The Therapist

by B. A. Paris

  I nod slowly. “Was it common knowledge that Nina was having an affair?”

  “Who told you that?”

  Was there a slight edge to her voice or had I imagined it? “Lorna.”

  Eve shakes her head. “No. We only found out after.” She turns to look at me. “You can understand now why we were able to accept that Oliver killed her.”

  Just like that, I want to ask, without question? “But why couldn’t it have been the man she was having an affair with who killed her?” I ask instead.

  Eve bends to tie her lace. “I’m sure the police looked into it,” she says, straightening up again. “And if they didn’t think there was anything to investigate, well, who were we to argue?”

  Oliver’s friends, I want to say. You were Oliver’s friends.

  “You said Tamsin was Nina’s best friend. Did she know about her affair?”

  “No, not back then. Nina never spoke to her about it.”

  “I remember Tamsin saying at lunch last week that Nina had really helped her. Did she see her in a professional capacity?”

  “No, Nina wouldn’t have been allowed to be her therapist, given that they were friends. Tamsin suffers from depression—I don’t think she’ll mind me telling you that—and I think Nina gave her advice on natural remedies, as Tamsin didn’t want to take anti-depressants. Which is why it was doubly hard for her when Nina began distancing herself. Tamsin felt abandoned, and not just physically.”

  “Did Nina work from home?”

  “No, she had an office about twenty minutes from here.”

  “What about Connor, what’s he like?”

  “Connor is Connor. He’s actually all right when you get to know him. But he can be a bit insensitive, especially to Tamsin.”

  I don’t want to pry but I’m curious. Luckily, after a drink from her water bottle, she carries on without any prompting.

  “For example,” Eve goes on. “After the murder, Tamsin wanted to move away. We all did; it was a natural knee-jerk reaction. A violent murder had happened in close proximity to where we were living and we were all scared. But Connor insisted they were staying and refused to even consider a possible move. If he had tried to find a middle ground, told Tamsin that yes, they could think about moving away if that was what she really wanted, she wouldn’t have broken so completely. Will was brilliant, he said that we could put the house back on the market even though we’d only been here five months. Lorna especially was in a terrible state. She wanted to go and stay with her sister in Dorset, at least for a while, and Will offered to drive her and Edward there. But the next day, Edward was taken to hospital with a heart attack, brought on by the stress of the murder next door, so they hadn’t been able to leave. Anyway, before anyone could do anything, Oliver was arrested, then he killed himself. And everyone began to feel safe again. The only people that did actually move away were the Tinsleys, who lived at number 3.”

  “Hm,” I say, because my mind is still stuck on Tamsin and Nina’s falling out. I don’t want Eve to know that she’s given me lots to think about so I look for a way to change the subject.

  “By the way, I was in the garden this morning and I found a gap in the fence between our two properties.”

  “Gosh, I’d forgotten about that! Oliver used to lend Will his lawnmower because it was a new state-of-the-art one and they opened up the fence so they could push it through instead of having to take it around the front. You’ll probably find a gap on the other side too, because Oliver used to cut Lorna and Edward’s grass for them. Geoff does it now.”

  “He lives on the other side of them, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he live there on his own? Someone mentioned that he’s divorced.”

  “Yes, for a few years now. I never knew his wife but Maria did, because they were neighbors. She met someone at work and that was it, marriage over.” She stands up and stretches her arms above her head, easing her muscles. “Sorry, but I need to go. Do you want me to ask Will to put the panel back up?”

  “No, don’t, it’s fine. The gap has grown over anyway. And you never know, it might come in useful,” I add with a smile.

  “Is Leo coming back each evening, like he did last week?”

  “No, I told him not to. It’s a long journey to have to make twice a day.”

  “Then do you want to come and sleep at ours?”

  “That’s lovely of you. But if I’m to stay here, I need to get used to being in the house on my own.”

  “If you change your mind, just let us know. Do you want to jog back with me?”

  “No, thanks, I’m not really the jogging kind.”

  She laughs. “Bye, Alice. It was nice talking to you. See you at Tamsin’s on Friday, if not before.”

  I watch her thoughtfully as she runs off. I’m grateful for everything she told me but it was a huge amount of information to dump on me in one sitting. Maybe it’s Eve I’m not meant to trust. And from what I’m beginning to learn about Nina—her affair, her rejection of Tamsin—maybe she wasn’t as lovely as I thought.

  PAST

  I have a new client and a new office. It’s on the first floor of an old, rickety building and I hear her running up the stairs, her feet hammering on the wooden steps. She’s late.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, flustered. “I got lost. I haven’t been living here long and I don’t know my way around yet.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, giving her a smile. “You really shouldn’t have run.” I mean it; her cheeks are flushed and she looks slightly sweaty. Her hair is a mess, half of it still tied up, the other half falling in strands around her face.

  I wait while she takes off her coat and extra-long scarf, both of them black. The dress she’s wearing is also black, as are her boots. She sees me looking and gives a self-conscious laugh.

