Another Night, Another Day (20 page)

Michael leads Chrissie up the stairs.

‘What lovely flowers,’ she says, and they both pause on the landing to admire the display.

‘Hi-and-bye, guys,’ says Lillie, bouncing past.

‘Blimey,’ whispers Chrissie when they reach the first floor. ‘She was a bit glam.’

‘Did you recognize her?’

‘Should I?’

‘She presents
Street Dance Live.
’

‘So she does! You didn’t tell me she was in here with you.’

Michael is pleased to have impressed his wife. ‘No, we’re not supposed to say. But given you saw her anyhow.’

‘Is there anyone else famous staying? Go on, you can tell me. I won’t tell a soul, I promise.’

Michael isn’t so sure – discretion isn’t high on the list of his wife’s attributes – so it’s lucky the answer is ‘No’.

‘I’ll show you the communal lounge,’ he says, but comes to a halt when he sees a small boy cross-legged on the floor in front of the television and Abby sitting on one of the
sofas. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. We were just having a look at the room.’

‘No worries,’ says Abby.

‘Very nice.’ Chrissie steps past him into the middle of the space. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose.’ It’s not how Michael would describe a place he associates with lessons and confessions.

‘Compared to the NHS.’

‘I’ve never been to an NHS mental hospital.’

‘Well, neither have I,’ says Chrissie, ‘but I can’t imagine they’re like this. I was talking to Della about you being at Moreland’s the other
day—’ Michael shudders. Della is Chrissie’s friend and he hates her being aware he’s here, but worse, she’s Ken’s wife, so doubtless he knows too. They’re
local; news will be spreading fast . . . Chrissie obviously sees his expression. ‘Don’t fret, I made her promise not to tell anyone, and she’s my friend, we can trust her. Anyway,
she was saying the psychiatric hospital up at Woodingdean is where you’d have been sent normally – Sunnyvale House, it’s called – apparently it’s awful. People locked
in their rooms and all sorts.’

Michael wants to tell Chrissie not to gossip to Della, or anyone else. He’s already asked her to keep his admission to Moreland’s from the kids – to have them worry too would
only underline how much he’s failed them – but he doesn’t feel he can issue this diktat in front of Abby. He wouldn’t want her to think he’s ashamed they’re in
the same boat.

‘My goodness, look at all these magazines and papers . . . Ooh, and fruit—’ Chrissie helps herself to a few grapes, ‘ – that telly’s huge . . .’ She
turns full circle, slowly taking everything in. ‘Aw, it’s
Sleeping Beauty
.’ She reaches to clutch Michael’s arm. ‘I used to love this film!’ She stops
to watch for a few moments and munch grapes as the princess sings ‘Once Upon a Dream’. ‘The prince is hiding behind those bushes, you’ll see,’ she says with her mouth
full.

‘My son’s obsessed,’ says Abby.

‘Bless.’ Chrissie smiles down at the boy. ‘How old is he?’

‘Seven.’

‘Nice age.’

At that moment the song finishes and the prince and princess spring apart. The prince jumps back behind the foliage, Aurora dances alone once more. Michael is momentarily puzzled, then realizes
the boy is rewinding the tape via a remote control.

‘C’mon, Chrissie,’ he says. ‘I’ll show you my room.’

‘Bye,’ his wife says to Abby. She follows him down the corridor. ‘Everyone here seems very friendly.’

Based on what, thinks Michael, leading her into his room. A fleeting glimpse of Lillie and a few words with Abby? Chrissie’s perspective is so different to his own, it’s as if
they’re having entirely unrelated experiences.

He sits down on the bed. She parks herself close to him, then leans over and pushes the door to.

Help, he thinks, I hope she doesn’t want sex. Michael hasn’t felt like sex for several months, not since Christmas.

She picks up his hand. ‘So how
are
you then, Mickey?’

His stomach turns over; it’s her pet name for him. So this is what she wants – to talk. Normally he would avoid intimate conversation whenever possible. If they were at home
he’d escape to his shed, but he can’t do that here.

Strangely, tears have welled up behind his eyes. I’ve missed her, he thinks, as she strokes the back of his hand. It’s been horrible, spending a week apart, amongst so many
strangers. But he doesn’t say so.

‘Not too great,’ he admits, after a while.

‘You weren’t too good before you came in here, love,’ she points out. ‘I told you how worried I’ve been.’

‘I know.’ He’s trying so hard not to cry he can hardly speak.

