I was doing a geographical: I needed to change me – not my location

We arrive in the hotel room – and all I can see is a massive bed. At least Alex will be there in the morning, I think, as he unpacks his holiday wardrobe. Is he going to wear a budgie smuggler? A bit like the way dogs look like their owners, I think swimwear gives a lot away about a man. I’m impressed to see he has a tasteful pair of swimming shorts – a bit flamboyant like his personality.

To my horror, I notice this room has an extremely intimate glass-walled bathroom and when you switch on the light, it is totally transparent. It has rose petal confetti strewn everywhere, but how can I go to the toilet without him seeing me? I call the concierge and say quietly as Alex is on the balcony that I’m not happy with the completely exposed bathroom – but he tells me all the rooms are the same.

Soon the bathroom worries are a thing of the past as we are completely at ease with each other in our new luxury retreat. Alex has his headphones on quite a lot and takes phone calls loudly – doing deals poolside with a long icy lemonade in hand. But it’s a damn sight better than the last family holiday in Egypt where I had a punch up with my sister Rebecca in the hotel foyer.

Or that one in Sri Lanka when my mum and dad took me for a holiday from my addiction. It didn’t work. I was doing a geographical: I needed to change me, not my location. It was a nice try but I just felt this deep emptiness. Much to their dismay, I spent most of the holiday calling my dealer in Willesden to ask him to pay for my return flight home immediately. Or if not, to get his work partner, who had connections with the Tamil Tiger drug smuggling network, to do something fast.

But now, as I sit on my sun lounger in Mauritius watching the waves gently lap at the powder white sand, my nightmare past seems like a distant horror film. I want to stay in Mauritius forever, I think to myself. That is until the last night.

I go for a massage and when I return in a blissful state, I stumble over an empty tonic water can. Alex is on the balcony eating bags of nuts. Am I seeing this right? Is that a miniature vodka bottle on the table? I drag him off to dinner and we eat in silence. We return to the room and Alex drinks the entire contents of the minibar, including vintage champagne and port, with a price tag of about £1,500 when it’s all totted up.

Nothing I said would have stopped him. I knew this from personal experience. I was powerless: there was nothing I could do now he was on the “relapse express”.

Even when I would wake up from a super-quick 24-hour detox at a private clinic – paid for by my dealer – I wanted a drink. I was once wheeled into a doctor’s room who told me “OK you are cured now – you can get back to work”. But I felt dreadful. Was he serious? Not only was I weak from the whole ordeal of an addiction that had ravaged my mind, body, and spirit, but I had not processed anything. I went home with my mum and all I wanted to do was open a bottle of wine to cope with the overwhelming feelings. Luckily, I had a day programme lined up for later that week– but I had to be sober for a week to attend it. Could I hack the rest of the week?