  “Trying to fit in,” she explains. “Most of the women here seem to wear black.”

  I smile non-committally and tell her to make herself comfortable, although it may be difficult in the angular chair I’ve chosen for this office. I ask her if she’s warm enough; it’s cold outside, the temperature is almost zero.

  “Yes, thank you,” she says.

  I move my eyes to the window, giving her time to settle. The street outside is busy with the sounds of people going home after their working day.

  “How are you?” I ask, once she’s sitting down.

  She shifts in the chair. “To be honest, I’m not really sure why I’m here. I mean, there isn’t really anything wrong. I just need to talk to someone, I guess.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” I say, putting her at ease.

  She nods. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “Why don’t I ask you a few questions first?”

  Another nod. “Yes, of course.”

  I pull my pad toward me. “Before we begin, I want you to know, and remember, that anything you say in this room is confidential.”

  She gives a little laugh. “Good. Not that I’m going to tell you anything amazing. As I said, I don’t really know why I’m here. My life is perfect. But I’m not happy. I feel terrible for saying that but it’s true.”

  The tension in her vibrates around the room. I pick up my pen and jot down the words—“perfect” and “unhappy” then lean forward in my chair.

  “Do you know what Henry David Thoreau believed? ‘Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you. But if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.’”

  She smiles, relaxes. It always works.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I start awake. I’m about to open my eyes but some primal instinct tells me that I need to pretend I’m still asleep. My mind darts, trying to work it out. And then I realize; there’s someone in the room.

  Adrenalin surges through my body, whipping my heartrate to a frenzy. It hammers in my chest and I tell myself frantically that I’m imagining it, remind myself that last
time this happened, there was no one there. But I know, with a horrible, terrible certainty, that someone is standing at the foot of my bed. I lie in a state of near-paralysis, not daring to breathe, waiting for the crush of their body on mine, the tightening of their hands around my throat. The tension is unbearable; I try to hold on to my fear but I can’t.

  “Go away!” The words tear out of me and I push myself up forcibly, ready to face whoever is there. The room is in darkness, panicking me further, because I had left the lamp on. I reach down, fumbling for the switch, steeling myself for a hand seizing my bare arm and pulling me from the bed. I snap the light on and scan the room, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I peer into the shadows. There’s no one there. I wait, listening to every noise the house is making. But nothing sounds wrong.

  I slump back against my pillow, cold sweat on my forehead, trying to slow my pounding heart. It’s all right, it’s all right. Nothing happened.

  But there was someone there, I know there was. I slide my cell phone from under my pillow, tap 999, then change my mind and find Leo’s number. I need to hear someone’s voice and he’s the only person I feel I can call at—I check the time, and when I see that it’s only two o’clock, the knowledge that I still have the rest of the night to get through is devastating. It won’t be light for another five hours and I’m not going to be able to go back to sleep, not now. I force myself to be calm. I’m not going to call Leo. Nothing has happened to me, nothing will happen to me now. But why would someone break into the house to do absolutely nothing? And how did they get in?

  Reluctantly, I get out of bed and make the same journey through the house that I made a week ago, but with less bravado because this time, Leo isn’t asleep upstairs. In the kitchen, I check the French windows. There’s no broken glass, no sign of forced entry. Moving to the worktop, I grab a knife from the drawer. The knife, black-handled with a serrated edge, used for cutting lemons, will only be dangerous if I plunge it deep into someone. Which I could never do. Nevertheless, it gives me a weak kind of courage.

  The windows in the downstairs rooms are intact, nothing has been disturbed. The front door is still locked from the inside. I continue slowly up the stairs, my heartbeat increasing with each step I take. I try not to think about someone leaping out at me from the guest bedroom or the study. With those lights now on, the whole house is ablaze, except for our bedroom, the one Leo and I used to sleep in. The one where Nina was murdered. I push open the door, snap on the light and peer in. Like the other rooms, it’s empty. And yet. I stand still, trying to work it out. There’s a sort of presence, not a physical one, but something invisible, intangible. Something I can sense, but can’t name. Slamming the door behind me, I hurry downstairs.

  Somehow, I make it through the next few hours. To pass the time, I make several cups of tea and drink them in the sitting room, feeling safer at the front of the house. I want to check the street outside but the thought of seeing someone standing there, watching the house, watching me, is almost more terrifying than thinking they’re inside, so I keep the curtains closed. At five, I crawl back into bed. Dawn will be breaking soon, people will be waking up, getting ready to start the day ahead. Nobody will come now.

