Romancing the Soul

by Sarah Tranter

  ‘A little,’ she said, returning her attention to the window. She was talking to George. It was hard not to be honest with him, harder than not being honest with herself, in fact. And he’d probably see right through her.

  Her words tumbled out. ‘All right! I’m cacking myself at the thought of being regressed again, but I have to do it! It’s the only way I can prove that their whole rotten profession is a sham and stop the evil little people from playing games in people’s heads and scaring their victims witless. I fled George. Me! Bitch hack Cassie Silbury! I know there’s nothing in it. Absolutely know it! But—’

  She applied the verbal brakes. There was only so much she could say here before he questioned her sanity. And she’d been doing more than enough of that for herself.

  Recovering some composure, she continued more deliberately. ‘Seeing you regressed, taking it in your stride, being told you were … Casanova or some such, is all I need. Then I’ll be fine. Please George … help me out here.’

  ‘Casanova?’ George spluttered.

  Cassie grinned. She knew George so well and was evidently not completely off form. She needed him distracted. He knew her too and had been frowning all the way through her semi-confession. Given half a chance he’d get to the heart of things, get her to spill all the beans.

  But if everything went according to plan over the next few hours there would be no beans to spill. Then she would hang the evil little people out to dry for having done this to her. If it didn’t go according to plan? She … Anyway, she had some diverting to do.

  ‘You are linked to all your leading ladies.’

  ‘You of all people know not to believe everything you read in the press. I’m fed up with—’ George cut himself off with a curse. ‘Stop changing the subject! I want to know what the hell has happened to make you—’

  ‘You were with Harriet Brioche, Cleopatra to your Antony; Jenny Marks, Juliet to your Romeo—’

  ‘Cassie!’

  ‘Katie Smythe, Cathy to your Heathcliff. Please tell me you aren’t going to be seeing Porsche Sutter-Blythe? I know she’s your Elizabeth, but she’s a complete—!’

  ‘Cassie! Stop speculating on my love life and tell me exactly what’s going on here! I’ve never known you—’ George stopped and narrowed his eyes. ‘Why are you giggling?’

  ‘It’s just that you are still in costume. Did you know that? I don’t think you did. And would Mr Darcy’s trousers, or breeches or whatever they are called, really have been quite so tight?’ She couldn’t help the full-blown laugh, as George looked himself over and started tugging on his coat to restore his modesty.

  Blushing, he muttered, ‘I don’t know why wardrobe keep doing it. As for you, finding amusement in my being in public—’ He looked skywards. ‘Bloody hell! You’ve done it again.’

  Keeping George distracted may have been keeping Cassie’s own mind occupied and providing some amusement to boot, but it wasn’t enough to stop the butterflies in her stomach morphing into pterodactyls as the taxi turned onto Cromwellian Avenue. 198 … 196 … 194. Cassie looked frantically at the road before them. Where was all the damned traffic when you needed it?

  George flung his head back to rest on top of the seat and let out a frustrated sound. ‘You know the concept of past lives is ludicrous. So for you to be freaked out, means something else is—’

  Cassie shamelessly broke in. ‘You should get another manager. I don’t trust Michael. And as for Porsche Sutter-Blythe – people call me a bitch!’

  ‘Whatever they try and do to me,’ George now said, resignation weighing heavily in his voice, ‘it won’t work. I tried hypnosis to give up smoking and they couldn’t get me under. It’s a waste of time …’ He released a long-suffering sigh. ‘But if you really think it will help, then so be it.’

  She would not feel guilty. And he’d be fine, she’d make sure of it. ‘I really do appreciate this George. More than I can possibly say.’

  ‘I know. And that’s what worries me.’

  Chapter Four

  Rachael glanced up from her position behind the small reception desk and nearly dropped the phone from her ear. Susie continued her conversation, unaware of Rachael’s distraction.

  ‘Rach? Come on! Lemon meringue pie or triple chocolate fudge cake? Rach? I’ve had a seriously bad day and am not going to spend all evening in the supermarket!’

  ‘I’ll call you back,’ Rachael murmured, blindly lowering the phone. She couldn’t believe who appeared to be heading her way. The profanities coming from the phone indicated that she’d failed to fit handset to phone-housing in her blind fumblings. She rapidly gave it the necessary attention, finally disconnecting Susie.

