She was laid to rest yesterday, but before she died she had started narrating a documentary I was working on – a tribute to her mother Whitney Houston.
We started the recording on a cold day in February 2014, on the second anniversary of her mother’s death. Last week I played the tape again. In a shaky, childlike voice, Bobbi Kristina – or Stina – talks about her mother.
‘I miss her like hell,’ she says on the recording. ‘Once you have met this woman, you are attached to her for ever. It was her heart, it was her smile, it was her face. It was the way she talked, it was the way she did things. She was so very lovable.’
She chatted happily about her plans for the future: ‘To start recording. To learn how to be a woman,’ and then talked about how missing her mom was a pain she couldn’t express.
She looked lost. She kept repeating, again and again: ‘I can’t go into the pharmacy with Nick. I am too famous.’
My suspicion rose further when she began to ask every few minutes: ‘Where are they? Why does it take so much time to get the pills?’
Finally Nick and his friend emerged. He opened a bottle of pills and asked her: ‘Is that what you wanted?’ She nodded and the three of them rushed into their hotel room, while she was shouting: ‘We will see you later, yes, Japanese… Dinner… I love you.’
I feared the worst. Sadly, I was proved correct. The next time I heard from them was three days later. ‘We are in Atlanta. We didn’t mean to disappear. We got sick,’ she said, adding: ‘Can you fly us to LA?’
I was already a sort of surrogate mother to Stina by this time. I was concerned about her and asked if they were addicted and what kind of pills they took, but all she would say was that they wanted to come back to LA ‘to stay with you’.
I was so concerned I decided to tell Nick’s grandmother. She is a religious woman who has been very strict with him, and she wrote a long, no-nonsense letter to them.
She then told me Nick had put Bobbi Kristina on the phone and they both swore to her that they were not taking drugs. She knew better.
I can’t go to the pharmacy with Nick, I’m too famous
Bobbi Kristina on drugs
I know Nick was angry with me, but Bobbi Kristina never mentioned my intervention and continued to call and text me. She had her own, inner, imaginary world where Nick was her ‘hubby’ – we could never get from them details about where and when they tied the knot. She once asked me if I could help organise ‘another’ wedding ceremony in California on Nick’s birthday.
Their lives were dominated by their addiction. It was so sad to see two co-dependents dragging each other down. Whenever I asked if she wanted to do something with her life, she would seize on it, saying: ‘Yes, yes, I am coming to record. Yes, I am writing all the time. Yes, I will show everybody was wrong.’
Did the couple fight? Certainly there were disagreements.
Once, when I returned a missed call from Nick, he answered, but sounded so weak it was clear he was under the influence. He kept saying: ‘I need help.’
Please come and get us
Bobbi Kristina’s desperate last Twitter message to her friend Daphne Barak
I was trying to help them face their problems and asked about a recent TV appearance when they came across as ‘out of it’.
Suddenly Bobbi Kristina grabbed the phone from Nick, and asked me about the show. Then she started to scream at him, blaming him for the fiasco. He kept saying, ‘I need help,’ as she kept shouting.
I remember with sadness our last phone call, a few weeks before she went into coma. She was down. She talked about a programme about her late mother on TV.
She was upset not to have been asked to contribute. I told her that her there would be hundreds of books and films about Whitney, but her memories would always be special to her. Stina felt instantly better and repeated that she wanted to come immediately to LA to record.
From what I witnessed, Stina and Nick were in love. But they were co-dependent in a very dangerous world full of money, drugs, booze – and very little else.
I will always remember her sweetness and her dreams of a family and career success: a future cruelly cut short at the age of tender age of 22.