bruised after an evening unchaperoned. Why do you allow such things to happen, my dear? I will tell you why: because the beast in you has not been tamed.”

“Oh. Wow.” So, Suzanne was a sex addict, was she?

“Your parents tell me you have been a chronic masturbator since infancy.”

Gabrielle’s cheeks blazed. Even though she wasn’t really Suzanne, she wouldn’t want anybody thinking she was… eww, she didn’t even like the word… masturbator? And a chronic one, at that. Since infancy!

“And now you step into my office and tell me you are not Suzanne, but rather you are Gabrielle. This indicates, to me, a severe fragmentation of the psyche.”

“No, no.” Damn, she shouldn’t have said she wasn’t Suzanne. Now Madame must think she was crazy—or Suzanne was, at least. “Sorry. I just… I was scared about being committed against my will. That’s all. I’m Suzanne. I’m all those things you said. So, can you tell me when the sing-alongs usually start?”

Madame de Villeneuve furrowed her brow. “My dear, we do not commit patients against their will. You are a legal adult and, as such, your parents’ signatures are not sufficient to gain entry to my program.” She pulled a document from her drawer. How odd—the papers were put together not with a staple but with a brass tack. “It is up to you to commit yourself to my program, Suzanne.”

“Oh.” Could Gabrielle really go through with this? Could she really pretend she was someone else, some rich nymphomaniac? She hadn’t acted a part since the Grade 8 Christmas play, and she wasn’t very good in that.

Handing Gabrielle the wooden calligraphy pen, Madame said, “I must warn you: my therapy is intensive but it yields results. When we begin, you will more than likely wish to return home to a world of comforts. But this, I will not allow. Once you sign my document, you are committed to my care. You do as I instruct. You will not leave until I tell you to go. If this is understood, then sign your name at the bottom of the page.”

The contract, or whatever it was, hadn’t been typed on a computer. The whole thing had been written in Madame’s dense calligraphy hand. Gabrielle couldn’t read a word of it, yet all she could think to ask was, “My parents are paying for this, right?”

Madame nodded solemnly, seeming offended by the mention of money. “Your stay has been paid in advance.”

This place was basically a five-star resort masquerading as a rehab clinic. What was the sense in letting the booking go to waste while the real Suzanne camped out in Loindici Woods, or boarded a plane out of the country, or whatever she was doing right now?

“Once you sign that page, Suzanne, you are mine to treat. You give up your right to say no. Are you prepared to do that, young lady?”

Her right to say no in exchange for a week with celebrities crying into their ice cream and shivering in front of Victorian fireplaces? Yup, Gabrielle was willing to go for it. You only live once.

It was only after she’d signed her name that she realized she’d written Gabrielle and not Suzanne. What was Suzanne’s last name, anyway? Hilton? Trump? Ooh… she could be related to anyone! But Madame de Villeneuve didn’t appear to realize she’d signed the wrong name. In fact, Madame de Villeneuve didn’t even look at the signature before covering it with blotting paper.

“Very good, Suzanne. Your treatment will begin tomorrow.”

Her toes tingled. “I can’t wait to see my room.”

Madame offered a blank stare and then replied, “You will not see much of anything in the beginning, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” What was that supposed to mean?

“Are you familiar with exposure therapy, Suzanne?”

Gabrielle considered, and nodded. “Yeah, that’s like if you’re afraid of snakes then your therapist would bring a snake into the session and you’d learn eventually that it wasn’t a danger to you.”

With a kind smile, Madame de Villeneuve said, “Quite right, my dear. My method of addiction therapy, for you, will be overexposure therapy.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” Gabrielle responded.

“Perhaps you are familiar with the practice, if not in so many words.”

“I don’t think so…”

Rising out of her dark leather wing chair, Madame said, “Recall those antiquated television programs you might have seen as a child. The father catches his young son smoking a cigarette. He sits the boy down and says, ‘You are going to smoke this entire carton of cigarettes.’”

“Oh yeah.” Gabrielle laughed. “That was, like, Leave It To Beaver and all those shows. I never got why the dad would do a thing like that. Wouldn’t the kid just get addicted to nicotine?”

“My dear darling girl, he wishes for his son to find the beast in the drug. All things in moderation—we have Socrates to thank for that rationale. Too much, even of a good thing like sexual pleasure, leads the body to torment.”

For a moment, Gabrielle had no clue what Madame was talking about. Then she remembered she was supposed to be Suzanne the sex addict and she nodded. “Oh. Right. Sure, that makes sense.”

“Very good, dear child.” Madame de Villeneuve clasped her hands together and looked at Gabrielle with a maternal grin. “I will take you to your accommodations now.”

“Great!” As Gabrielle hopped up from her chair, she reached for her phone. If she was going to spend a week at this facility, she’d have to be always at the ready, taking candid shots of celebs doing whatever celebs did here.

Only one problem: her phone wasn’t where it ought to be. She’d stuck it in her strap, right? Between her yoga top and her skin? Well, it wasn’t there anymore. She looked around, but she couldn’t spot it on the floor.

“Is there a problem, my dear?”

“No, no problem.” Gabrielle turned around in a circle, looking everywhere. “I must have dropped my phone when those big lugs pulled me inside. I’m just gonna go out and look for it.”

Mme de Villeneuve swept across the office and opened the door for her two big lugs to enter. “My dear, you won’t be needing your phone in here. Communications with the outside world are strictly prohibited.”

Shoot!

“Oh… okay… well, how about if I promise not to use it for communications? Like if I just play games on it, or…”

One lug in scrubs raised his hand in the air. In his fist, he held the largest needle Gabrielle had ever seen.

“What…?” She didn’t know what to say, what to ask, what to do. “Stop… no… don’t…”

The man’s stony expression didn’t alter. As he brought the needle down, seemingly in slow motion, Gabrielle looked to Mme de Villeneuve for help. But Madame seemed to derive satisfaction from watching this scene play out. In fact, was that a smirk growing across her lips as the needle gouged its way into Gabrielle’s neck…?