What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (9 page)

But although my body felt smaller, my heart felt larger, stretching like an ever-expanding balloon. ‘I thought my mother was beautiful,’ I told Maurice. ‘When she smiled, my ribcage would swell. When she was sad, I thought it was my fault.’

Maurice inclined his head. ‘You felt it was your job to make her happy?’

‘When she was happy, I was happy. How could I not have seen it as my job?’

It was a few weeks later that we progressed to talking about siblings.

‘One sibling,’ I told him. ‘David. He was born when I was six.’

More silence … an essential component of therapy. Allow the words to hover in the air to be considered and reconsidered. ‘He saved my life,’ I said. ‘I was never jealous of him.’ I smiled. ‘He gave me purpose.’

‘How so?’ Maurice asked me.

‘I thought about him constantly. What would I give him for tea? Did he need to see the doctor for his cough? Was it time to toilet-train him? And as he grew older, I listened to him read, practise his tables, learn the world’s capitals. I was the goalie to his striker. I was the giver of treats and the taker of his pain.’

‘All of this a parent’s responsibility, surely?’

‘David was always on my mind. And that was a good thing because when Gareth came along—’ I shifted in my seat ‘—I needed to keep my thoughts busy elsewhere.’

‘Elsewhere?’

‘Gareth moved in when I was eight. He took over the house.’ I stared past Maurice and out into his back garden, where one of his granddaughters sat on a blanket on the grass while his wife hung up washing. ‘I didn’t want him occupying my head too.’

It was almost a year before I allowed Maurice to return to the subject of Gareth. I poured the truth out over four sessions and knew I’d never revisit it again. It informed my adulthood but it didn’t need to define me. Except that sometimes it did.

What would Maurice make of my behaviour this afternoon? First the cat and then Alex. And all because David wants to revisit our childhood. Trouble is, I know what I’d be telling David if I was his therapist. I would be encouraging him to talk, to rant, to rail against the misery and the injustice. And I’d encourage him to be truthful with the people who were there when he was a child. ‘Your sister doesn’t want you to speak the truth?’ I would say. ‘Well, she needs to understand that this isn’t about her – this is about you.’

That’s what I’d be telling him.

I hand her my coat and walk into the therapy room, looking around me as if this is the first time I’ve been in here, and in a way it is, because Tom’s study has been completely remodelled. The doors and windows are where they’ve always been but otherwise the space is unrecognisable. The walls are a muted lilac and the furniture is comfortable and expensive. The new furniture, carpets and blinds are plush and modern and straight out of a high-end showroom.

‘Do take a seat, Mary,’ Leila says. She’s wearing a red and cream patterned shirt-dress and cream wedge sandals, no tights, her legs smooth and subtly tanned.

I sit down on a yellow armchair and she sits down opposite me. There is a glass of water and an open box of tissues on the table next to me. The room is cleaner and neater than it ever was before, but gone is all sense of the personal. This room used to be stuffed to the gunnels with all of sorts of souvenirs and memorabilia, some would say clutter. Tom had shelves and shelves of textbooks and journals, and an assortment of possessions he’d gathered over the years: old photographs, a brass cigarette case that belonged to his granddad, a large wooden Labrador that sat by the door for everyone’s hand to blindly reach out and stroke, awards he’d won, a rugby ball from a winning match and so on. I wonder what’s happened to all his stuff and then I remember Chloe telling me he’s using her old bedroom as his home office.

‘I need to take a few details from you,’ Leila says. ‘And also to let you know of my charges.’ She hands me a piece of thick, expensive paper – £55 for a fifty-minute session. Cancellation charges apply. ‘Do you have private health insurance?’ she asks.

‘I don’t.’ I make a growling sound that I try to disguise by clearing my throat. ‘And my problem isn’t serious enough for me to get help on the NHS.’ I focus my gaze on the paper on my lap. I can’t look at her because I don’t know what will happen if I do.

‘You’re feeling anxious at the moment?’ she says.

I swallow down the urge to reach across and slap her smug face.

‘There’s no rush,’ she says. ‘I want you to feel that this is a safe space.’

