Unbreakable: My New Autobiography (5 page)

My real worry was drugs. It was common knowledge that, over the years, Kelly had struggled with addiction. She had checked into rehab back in 2004 and then again in 2005, but I remained optimistic that the dark days were behind us. But without being able to look her in the eyes, it was hard to be sure. Still, you never know. She was young, and like all young people she was finding herself, which necessarily involves being influenced by your friends and peer group – the people you hang out with. And I knew who she was hanging out with – the press made sure of that – and I knew that there were at least some among them who did drugs. While I understand that experimentation is all part of growing up, I was worried. I was never an addict – I have never even smoked a cigarette – but her father did, and he was.

Yet like all young people, she wanted to be accepted into this new community, the beautiful people who lived on those renowned London hills. And she was both vulnerable and gullible. Once you are ‘famous’, friendships are difficult. It takes years of experience to be able to work out just why people are paying you attention. Do they really like you for who you are? Or is there something else at work? When I first moved to LA at around the same age as Kelly, I had power and influence through my father, a huge name in the music industry both in the States and in England. Sharon Arden could get VIP passes to see Led Zeppelin or the Stones with one phone call. Being on the inside track brought me instant friends. But it came at a cost, both emotional and financial. And I feared for Kelly that the same thing would happen to her. It did, and I could only watch from afar as a succession of nonentities came, took and left.

Kelly was barely out of her teens and still finding herself as a young woman. Yet every mistake she made was public. Every outfit, every change in hair colour was critiqued, its implications endlessly pored over in the tabloid press. Of course Kelly liked to party. She was young, single, so why not? And she worked hard. She wasn’t a wannabe, she was a was-a-be. On the outside she was confident and outspoken, happy-go-lucky and with the world at her feet. She has the best smile in the world, and lights up a room the moment she walks in. But she wears her heart on her sleeve. And like every girl of her age she just wanted to fit in, to be accepted.

The group she hung out with – her social circle – were generally much older than she was; some of them already had kids. All they really had in common was their ‘fame’. Fortunately she had two really good friends in London who she’d kept in touch with since we’d lived in Welders. She and Sammy started preschool together on the same day, aged three, and have been friends ever since. And then there is Fleur Newman. Her father, Colin, and mother, Mette, could well be said to be our best friends, Ozzy’s and mine. They are certainly our oldest friends. Colin worked for my father, and we have known him for forty-plus years.

I didn’t really know much about what was going on in Kelly’s life. And even if I had, it’s doubtful I could have done anything anyway. If I say, ‘Don’t cross that road, Kel,’ she’ll not only cross it but she’ll stand in the middle and wave her arms. In other words, she’s a pea from the maternal pod, both fearless and bloody-minded. She’ll fix me with those gorgeous green eyes and tell me
exactly
what she thinks of my latest life choice. But she’s also disarmingly tactile and affectionate, so the next day we’ll hug and everything will be fine again.

In the nature of the job, all mothers worry about their children, usually unnecessarily, but when I saw pictures of Kelly in the press looking wrecked, I was really worried. But I was three thousand miles away – what could I do?

It didn’t help that I was responsible for her ‘fame’. From the moment
The Osbournes
first aired she’d been considered public property, and the reference to ‘Ozzy Osbourne’s two fat kids’ took its toll. I took none of this into consideration when I made the decision to put my kids into the public domain. The truth is, I was throwing them into a lions’ den.

The last episode of
The Osbournes
aired in 2005. Although they had been repeated and repeated, requests regularly came in from different networks to get the Osbournes back together again. No way! What made the show great was that the children were teenagers and we all lived under the same roof. It was totally genuine – nothing was invented, nothing was done for camera. Now we had all moved on, and had no intention of going there ever again, and we didn’t.

Osbournes Reloaded
was an entirely different concept. This wasn’t a reality show, it was basically a variety show. We did comedy sketches. We did silly games. Ozzy sang, Kelly sang. It was scripted and rehearsed and filmed over a long period of time (although Ozzy’s adherence to the script was minimal). We did filmed segments going around America meeting other families also called Osbourne. Aimee was asked whether she wanted to be involved and, just as before, on the original
The Osbournes
, she said no.

