What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (14 page)

‘I did. Hamish is sending your dad a letter asking for the house as part of a renegotiation.’

‘Oh my God! That’s brilliant!’ She hugs me and shouts, ‘Granddad!’

‘I’m a coming!’ my dad calls back. He lifts Molly up over his shoulder, ‘Fireman’s lift!’ and runs towards us, his jacket flapping and Molly’s legs kicking.

He places her down on her feet in front of me and she catches onto my trousers as she balances herself. ‘I’m going to find a squirrel now, Grannie,’ she says and zigzags off along the path.

We follow behind her, walking more slowly, and I fill them in on what was said. ‘I don’t expect he’ll just roll over and give it to you, Ellen,’ my dad says. ‘But stay strong, and in the meantime I’ll get the house valued and ready to go on the market.’

‘The uber-bitch won’t want to leave the house,’ Chloe says. ‘Not now she’s got her therapy practice there.’

‘Well, it’s not about what she wants,’ I say. ‘They both jumped the gun, what with moving Tom’s study and chopping down the tree.’

Chloe looks at me sideways. ‘How do you know about the tree?’

‘Mrs Patterson,’ I say quickly. ‘I bumped into her.’

‘Thank heavens you know! I wanted to tell you but I just couldn’t. I was horrified when I saw it was gone.’

She tells my dad all about it and I watch his expression change from surprise to disgust and then disbelief. ‘Why would they do that?’ he says. ‘There’s plenty of room in the garden for a hot tub. They didn’t need to take the tree down.’

‘She likes order,’ Chloe says. ‘She’s one of those women who values the neat and tidy over anything that might be natural and a bit messy. No wonder her son is so screwed up.’

‘Is he?’ I say.

‘I think so. And so does Ben. He’s not weird exactly, but he’s awkward and he laughs in the wrong places, says inappropriate things. More like a fifteen- than a nineteen-year-old.’

‘In a piranha-filled river the monkey drinks with a straw,’ my dad says, tapping the side of his nose.

Chloe and I look at each other with questioning expressions. ‘That one’s lost on us, Dad,’ I say.

‘Just be careful, is all,’ my dad says. He jogs off after Molly, who’s balancing on the edge of the fountain, and shouts behind him, ‘The battle is on, Ellen. You need to mind your back!’

Mind my back? … Leila’s the one who needs to mind her back. The antipathy I feel towards her is crystallising inside me. I feel the rub of it against my sternum when I breathe in, reminding me of her existence, reminding me that she’s a sitting duck.

Francis pops in again on his way back from the hospice and I’m more pleased to see him than seems right, considering that we’ve only recently met. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t come back,’ I say. ‘What with me moaning on about my husband and his new woman.’

‘Everyone’s entitled to a good moan,’ he says.

We have a cup of tea and then I end up asking him to stay for something to eat. ‘My son Ben is out this evening,’ I tell him. ‘And I’m not much good at cooking for one.’

‘I’d love to stay,’ he says. ‘But let me go out and buy some wine or something.’

‘Not necessary. Honestly. I have a couple of bottles waiting to be drunk.’

‘Okay. Next time then,’ he says, settling back on the sofa. My heart lifts at the mention of a next time because I’m lonely more often than I care to admit. I haven’t acknowledged just how much in need of company I am, the right sort of company where I can be myself, be honest, no need to hide the truth.

We sit down to a meal of chicken and salad, and I listen to Francis talk about his mum, what a great friend and support she’s been to him. ‘I know she’s eighty-five,’ he says. ‘But I just don’t feel ready to lose her.’

‘Grief is tough,’ I say. ‘I lost my mum about ten years ago now.’

‘The death of a relationship can be almost as bad,’ Francis says.

‘That’s true.’ I pass him the serving dish of salad. ‘It’s taken me a full year to get used to the fact that Tom and I are now separated.’

‘Is the therapy helping?’

‘I’ve only been for one session so far but yes, I think it will help.’ I smile and drink some wine. ‘She seems very … good at her job. Her name’s Leila Henrikson. Have you come across her?’