A safe space? This room has been more than just a safe space. This room has been somewhere I have spent hours of my married life. The first fifteen years we lived here, when Tom was building his career, I would put the children to bed and then join him in here. We would share cocoa or a brandy, depending on whether he was in court the next day. He would tell me about his latest case, practise his opening address in front of me, run his logic past me. I was often a pretend juror, an everywoman, his link with the general public. But that wasn’t all. We frequently made love in here. We conceived Ben on the sofa, both of us giggling as the springs squeaked along with our rhythm.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Leila says.

‘I’d rather …’ I fold the paper and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘Please continue.’

‘You’ve been to your GP?’

‘He gave me some antidepressants.’ I stare at the floor and cough into my fist. ‘I stopped taking them because they didn’t make any difference.’

‘And how long were you on them?’

‘Six months.’

She asks for my GP’s name and address and then she asks for my address. I haven’t thought about this in advance and I make the snap decision not to give her my address but to give her my dad’s instead – which, seconds after I’ve said it, I realise might be just as much of a giveaway if she knows anything about the divorce agreement.

‘And have you been in therapy before?’ she says.

‘No.’ I cross and uncross my legs. ‘I tried to go once but my husband didn’t want to.’

‘You wanted to attend couples therapy?’

‘I did. My husband was having an affair and I thought it might help us.’ I feel brave enough to look up at her. I expect to see recognition on her face. I expect to see her draw back from her note-taking and realise who I am, but she doesn’t. She’s either an incredible actress or she really has no idea who is sitting in front of her.

‘Is that when your symptoms started?’

‘Yes. And then I was mugged – it wasn’t serious but it was the final straw. I went to a support group but that didn’t really suit me and—’

I stop talking because I have a sudden skin-crawling sensation. I reposition myself in my chair but it doesn’t help. Forgetting my reserve and being frank with the very woman who is the root cause of all my problems feels perverse. I haven’t thought this far ahead because I hadn’t really expected to get this far.

She lays her paper and pen to one side and gives me her full attention, her expression sympathetic. ‘You said on the phone that you are suffering from anxiety and obsessive compulsion.’ I nod. ‘Would you like to tell me a little bit about that?’

I glance around the room, stalling for time, wondering how I can possibly open my mouth and talk to her as if this is a perfectly normal situation.

‘For example,’ she says. ‘How does the anxiety manifest itself?’

Think, Ellen, think.
The penny isn’t dropping for her. She’s not going to show me the door. I can do and say whatever I want. I can lead her on and then reveal my true identity exactly when it suits me. I am in control of this.

‘The time we spend together is for you to use as you wish,’ Leila says. ‘I’m here to listen to everything you tell me without judgement.’

‘Without judgement?’

She nods.

And then I stare through the window, into the back garden. For a second I’m stunned. I blink and blink again.

The oak tree is gone. The oak tree that stood there for over a hundred years, that added a stately permanence to the garden, shade to lie under, branches to climb, space to nurture children’s imaginations. Chloe was seven and Ben was a newborn when my dad came round to build the tree house. Chloe was wearing yellow shorts, a sparkly top and red wellie boots and was beside herself with excitement. She ran around fetching and carrying tools while I nursed the baby.

It wasn’t elaborate; it was a rudimentary tree house. The floor was made from the tops of two discarded coffee tables that my dad had found in a skip and the roof was partly open, partly covered with an old tent. The project lasted the whole weekend and after it was finished Chloe played in it for years. Even when she was a teenager she’d go up there to read or sleep or gaze up through the branches and the leaves to the sky. I now understand what she meant when she told me her childhood was being destroyed. She is being thoroughly removed from the house. Yes, she’s an adult, but she’s still Tom’s child and this has always been her family home, from the moment she was born in the downstairs bathroom, an unexpectedly quick and easy birth that caught us all by surprise, to her twenty-fourth birthday party that we held in the garden just days before Tom announced that he was having an affair.

I experience an acute sense of betrayal on Chloe’s behalf. How could Tom have allowed this woman to do this? What about Molly, his granddaughter? When Molly was born, hadn’t we said to one another that as soon as she was able to use the ladder to climb up to the tree house, she’d spend many a happy afternoon up there? Just as her mum had done.

And now the tree is gone. Completely. And in its place there is decking and a square hot tub with a green plastic cover.

In the tick-tock of that one shocking minute, I make up my mind to do two things. Firstly, to get back into my house before she destroys everything that makes it unique. And secondly, to make her feel sorry for what she’s done. This isn’t just about a tree; this is about more than that – it’s about taking what isn’t yours to take and then wilfully destroying it.