One reason I decided to go ahead was that I recognised it as an opportunity for us to be together. Increasingly we were off doing our own thing. Jack was climbing mountains in obscure corners of the world, Kelly was working in the UK, Ozzy was touring in the Far East, while I was doing a daily talk show in California. This way, we’d be working together for the first time in years, and we’d be getting paid. Finally it was a way of bringing Kelly back home. It was a no-brainer. The show was like a new animal for us, a different experience. It was filmed in front of a live studio audience of 600 people. There were to be six shows, and the whole project would take three months.

Of course, being the Osbournes, this wasn’t ordinary variety. It wasn’t polite, like
Donny & Marie
or Ant and Dec. The scripts were good, everything was really funny, but it was edgy. The show’s researchers scoured the internet for wacky stories. They found a guy who was a serial dater, who claimed to have dated ten women and had sex with each of them on the first night. So they found the girls, who were let in on the joke. Not so the guy – he had just been invited to appear on a new games show. We lined the girls up behind a screen, put him in front of it and when these women he’d slept with for one night only were revealed, he was asked to name them. To give him his credit, he did recognise a few.

Then there were a brother and sister who’d been brought up by their grandmother, who they’d said was always embarrassing them. They were invited to the show and at one point they watched as a naked woman danced to ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ by Mötley Crüe. She was behind a backlit screen so you could only see the silhouette. They had no idea who it was, of course. Then when the screen went back, their grandmother was revealed, by now covered up in a dressing gown. At first the kids were mortified, but then they joined in the general hilarity and were on the floor laughing.

Of the six shows, only one was aired. Why? It was thought to be in poor taste. As indeed it was, but that was the point. What made it all the more surprising was that the guy who commissioned the series also ran the network. In the end the one episode that was broadcast – and then only via a few local affiliates, and only after ten o’clock – did really well, getting audience figures in excess of ten million. The rest were scrapped, and are now gathering dust in some warehouse somewhere, I assume. But there were no hard feelings. It was a great payday, and it’s not like our lives were depending on it. You just move on.

The world is much smaller now than it was when I was Kelly’s age, and it had been naive of me to imagine that she’d drop all her London friends just because she’d returned to LA. It wasn’t long before a boyfriend moved in. She became remote, answering the phone in monosyllables, if she answered at all. Kelly was hibernating. The phone was always engaged. And when Kelly hibernates, she’s either depressed or feeling guilty about something.

It was two friends who alerted me to what was really going on. Her house, they said, stank of pot and beer. But was it just him? I couldn’t bear it.

I was desperate to say or do something, and fantasised about marching round there, grabbing him by both earlobes and dragging him to the airport and on to a London-bound one-way flight. But I kept putting my head in the sand and telling myself tomorrow, I’ll address it tomorrow. I would always put it off. I didn’t want to have a fight with my daughter.

Jack was really worried too. He was convinced it wasn’t just the numbskull boyfriend, and it was extra hard for him because he worked such a rigid programme with his own sobriety. He has a very dry wit, so his way of dealing with it was to bring it into the conversation, hoping it might permeate the pot fog at Kelly’s. But they were both so off their tits, he told me, that they weren’t taking anything in. Kelly’s response was to call me and say, ‘Mummy, do something, will you? Jack’s picking on me again.’

Once
Reloaded
was out of the way, Ozzy and I had a really serious talk and came to the conclusion that we needed to stage an intervention with our daughter, to save her from herself. An intervention is where family and friends decide that enough is enough. You go to where they are living and face them with the facts. It’s all done in the presence of a trained therapist and there’s an exit plan in place – a rehab or clinic of some sort is expecting them. Having discussed the situation with the therapist, and knowing she wouldn’t go into rehab of her own volition, he agreed that this was the only way.

I’ve done interventions before, both with my husband and my son, but Kelly’s was by far the worst. Knowing her penchant for the dramatic, I wasn’t surprised.