He shakes his head. ‘Her name doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘Sharon recommended her.’ I pour some more wine into Francis’s glass and then mine. ‘As well as the CBT, we’ll be talking about how I’m handling the break-up.’ I stare down into my glass. ‘I went to see my solicitor and we’re going through all the nitty-gritty of the divorce. I had agreed to let Tom have the house but now I want it back.’ I explain about my dad’s property. ‘My dad could live in the annexe at the side of Maybanks. Of course Tom and his new woman don’t want to leave. She has her …’ I stop speaking – my mouth is running away with me and I’m about to say ‘therapy rooms in there’ but I stop myself because Francis doesn’t know that Tom left me for a therapist, otherwise he might put two and two together and realise that Tom’s therapist and my therapist are one and the same person. Being understanding of my OCD is one thing, being party to my deception is another. I don’t want him thinking I’m the crazy, avenging ex-wife so I end the sentence with, ‘… own way a lot. So Chloe tells me.’

‘You said before that you were plotting revenge.’

‘Did I?’ I give a short laugh. ‘Wishful thinking.’ All of a sudden I feel the onset of sadness and I blink away tears. Less than an hour ago I was feeling happy because I could be honest with Francis, and now here I am lying.

‘Do you still love him?’ Francis says. His hand reaches across the table to mine. He’s concerned for me. He thinks my change in mood is because I’m thinking about how much I love Tom.

‘No … yes.’ I shrug. ‘There’s a side of me that will always love him but I know that we don’t fit together any more. Like it or not, we’ve reached the end of the road. He’s chosen someone else and I’m finding that time on my own is not so bad.’ I smile.

Francis lets go my hand and raises his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Ellen.’

I raise my glass too and feel brave enough to hold his eyes, see kindness and warmth there and think that maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to be completely truthful with him. Not yet, though.

Not yet.

Tuesday, and I’m close to Maybanks when I catch sight of Mrs Patterson in the distance, her cat Bruiser following at her heels. I change direction and approach the house the long way round, my face averted. I’m through the front gate and down the side of the house, about to ring the bell to the annexe, when I hear the front door open and Tom’s voice say, ‘Honestly, darling, it’s not worth worrying about.’

I press myself against the brick wall, holding my breath.

‘I won’t make any alternative plans yet then,’ Leila replies.

Tom says something else that I can’t make out but I can hear that his tone is gentle. And all I can do is keep quiet, screw my eyes up tight and pray. I anticipate a heavy hand on my shoulder. I’m fully expecting to be marched to the police station, or at the very least humiliated in the street, a freak show for passers-by, the ex-wife turning up as the spectre at the lovers’ feast to cast her ugly spell.

I hear a vehicle pull up, and I open one eye to peer along the edge of the wall. It’s a black cab. Tom must be going to the airport.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I hear him say. He moves along the path towards the front gate and I glimpse the side of his body. He’s wearing a navy suit and brown brogues and my attention is drawn to his hands, hands that held me and stroked me, and now they’re stroking Leila. She’s leaning into him, whispering something in his ear. Seeing them like this makes me feel sick but I am compelled to torture myself by watching them; I reach my head out a little bit further.

Tom laughs and pulls away from Leila, his eyes lingering on her cleavage before rising to her eyes. ‘Hold that thought,’ he says. He touches her face with his right hand, running the back of his hand over her cheekbone, and when it reaches her lips she kisses his fingers and takes his hand in hers, leading him to the cab door. I could be standing in the middle of the driveway and he still wouldn’t see me because his focus is all for her.

The cab drives off and Leila stands on the pavement watching until it disappears round the corner. When she turns back towards the house, she spots me standing outside the annexe. ‘Mary!’ She walks towards me, smiling, and then her mobile goes off. She glances at the screen and frowns. ‘I’ll be with you directly, Mary.’ She veers off the driveway and through the front door to take the phone call and I have time to process what I’ve just witnessed.

They are in love with each other. I suppose I should have known this but somehow it never occurred to me – I thought it was all about sex. I thought it was about lust and shagging and the hormonal rush of desire that fades within a year. I didn’t need to witness the genuinely loving glance that passed from Tom to Leila. I didn’t need to see their closeness, the held hands and the gentle touch. It has sucked all the good feeling out of me and left a bitter emptiness behind.

Frustrated with myself – my stupidity, my feelings still so open to being hurt – I stare around in anger, my eyes alighting on the hacked magnolia tree and the tamed flower border, and then, feeling reckless, I stare through the kitchen window.
My
kitchen, minus my display dishes and photographs but otherwise
my
kitchen. I experience a sharp pang of nostalgia for family times round the table: happy birthdays, epic family Christmases and the simple pleasure of everyday meals with my children.