  * * *

  When I wake, and think about the previous night, it’s impossible to believe that it was anything but my imagination. Maybe I turned off the lamp myself, without realizing, as I descended into sleep? I walk through the house again, checking the windows and doors for the slightest trace that someone had somehow managed to get in. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

  My positivity takes a knock when I find strands of my hair on the worktop in the kitchen. Added to the ones I found in the bathroom this morning, it points to the thing I fear most, losing my hair again. Some months after my parents and sister died, my hair became noticeably thinner and when Debbie persuaded me to see a doctor, I was diagnosed with Telogen effluvium, brought on by the stress of what had happened. Barely able to eat since the accident, I’d lost a lot of weight. If I didn’t want to aggravate the condition, the doctor told me, I needed to start eating healthy, balanced meals again. My hair eventually recovered, but it was a long process and, at nineteen years of age, hugely distressing.

  The stress I’m feeling now, because of what happened in this house, and Leo not telling me, is nothing to the stress I felt back then. But I’m older now, my hair naturally more fragile. I twist it into a loose knot, secure it with a clip. If it’s not hanging around my shoulders, I won’t be constantly thinking about it.

  In the fridge, I look for something for breakfast and find in the vegetable drawer, along with an overripe avocado, a bottle of expensive champagne, which Leo must have put there before he left yesterday. I’m not sure if it’s for me—if, like the white rose he left me in the hall, he’s trying to make up for everything—or if he put it there to drink when he’s next home.

  There’s a message from him on my phone—Everything OK?—to which I reply Everything fine.

  I go back to my breakfast but my appetite has gone, chased away by my worry over the state of our relationship. I’m glad I’m meeting Ginny for lunch, I desperately need someone to talk to.

  I work for a couple of hours, then leave the house. Edward is in their front garden, tending his roses and, remembering what Tamsin said about me upsetting Lorna with my questions about Nina, I feel suddenly awkward.

  “Hello!” I call, testing the water.

  The smile Edward gives me puts my mind at rest. “Alice! How are you?”

  I walk over the drive toward him. “I’m fine, thank you, I hope you are too?”

  “Yes, yes, I can’t complain. Are you going shopping?”

  “No, I’m meeting a friend for lunch. How is Lorna?”

  “She’s very well. It was nice of you to call by the other day. She gets a bit lonely sometimes.”

  “I hope I didn’t upset her.”

  “Upset her? Why would you have upset her?”

  “I’m afraid I was asking about Nina and Oliver.”

  “Don’t you worry your head. If she was upset, it was about you. She told me you lost your parents and sister?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What a shocking thing to happen. A drunk driver, was it?”

  “No, just a young driver without much experience.”

  “Absolutely terrible for you,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Yes, it was. But it’s in the past now.”

  “It doesn’t do any good to dwell on the past,” he growls and I know, from the fierce look on his face that he’s thinking about his son. He’s of the generation where people don’t talk about their emotions.

  “You’re probably right,” I say.

  He turns away. “Well, I’d best get on.”

  “If you need shopping or anything, I hope you’ll let me know.”

  “Thank you, but we get everything delivered. We don’t really go out anymore.”

  Except that he was meant to be out the other day.

  I nod. “Well, goodbye, Edward. Tell Lorna I’ll see her soon.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ginny is already at Neptune when I arrive. She’s beautifully dressed in a chocolate-brown leather skirt and jacket that I’ve never seen before.

  “Mark’s birthday present to me,” she says, when I mention it.

  “That’s the problem with working from home,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what I put on in the mornings. I’d love something like that but I’d never get any wear out of it.”

  We have a quick catch-up while we study the menus but once we’ve ordered, I find myself confiding my worries to her.

  “I can’t work out if the reason I’m finding it hard to forgive Leo is because our relationship was already doomed before he lied to me,” I say, turning my fork over and over on the white cloth. “When we only saw each other at weekends, we were on our best behavior, not wanting to spoil the time we had together. We didn’t really know each other. It�
�s only now that we’re discovering each other’s faults and weaknesses.”

  “But you love him,” Ginny says.

  “Yes. But I’m not sure that the love I feel for him is strong enough to overcome the negatives.” I look guiltily at her. “That makes me sound horrible, I know.”

  “Not horrible, just honest.”

  “I don’t want to give up on our relationship so I need to find a way forward. It’s just that, for the moment, I seem unable to.” I give her a smile. “Come on, let’s talk about something else.”

  We’re interrupted by the waiter bringing our food over.

  “Something weird happened the other day,” I say, when we’ve finished eating. “You know I told you that Nina admitted to Lorna, the lady who lives next door, that she’d been having an affair? When I mentioned it to Leo, he almost jumped out of his skin.”

  “Even I was surprised when you told me.” Ginny sits back in her chair and places a hand on her stomach. “That was delicious.”

  “Yes, but it was more than surprise. He dropped his glass of wine, it went everywhere and—I don’t know—he just seemed overly flustered.”

  “Strange.” She laughs. “Unless he was the one having an affair with her.”

  “What?” I stare at her and she sits up quickly and reaches across the table for my hand, her two silver bangles jangling together.

  “Alice, I’m joking! Leo didn’t even know Nina.”

  It’s too late, I can’t stop the thought from flying through my mind. “What if he did? What if he did know her?”