‘Have you talked to anyone yet? You know, one of the counsellors, or something?’

‘Therapists,’ he corrects her. ‘No, not really . . .’

‘Haven’t you had any sessions? I thought they said you would.’

Michael can’t remember what they said when he was admitted. ‘I have . . . It’s just . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t find them very easy to talk to. Her, I mean.’

His wife laughs, but gently. ‘Love, you don’t find
anyone
easy to talk to.’

He looks sideways at her, struggles – but manages – to give her a half-smile. ‘I feel terrible about this, Chrissie. Being here and everything. I’m so sorry.’ At
once he’s overwhelmed with guilt. All the suffering he’s brought upon her – the loss of his business –
their
business, given she worked at Bloomin’ Hove too
– the worry about the mortgage, the kids, how they’ll survive . . . and now she must be worrying about him too. ‘Great breadwinner I am,’ he mutters.

‘Let’s not focus on your being a breadwinner now—’

‘I’m a shit husband and dad.’

‘You are
not
a shit husband or a shit dad. And you’ve been a perfectly good breadwinner for years. Let’s just concentrate on getting you better. We can deal with the
rest later.’

But how can I
not
worry, he wants to retort. ‘I’ve lost everything,’ he says.

‘We’ve still got the house,’ says Chrissie. ‘Some people don’t even have that.’

We won’t have it much longer if I’m not working, he thinks. He was midway through negotiation with the receivers, trying to find alternative ways to raise capital, when he ended up
here. Then he remembers something they discussed in the group earlier this week;
catastrophizing.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing, he realizes. I’m taking my current
situation and giving it a negative spin, turning it into a catastrophe.
One step at a time
, he remembers the therapist saying.
Don’t believe that just because you’re in a
situation now, it’ll always be that way: try to live in the present. If you anticipate everything that is going to go wrong, you’re more likely to make things go wrong. Far better to be
open to all the possibilities.

It seems Chrissie can almost hear what he’s thinking as she says, ‘I think you should make the most of being here, I really do. Given what Della says, you’re pretty
lucky.’

‘They could transfer me to the NHS . . .’ He recalls the hospital in Woodingdean, a giant white block of a building in need of painting and with too-small windows – he’s
driven past it many times.

‘Well, then, grab this opportunity while you can.
Talk
to people, Mickey. Have you spoken to the psychiatrist about medication?’

‘Dr Kasdan, yes . . .’ Michael went to the appointment he had scheduled earlier this week and nodded and agreed, reluctantly, to consider trying something the doctor called an
SSRI
, but he’s not started taking any pills. The nurses keep urging him, saying how much they can help, but their enthusiasm only makes him more reluctant. He can’t shake the
image of Nurse Ratched in
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
doling out mind-numbing medication, and fears he’ll end up much, much worse.

‘Good.’ His wife nods. ‘When’s your next chat with this – um – therapist? Is she really that awful? I’m sure you could ask to change if you truly
don’t like her.’

‘I’m seeing her on Monday.’ He pictures Gillian sitting opposite him in her paisley shawl. She appears so formidable with that bun and in those glasses! Then he remembers what
she’s been like running the group sessions – she led a couple this week. She was funny – dry – and some of her suggestions seem to have helped other patients a great deal.
It was Gillian who spoke of catastrophizing, wasn’t it? Maybe it’s me, he acknowledges. And I’d rather have her than Johnnie. ‘You’re right, she’s not so bad.
I’ll stick with her.’

‘Excellent.’ Chrissie gives him a hug. They clasp one another in silence for a while, breathing almost in unison; Michael can feel Chrissie’s bosom pressing against his chest.
Eventually he pulls away. Chrissie looks at him and does her best to smile. ‘But you
must
talk to her, Mickey. If you won’t do it for you, please, will you do it for
me?’

‘Oh my God!’ Anna shrieks into her mobile. ‘That’s fantastic news!’

‘What?’ says Karen, trying to keep focused on driving.

Anna waves at her to be quiet. ‘How much does he weigh?’

Karen’s heart soars –
Lou’s had her baby
. How wonderful, she thinks. Lou wanted this so much, and so did the man whom she found to father the child, Adam. He’s
gay and lives in Brighton too.

Sure enough, when she’s rung off, Anna says, ‘That was Adam calling from the hospital.’ She turns to face Molly and Luke in the back. ‘Lou’s had her baby.
It’s a boy.’