I duck my head down when Leila walks into the kitchen and moments later she opens the door to the annexe and ushers me inside. ‘Sorry about that.’ She looks tired, harassed even. ‘I was just seeing my partner off.’

‘No problem,’ I say, my smile false.
How can she not see what’s going on here? How can she not sense how much I detest her? How much I want to see her fall?
‘Is he off somewhere nice?’

She ignores my question and points to the armchair. I expect there’s some therapist’s rule about boundaries, not allowing clients to become too close, not allowing clients to form attachments or find out about your personal circumstances. Well, it’s a bit late for that, Leila Henrikson, UKCP accredited therapist. We have an attachment all right and it’s not a healthy one. It began when you started an affair with a married man. My married man.

She begins by welcoming me back and then says, ‘How has the last week been?’ Her lipstick has been kissed off. There’s a small ladder in her stocking – I expect she will be wearing stockings, not tights. Her cheeks are flushed. It’s not difficult to surmise that they just had sex. Where, I wonder? On the bed that Tom and I bought in the new year sales five years ago? Or perhaps on the sofa in the living room where our children did their homework and watched
The Simpsons
? Or maybe they had sex standing up in the hallway, her back against the wallpaper that my dad and I hung one Christmas holiday?

How I want to slap her smug face, hard and fast so that she’s knocked off her feet. But not now. Not yet. I’m going to be a good pupil. I’m going to play along. I’m going to tell her what she wants to hear in much the same way that teenagers in my class pretend to have completed the work I set them. So I tell her that I’ve been practising the exposure therapy exercise (I’ve only done it the once, when I didn’t unplug the kettle and Francis knocked on the door to return my scarf) and know that it’s helping me because I’m not so anxious (I’m not as anxious as I normally am because I spend a lot of my time being angry). ‘It’s a bit like the difference between loud noise and background noise,’ I say. ‘I know that the anxiety is still there but it’s not so noticeable. The exercises are like a shield, almost, a way of taming the anxiety, if that makes sense.’

She says it does and congratulates me on my efforts so far. ‘Habitual behaviour will kick in every now and then, so don’t be disappointed with yourself when it does. Just sit it out.’

‘I will.’ I smile. ‘I’m optimistic.’

‘So let’s talk about the second aspect to CBT, which is dealing with negative thought patterns.’ She takes a breath and I do the same. ‘You mentioned your recent separation and the fact that your husband was having an affair. How do you think this has impacted on your way of thinking?’

I consider this for a second. ‘I felt like a failure.’ I pause before adding, ‘I felt ashamed and … hopeless, really. Like my life was out of control and everything that had gone before was now worthless. I put so much energy into my marriage and my children – yes, I’m a teacher, but I’m not career-minded. I’m all about family … and home.’

‘Are you still living in your home?’

‘No.’

‘How does that make you feel?’

‘My house has been sold.’ I shrug. ‘I’m living somewhere smaller now and that’s fine.’ The lie slides effortlessly off my tongue. ‘It was time for me to move on from there. But the woman?’ I shake my head and stare through the window. I watch Bruiser stroll across the grass and find a space for himself under his favourite hydrangea bush, a bush he’s been using as his resting spot for more than ten years. I wonder whether Leila’s got into the habit of giving him extra snacks like I always did. I had a packet of cat treats just inside the kitchen door and when I was hanging out the washing he would circle my ankles until I fetched him a titbit.

‘The woman,’ I repeat. ‘She makes me angry. Fucking angry, actually because I now realise that I’ve been too passive.’ I laugh. ‘Normally I don’t swear much but then maybe it’s time I did swear. I’m long overdue for some anger. I’m long overdue for putting me on centre stage. The woman—’ I bite my tongue. I’m about to say ‘is a lot like you, but it would give me away, surely?

Leila allows the silence to expand around us for some time before she breaks it with, ‘You say you felt like a failure and that you felt ashamed – using the past tense.’

‘Yes.’ I nod. This I can talk about. ‘I’ve been thinking about my marriage and I’ve realised a lot, actually. My husband wasn’t an easy man to live with. He isn’t a family man, nor is he a team player, and I spent a lot of time making excuses for him. He loved the children and me, of course, but he was often moody and self-absorbed. Family life didn’t suit him. He liked his own way and it’s a relief not to have to pander to him any more.’ I smile as the truth of this lightens the load on my chest.