Kelly’s house was built in the 1930s by an architect called Peter Bird, and it’s way up in the hills. These ‘Bird houses’, as they are called, are famous. They are usually quite small but always have the most amazing views. From hers, you could see all the way down Sunset Strip to downtown LA. Her actual address was Hollywood Boulevard, but streets in LA are long, and this was old Hollywood – her stretch was a long way from Mann’s Chinese Theatre and the Kodak Theatre where the Oscars are held. It was a little gem, all on one level with just one bedroom, dressing area, kitchen/dining room and living room, with gardens back and front.

So we get there and Ozzy knocks. It was just the two of us at this stage. It was noon, not a time she would expect us to drop in for a cup of tea or to ask her advice on where to have lunch. The moment she saw us she knew this wasn’t a social call. She’d been there before. Twice. And she’d been there when we did an intervention for Jack, and of course for her father.

We eased our way in. The boyfriend was watching TV and Kelly was repeating, ‘Look, I’m tired. Can’t you see I’m tired?’ Gradually the others made their way up the steps and into the house, a host of friends including Melinda, our Australian nanny who was with us when we were shooting
The Osbournes
and who turned into a staunch family friend. Within four minutes the house was full.

The way it works is that the therapist drives the intervention. They’re like a referee; there to calm everyone down, to stop the bickering that goes back and forth and to get it to a level where everybody is chatting nicely and saying their bit. That’s the idea, anyway. But Kelly wouldn’t take it. Within minutes she was throwing herself around the place, shouting and screaming at us to get the hell out.

I saw the panic in her eyes. She was frightened and ashamed. I could see all of this in her face and my heart was breaking for her. This was my little girl, the sweetest, funniest person ever with a big heart. I could picture her on her swing, with her little welly boots, sucking her thumb, running around the garden with the dogs without a care in the world. Now here she was, embarrassed, frightened, lost. And it wasn’t just me. It was the same for Ozzy and Jack. All we wanted to do was help her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She had hurt no one but herself. She was just our little girl, the joy of our lives, and she was hurting herself. And now she was like a caged animal, lashing out. I know in my heart she must have wanted to break down, curl up in a ball and cry. But she’s got my front and my strength, so she just lashed out.

‘Get out,’ she screamed. ‘Get out! I’m calling the police.’ And she did.

And they came; they had to. She was the householder.

Two uniformed officers arrived, casting a practised eye over the room before their gaze settled on Ozzy, who was pacing around and muttering to no one in particular.

‘What seems to be the problem here, ma’am?’ one of them asked Kelly.

‘These people are in my house and I want them out.’

‘Who are they?’

‘My mother, my father, my brother…’

‘It’s an intervention,’ I explained, and introduced the therapist. Then I talked to them, and then Ozzy talked to them. Eventually they left, agreeing that it was ‘a highly personal situation’.

All the time she was repeating, ‘Why are you doing this? What have I done? I’m not doing anything wrong.’ How do you begin to explain to someone that the only thing they’re doing is hurting themselves? By this time I knew that she had been fired by the BBC for not turning up. And yet I know Kelly. The last thing she would want would be to let anyone down. The only person she’d let down was herself. It’s like a web you weave to cover up your actions, a web of lies, reasons for not turning up, reasons to justify bad behaviour, and she was so entangled in it she didn’t know how to get out.

What she didn’t realise is that it’s easier to throw in the towel, to own up to what you have done, to become truthful. But it takes years to get there. And once you do, it’s freeing. It only comes with maturity, however, and whatever qualities my darling Kelly had, maturity wasn’t one of them.

She was like a volcano. Someone would say something and Kelly would erupt. Someone else would speak, she’d calm down and then she would kick off again. It must have gone on for three to four hours. And all the time Kelly was venting her anger on me. Because I was the person closest to her and she knew I’d take it. We’d made arrangements for Kelly to go into Hazelden, a rehab facility in Portland, Oregon. They don’t care who you are. It’s not a rest home for the rich and famous with paparazzi lurking in the shrubbery. It’s a serious, serious treatment centre.