Leila sits with her ankles crossed and says nothing. I know of people who’ve gone to therapy and cried for the whole session, filling the silence with tears. The tissues next to my chair are strategically placed. I’m sure Leila is anticipating my tears. I expect she sees me as a typical middle-aged woman who has lost her husband because she doesn’t understand him or isn’t exciting enough in bed.

Well fuck her. She wants me to talk? Then I’ll talk.

‘I have a fear of the house going on fire,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t know why. It’s not rational. It’s ridiculous, in fact. I’ve always been a slightly anxious person but never as bad as this. Not until my husband and I separated. I’ve gradually gone downhill. Worrying about everything. And, well … He has a very aggressive solicitor and I’ve been bullied into agreeing to things I didn’t want to agree to.’

I pause. She seems to feel no compunction to fill the silence so I continue. I tell her that leaving the house isn’t simple any more. I tell her about taking photographs, every day, and about how this is beginning to rule my life.

She nods.

‘And then I have to check that the front door is locked. I do that several times in the evening and even wake up in the middle of the night to do it again. And to check the sockets. And often I check the car too, to make sure the handbrake is on.’

I pause. More silence. So I continue. I tell her that I’m a teacher and that before school broke up for the summer, my anxiety was beginning to impact on my work. ‘I teach chemistry and I now worry about my lab going on fire, so leaving for the day involves me double- and triple-checking gas and electricity points. I make sure the chemicals are locked up and the equipment is securely shelved. I leave the classroom and when I’m halfway along the corridor I go back and check again and then again. Soon my colleagues will notice and I don’t know what I’ll say to them.’

I hear the muffled vibration of a phone ringing. It’s coming from Leila’s pocket. She doesn’t lose her focus but keeps her understanding gaze fixed very firmly on me.

‘That’s it, really,’ I say. ‘I think I’m reaching a critical point.’ I sit back in the seat. ‘That’s why I’m here. To get help before it completely disables me.’

I stare at her and she stares back. Then she slowly nods. ‘Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings with me, Mary,’ she says. ‘I can see that you have a lot to talk about.’ She gives me a soft, encouraging smile. ‘You deserve to be listened to.’ She pauses to let this sink in. ‘It’s often the case that when we experience a major life event, such as a separation, then our feeling of safety, our trust in the world and in ourselves also feels threatened.’ Her tone oozes empathy like sweet sap from a maple tree. ‘Sometimes we are forced to confront old emotions, ones we have never dealt with before, and this can be frightening.’

She’s lost me now. I wonder whether she means that the anxiety lies deeper than Tom leaving me?

‘I can offer you two alternative therapies,’ she says. ‘I am trained as a Jungian therapist.’ I nod. ‘Are you familiar with Jungian therapy?’

‘No, not really. I saw a film about Jung and Freud a few years ago.’ In the cinema, with Tom. He hadn’t wanted to come but I’d persuaded him and I think that on the walk home we were even holding hands. ‘Recalling dreams seemed to feature …’ I trail off.

‘Jungian analysis is a depth psychology, or psychology of the unconscious. Dream interpretation is integral.’

‘Right.’ I nod as if I fully understand what she means.

‘Jungian therapy is a fairly long-term commitment.’

‘How long?’ I say.

‘A year, possibly more.’

‘That’s too long, I think …’
I’ll be done with you long before that.
‘And I’m not sure I can afford it.’

‘I’m also trained to deliver CBT – cognitive behavioural therapy. CBT would be a course of six or eight treatments – you can always return for more if you need a top-up – and essentially it’s a therapy that helps you manage your problems by changing the way you think and behave.’

‘That sounds more like what I’m looking for.’

She goes on to tell me that CBT works by breaking down the problem into smaller, more manageable parts, and at that point, I tune out because I have an excuse to stare at her – really stare – and I am free to think my own thoughts. She has long, piano player’s fingers and shiny, blue nails. She uses her right hand when she speaks, her hand moving through the air, dipping and weaving to enhance the meaning of the words, her blue nails catching and reflecting the light. Her lips are full, scarlet lipstick defining their shape. This is the woman who is sleeping with my husband, the woman who seduced a married man and has the barefaced cheek to move into the family home. The woman who is too full of her own importance, too fond of her own voice, too blatantly conceited to see I am deceiving her.