Another Night, Another Day (11 page)

‘I want a pee,’ she says when they reach the Ladies. ‘I hope you’re not coming inside?’

‘No, but don’t lock the door.’

Abby resists an urge to do exactly that. This woman following her around everywhere is getting on her nerves. She’s not at all clear why she’s doing it. If only the last few days
weren’t such a blur.

She’s only been in the cubicle a couple of minutes when there’s a tap on the door.

‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It’s just the group begins at eleven, and I think it could be really good for you to be there.’ Abby can tell the nurse is trying to keep her voice soft and calm, but she
sounds simpering instead.

‘I’ll come in a minute.’

‘They like to start on time.’

‘I’m peeing as fast as I can,’ snaps Abby. She’s no desire to join in the session – she’s no desire for anything. Oh well, she thinks, emerging, it’s
not as if I’ve anything better to do. She allows herself to be led down the corridor and into the lounge, where she and the nurse sit down on a sofa.

An older guy in a suit appears at the door. Maybe he’s the man who helped with my admission last night, thinks Abby, vaguely recalling his goatee beard. Her head is in such a muddle she
isn’t sure. He is followed by a middle-aged woman carrying a polka dot umbrella – through the window Abby sees it’s started to rain.

I’ve got an umbrella a bit like that somewhere, thinks Abby. Though Lord knows where it is – I never have time to bother with using one these days.

‘So this is where you’ll be for group,’ says the man with the goatee beard. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, Johnnie is running it today, and he should be up in about
ten minutes.’ He turns to go.

The woman puts her damp brolly on the floor and tentatively arranges herself on the sofa next to Abby. She has long, wavy chestnut hair; it’s fantastically thick, like a curtain.

She probably doesn’t want to get her hair all wet, thinks Abby. In case it goes frizzy. I used to be like that about mine . . . How I miss my long hair. I want it back.

* * *

Karen has no idea what she expected the inside of Moreland’s Place to be like, but it wasn’t this. The lounge is more homely than she’d anticipated, and
everything is on a generous scale, with sofas lining three of its four walls, armchairs angled out from the corners of the room and a giant flat-screened television. On the windowsill is a huge
vase of fresh flowers and on a coffee table in the centre of the room is a box of man-size tissues and a bowl piled with fruit. The shelf beneath houses the latest editions of glossy monthlies and
a copy of today’s
Times
.

She checks round to see who else is in the room – presumably they will be in the session too. Directly opposite is a guy with salt-and-pepper hair, concentrating on filling in a form. He
glances up as Karen sits down, and she thinks she might recognize him from somewhere, but can’t place him. He’s good-looking, but appears agitated, and instinctively she feels wary.

On the adjacent sofa is a blonde woman; Karen guesses she’s somewhere between five and ten years younger than she is. She is pale and slender, with the toned limbs of someone used to
exercise, hair cut into a short shaggy bob and not a scrap of make-up. She looks washed-out and drawn, but Karen can tell that she’s pretty. Next to her is a nurse called Sangeeta, Karen
gathers from her name badge.

She looks at the clock – only five minutes to go. This is all so unnerving – she’s never done anything like this before. She remembers Molly on her first day at school; how
proud she was, how excited. My little girl is braver than I am, she thinks.

An elderly Asian woman hobbles into the room with the aid of a walking stick. She has a cloud of white hair, and as she hitches up her turquoise sari to edge carefully into an armchair, Karen
sees that one ankle is very swollen and feels her discomfort. Next is a young woman with glossy lips, eyelashes thick with mascara, tawny hair twirled into spirals, big breasts and a washboard-flat
stomach. She’s so glamorous Karen is immediately conscious of her own misshapen sweater and unwashed hair. I thought we’d all be here for similar reasons – how, Karen wonders, is
she capable of looking that well turned out? Maybe she’s been here for a while, and the treatment really works . . . For a moment Karen feels hopeful, then the sadness that’s been
weighing on her for weeks consumes her again and she has to gulp back tears. I can’t imagine ever feeling better, she thinks. What have I got to feel better
for
? I suppose
there’s Molly and Luke, but I’m tired, so bone-tired.

She reaches for a handkerchief, and as she blows her nose she realizes the glamorous woman is looking at her and smiling. Karen blushes at being caught on the verge of weeping, but is relieved
to have had some friendly contact. She smiles back as best she can.

