Have you ever wondered what it's really like to go to celebrity rehab? From cleaning toilets with actresses to therapy with supermodels, author Cate Quinn reveals it all

After three days of withdrawal I knew I wouldn't make it. My hands were constantly shaking from alcohol withdrawal, I was in deep depression every hour that caused me to sob desperately, and the complete lack of privacy – even while sleeping – was just too much to bear.

As a young journalist, liquor and celebrity parties were part of my lifestyle. When I graduated from crime writing at age 30 and kept my own hours, it was easy to hide my alcohol addiction.

Now that was an end – along with my freedom. For me, the minute-by-minute planning is as excruciating as the withdrawal.

After making the decision to leave, I stopped group therapy and went to the bathroom to cry. When I entered the toilet, I heard the buzzing of a mop. I sighed. Cleansing, usually performed by patients, was an important part of recovery. Even here I couldn't be alone.

A woman came into view, and I forced myself not to do a double take because, strangely enough, a soap actress I recognized from TV – I'll call her Emily – had a cleaning spray in his hands.

“I'm really bothered by the lack of privacy,” I blurted out. “I don't know if I can handle it anymore.”

She looked at me. “This is normal for me,” she said. 'Better than usual.'

She waited until that dawned on her. My lack of privacy, as hard as it was, would be over in a few weeks. Hers – if she continued her career – would never end.

She grabbed a cloth to polish the mirrors and told how photographers followed her to restaurants and nightclubs. She had once lost a relationship in its early stages because she had checked into a hotel to sleep off a hangover, and stories had surfaced indicating that she had met a man in there.

'How do you deal with that?' I asked her.

“I don't,” she said bluntly. 'That's why I'm here.'

Addicts often say that you go to rehab twice: once when you walk through the door, and a second time if you really commit to it.

That conversation with Emily was my second check-in, when I realized I was going to make it through.

My first check-in was the lowest point of my life. Sobbing uncontrollably, I couldn't understand how I, a successful crime novelist, had ended up here; how I allowed my drinking to escalate so much.

But a year earlier, a horrific personal tragedy had left me reeling. Twelve months later I was still having nightmares and my creative well had dried up. Hopeless and useless, I turned to alcohol to numb the pain.

Desperate, I scoured the internet for private rehab and signed up with a credit card.

As I navigated the arrival process – complete with full body searches – the manager explained that I wouldn't be surprised if I encountered people I recognized. Because of their commitment to privacy, this particular facility attracted the celebrities.

I slowly got into the rhythm of group therapy, counseling, personal journaling sessions, plus cooking and cleaning chores, and the small group of fellow addicts became like a second family.

I began to realize that the reasons why I drank actually went back to my childhood with an alcoholic parent. As an oversensitive child, I had unconsciously internalized a lot of pain, learned to put the feelings of others first, and – as an adult – drowned my own needs in booze.

Personal insight was fascinating, but so was the insight into the people who could afford the £10,000 a month clinic fee. My fellow patients were disproportionately wealthy, with demands to meet. Certain brands of water, visitation rights for pets and very specific dietary requirements were standard.

And because rehab was a closely guarded secret for most of them, bizarre requests for deception were also common.

Like the cop who set up his own private meeting room so he could have Zoom calls without anyone knowing where he was. He arrived for breakfast drenched in sweat and begged for stronger medication, after which he went to his 'office' for fieldwork visits. As far as I know, no one except his long-suffering wife ever knew he was in rehab.

Author Cate Quinn was inspired by the famous faces and bizarre experiences that made up her detox journey when she wrote her ninth novel, The Clinic – a murder mystery with a celebrity cast

Perhaps surprisingly, celebrities were the best behaved – perhaps because constant planning was normal for them. Take the famous model that had a reputation for being demanding. She turned out to be the nicest person there, never asked for anything and regularly offered to get things for others.

The courage of the celebrities in rehab who tackled shame head-on had a profound effect on my recovery. It also made me realize how others might see me: not as a broken wreck, but as a flawed human being doing my best to change.

Back in the real world, sober for the first time in twenty years, I worried I wouldn't be able to write without alcohol. But actually, the famous faces and bizarre experiences that made up my detox journey inspired my ninth novel, The Clinic, a murder mystery with a celebrity cast.

The book was a different kind of therapy, which also allowed me to write anonymously about my own deeply personal trauma. For me, that makes the experiences more real, not less. Just how I hope my alcohol-free future will be.

Cate Quinn's novel The Clinic is now available in hardback.