‘EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’

Karen shakes her head and smiles. No one does excitement quite like my daughter, she thinks. This is turning into a truly lovely day.

‘GOOD,’ says Luke. Karen glances at his reflection in the mirror. His expression – a nod, a small yet contented smile – conveys that macho honour has been upheld.

‘Can we see them now, Mummy?
Now?
’ Molly is bouncing in her car seat.

Lord, thinks Karen. There’ll be no peace until we do. But I thought we were heading home, and I’m tired – we’ve been gardening for hours. I have to be careful at the moment – that’s what everyone’s been telling me at
Moreland’s – so I mustn’t overdo it.

She leans over to Anna. ‘Would you like to go now too?’ She mutters ventriloquist-style in a bid to keep the children from catching on.

‘It would suit me perfectly,’ says Anna, voice also low.

‘
Pleeeaaaaaaaaaaase
,’ says Molly.

I haven’t seen much of Lou lately, Karen reminds herself, and I’m keen to meet the baby. ‘Did Adam say anything about visitors?’

‘Only that Lou was exhausted. But we wouldn’t need to stay long . . .’ cajoles Anna.

Karen frowns, weighing it up. ‘If we are going today, I’d much rather go straight there. Otherwise I’ll be very late giving these two their tea.’ And I’ll run out
of energy completely, she thinks. Yet being at the clinic has also reminded her that connections with friends are very important, and that clinches it. Karen raises her voice once more. ‘You
got those flowers, Molly?’

She can hear a rustle as Molly waves the bunch of tulips she picked at the allotment.

‘Right then,’ she says. ‘Kemptown here we come.’

* * *

When Chrissie has gone, Michael returns to the lounge. Might as well start now, he decides, before I change my mind; with fewer people around, it’s less daunting. Abby is
still in there, but alone, stretched out on one of the sofas, flicking through a magazine.

‘Hello again,’ he says, lowering himself into an armchair.

Abby starts. ‘Hi.’

I bet she’s amazed I’m speaking to her, thinks Michael, immediately self-conscious. Other than in group sessions I’ve barely said a word to her since we bumped into each other
in the corridor.

To his relief Abby opens the conversation. ‘I hope you’ve been sleeping better?’

‘Er, yes,’ he lies. ‘You?’

‘Not really.’ Abby sighs. ‘I’d like to know your secret.’

Oh no, he thinks. I haven’t got one. I should have been more honest. Unsure how to continue, he reaches to the coffee table for the paper, has a quick leaf through. But he could do that in
his room, and anyway
The Times
has never been his rag.
Talk!
he hears Chrissie urge. He coughs, braces himself, then says, ‘So was that your boy?’

Abby lets the magazine flop to her stomach to see him more easily. ‘Yes, my husband – soon to be ex – has taken him home.’

‘Nice-looking kid.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So you said in group he’s autistic?’

‘He has autism, yes.’

‘Do you mind my asking exactly what that is? I’ve never really understood.’

‘I don’t mind,’ says Abby, propping herself up on her elbows. ‘And it’s a good question, because there’s no single thing that defines diagnosis. It’s
what they call a spectrum disorder, so it covers a range of conditions. But there are some common factors.’ She curls up her fingers. ‘A problem with spoken language, mannerisms such as
hand-flapping, a fixation on parts of objects . . .’ She unfurls her fingers one by one. ‘Little or no eye contact, a lack of interest in other children and difficulties with playing
and make-believe . . .’ She stops. She’s run out of digits, and her expression is hard to fathom. I bet she’s been through this list countless times, thinks Michael. I
shouldn’t have brought the subject up. Yet Abby continues. ‘It’s like his senses are wired differently – imagine if smells were really loud, or noises made you feel sick
– that’s how overwhelming it seems to be for him sometimes.’

‘That sounds a lot for a little boy to manage,’ says Michael.

‘Yeah, but not everything’s like that. You might have noticed he was particularly fascinated by the same bit of
Sleeping Beauty
earlier? He loves that.’

‘Is that why he was rewinding it?’

Abby nods.

‘So will he get better?’

‘Er . . . It’s not something you outgrow, but he will change and develop, yes. Some adults with autism are able to live relatively independent lives, others will always need lots of
support . . .’ Her voice fades.

‘He doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with him,’ says Michael. ‘Well, not wrong, but . . .’ Oh God, what a mess I’m making of this, he thinks.
Why did I choose such a tricky subject? ‘I mean, you can’t tell he’s disabled.’