Is she a film star? There must be famous people in here, thinks Karen, Moreland’s is renowned for it.

‘I’m Lillie.’ The young woman stretches out her hand. Her nails are beautifully manicured.

‘Karen,’ says Karen.

Then she notices Lillie’s fingers are shaking, and when she asks, ‘Is it your first day?’ her voice is tremulous and uncertain.

‘Yes.’

‘Ah.’

Karen isn’t sure what the ‘ah’ means, but gathers that the fact she is a newcomer is significant.

‘Have you been here before?’

‘No,’ Karen says. ‘Never.’

Again the man opposite glances up at her. She senses he’s about to say something but thinks better of it. He carries on filling in his form.

Next they are joined by an overweight young man with a ponytail who’s still in his slippers – looks like he’s staying here, concludes Karen – and a smartly dressed black
guy who introduces himself as ‘Troy’ with an American accent.

Finally, at exactly eleven o’clock, a man with a spring in his step and a floppy fringe comes into the room wheeling a large whiteboard, and carrying a stack of papers and a box of magic
markers.

‘Thanks, Sangeeta,’ he nods at the nurse. ‘You can leave now.’ He adjusts the whiteboard so they can see it, puts the box and papers on the coffee table and closes the
door. Then he turns to the group and beams in a way that seems to light up the entire space. ‘I’m Johnnie.’

He looks about thirty, Karen decides, possibly even younger, though that might be because compared to the rest of us he seems so upbeat, full of energy.

‘I’m a therapist and I’m running the group this morning. Let’s start with a quick introduction as several of you are new today – Karen?’ He bounds over and
shakes her hand forcefully. ‘Abby?’ He does the same to the woman with the shaggy blonde bob. ‘We met last night,’ he says to her, but Abby appears confused. ‘And
Michael?’ The man filling in the form has been writing furiously all this while, but at last he puts down his pad and pen.

* * *

I can’t believe he’s properly trained, thinks Michael, as he shakes the young man’s hand. He barely seems older than Ryan. I bet he’s still a student.
And imagine shutting the door on a room full of anxious and miserable people! That girl over there – her hands are quivering like jumping beans – can this really be a good idea? Locking
us in, controlling what we can and can’t drink – reminds me of
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
.

‘I’d like to invite all of you to start by saying a bit about how you’re feeling right now,’ Johnnie continues, pulling up a chair close to the whiteboard. ‘Who
wants to go first?’

I’d rather stick pins in my eyes, thinks Michael.

‘Perhaps someone who’s been in group before could start,’ says Johnnie.

‘OK, I’ll go first.’ To his surprise, it’s the shaky young woman speaking. ‘I’m Lillie—’ She glances round at the group and smiles – he can
tell she’s done this before, ‘ – and I’m a bit wobbly today.’

She’s mixed-race, Michael observes, and she’s local. That’s a proper Sussex accent there, if I’m not mistaken.

The therapist nods slowly. ‘And what do you think that wobbliness might be about?’

‘Well . . . They upped my lithium last night and I reckon I’m still getting used to it.’

Exactly
, Michael says to himself. The psychiatrist I saw yesterday wants to put me on medication too, but see what it’s doing to her? She’s a nervous wreck.

‘Though I know the morning is always my most difficult time—’

She has the most amazing cleavage, he thinks, and as Lillie continues speaking he finds himself unable to take in much of what she says.

He’s roused from his reverie by an American, Troy, who speaks next: Michael gathers he is on sick leave from the army and due to return to service in Afghanistan at the end of the week.
‘I’m dreading it,’ he says.

A white-haired lady and a chap in slippers share a few words, then there’s a long silence. Expectation hangs in the air like a storm cloud.

Who is going to cave in? Michael wonders. The woman with the long reddish hair opposite, or the frail-looking one on the adjacent sofa? I’m damned if it’s going to be me.

The woman opposite shifts in her seat and opens her mouth to speak, but then bursts into tears.

Michael looks at the floor, mortified.

But Johnnie simply leans forward and nudges the box of tissues towards her. He seems unfazed. ‘Your feelings are welcome here, Karen.’

‘Gosh.’ Karen takes a tissue and blows her nose. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from . . .’

‘No need to be sorry,’ says Johnnie.

‘I can’t believe I’ve ended up here!’ she wails, and starts to cry again, more forcefully. ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that to come out like that. How rude of me,
when I don’t know any of you—’

‘I don’t know anyone either,’ says Abby. Her voice is a whisper.

Michael supposes this is his cue to echo that neither does he, but he’s too self-conscious to speak.

‘That’s how I felt when I arrived,’ Lillie says to Karen.

‘ – and you’ve all been so brave and honest, and here I am crying my eyes out—’ Karen gasps for breath.

‘But it does get better, I promise,’ says Lillie.

‘Really?’ Karen sounds deeply uncertain.

Michael wonders if he’s met her before. Maybe she’s a customer. Hove is only a few miles from Lewes; doubtless some patients are from there. He picks his cuticles as he tries to
recall: he tends to be good with faces – or he used to be. Since he’s been sleeping badly, his memory is shot.

‘Yeah, you’re at rock bottom,’ says Troy. ‘Nothing can ever feel that bad again.’

‘Remember to speak in “I” statements if you can, Troy,’ says Johnnie.

What the hell does he mean by that? thinks Michael. All these rules! He feels more tongue-tied than ever.

‘Sorry.’ Troy nods. ‘I meant, when
I
arrived, post trauma, I was right at rock bottom.’

‘Thanks,’ says Johnnie.

‘And from there the only way is up,’ says Lillie.

Karen’s face relaxes into a tiny, appreciative smile.

Johnnie goes to the board, draws a large circle and stands back.

‘Today, as three of you are new, I thought we’d explore how the way we think can actually make our depression or anxiety worse,’ he says.

I wish he’d stop smiling, thinks Michael. What’s he got to be so happy about? I can’t think of anything worse than spending all day talking about depression.

‘This is one of the first steps in the therapeutic process – discovering your thoughts and behaviours and how they are linked. The second step is challenging that behaviour, but
let’s begin by looking at how we think. One way of doing that is by using the Vicious Flower diagram.’

‘I’ve done this exercise before,’ mutters Troy.

‘Sorry about that,’ says Johnnie, ‘but every group is different because we’ve a different mix of people, which means I’m sure you’ll get something new from
what they have to contribute. Perhaps you can kick off by saying what goes in the middle?’

‘“
Depression
”,’ says Troy, with a bored sigh, and Johnnie writes the word in the circle.

I don’t get what on earth this navel-gazing has to do with flowers, thinks Michael.

‘So, does someone want to tell me something they do when they get depressed?’ Johnnie looks round the group.

‘Stay in bed,’ says the man in slippers.

You don’t say, thinks Michael.

‘Perfect,’ says Johnnie, and draws an arc away from the circle captioned with the words
‘stay in bed’
. ‘And then what happens when we don’t get up
– how does that make us feel?’

‘Shit,’ says Troy.

‘Exactly,’ says Johnnie, and writes
‘self-loathing’
in another arc, leading back to the circle.

‘You should have written
“shit”
,’ says Michael. It pops out before he can stop himself.

‘Thank you, Michael. I think for our purposes the meaning is the same,’ says Johnnie.

Michael sees little pink spots rise in Johnnie’s cheeks. They should put someone tougher in charge, if he can’t deal with that, he thinks. Nonetheless, he feels a pang of
remorse.

‘Can someone else suggest something they might do when they’re down?’ Johnnie asks.

‘Drink more alcohol?’ offers Michael in a moment of generosity, and Johnnie draws a fresh arc away from the circle, and captions it.

‘Thanks,’ he says, and the pink spots fade. ‘And what might this lead to?’

‘A hangover,’ says Lillie, and everyone laughs.

‘More anxiety,’ says Troy, and again Johnnie draws an arrow back to the circle.

Ah, thinks Michael, I get it. We’re forming petals. How ironic, when flowers landed me in here.

They continue in this vein: Rita, the white-haired lady in the sari, confesses she stays at home more, which leads her extended family to invite her out less; Karen says she’s stopped
doing things she likes such as hosting parties and seeing friends, which makes her more miserable; Troy admits he gets angry and snarky then feels guilty; Colin, the young man in slippers, says he
overeats and hates himself for doing so. Round and round they go, until they have a flower bursting with petals.

The only one who hasn’t contributed is Abby, Michael notices. She’s so pale and quiet, she’s not said a word other than at the very start. I wonder what her story is? He sneaks
a better look. She appears exhausted; she keeps closing her eyes as if she’d like to go to sleep.