  Looking back up to face the woman now at the desk, Rachael managed to croak out, with a forced over-wide smile, ‘How may I help you?’

  She couldn’t stop staring at the man standing a few paces behind the woman, currently looking fixedly at his feet. It couldn’t be …

  ‘Cassie Smith. Five o’clock appointment with Rachael Jones.’

  The man behind raised both his head and an eyebrow, and seemed to shift awkwardly. It was George Silbury! It definitely was. And … Rachael gulped. Those breeches looked like they had been melted onto him. They looked especially good with the knee-high black boots. Totally mind-bogglingly gorgeous in fact, she deduced, while her roving eyes continued up his long muscular legs. She deliberately skirted over his crotch because that so wouldn’t be right, particularly with him in those breeches, but she let them travel over his evidently flat stomach, skim over his broad chest and continue up to his beautifully chiselled face, and the silkiest shoulder-length dark brown hair she had ever seen. And he was blushing. Oh bless.

  Rachael reluctantly refocused on the woman in front of her, now impatiently tapping her false fingernails on the desk. Clearing her throat, she proceeded to say, as professionally as she could, ‘Please take a seat.’ She then leapt from her own, just managing to put the brakes on her sprint. She took a deep breath and attempted a more appropriate exit, involving the briskest walking she could manage. She probably looked as ridiculous as those marathon walkers you sometimes see on the news; only more so since she was in heels.

  She comforted herself with the knowledge: this was meant to be.

  Cassie turned from her position at the desk and smirked at George. ‘It’s the breeches, sweetie. The poor girl had no idea where to look.’

  George shifted his coat again and tried to nonchalantly put his hands in his pockets. But they were too tight to even do that. Ignoring Cassie’s chuckles, he let out an exasperated sound and collapsed onto one of the soft chairs distributed around two edges of the reception room.

  It all looked very cosy – warm gold and ochre with accents of red and green – not at all like a waiting room. It was a shame he wasn’t feeling cosy. He glanced at his sister. She looked pale … and scared. She wasn’t telling him everything. ‘Am I completely wasting my time here, or are you going to start talking?’

  ‘Oh look, it’s raining again. Pouring in fact,’ Cassie exclaimed, moving quickly to the window. There, she raised a hand to the glass and pointedly kept her back to him. ‘Your timing for returning to England was really off when you think what the weather must be like in LA right now.’

  George sighed, leant back in his chair, and banged the back of his head repeatedly against the top of the soft padded seat.

  ‘Susie! Susie!’ Rachael hissed into her mobile phone. She stood in her consulting room, peeking through the gap in the door that afforded her a view of the two occupants of her reception area.

  ‘Speak up! I can hardly hear you. Why are you hissing? I’ve given up on the supermarket and I’m coming home. If you can’t be bothered to—’

  ‘Listen to me. This is really, really important.’

  ‘Can you please stop hissing? Actu
ally … is it you or me? It could be me. There seems to be some kind of echo. It could be the line or I may—’

  ‘Will you just shut up for one minute?’ Rachael immediately scuttled backwards. Her raised voice had resulted in raised eyes in the reception area. Ignoring Susie’s rant she proceeded from her new position in the corner of the room, farthest from the door. ‘You have to listen to me. You would not—’ Rachael stopped. She could hardly tell Susie who was sat in her reception room. Not if she was going to get her here. And she had to get her here. George Silbury was here – of all places! There was nothing for it. ‘I’m not feeling good and I really need you here now.’

  ‘Rach? Is that why you sound like that? Oh God! What’s wrong?’

  ‘Please Suse. Just get here as soon as you can.’ Groan. ‘I’m in my consulting rooms. I don’t think I can make it upstairs to the flat on my own.’ She added a moan for good measure.

  ‘Rach? Ra—’

  Rachael hung up her mobile and dumped it on her desk. Having second thoughts, she retrieved it, turned it off, and then placed it back on her desk with a little pat. If Susie had any questions, she could ask them right here.

  Rachael strolled purposefully to the reception area. She couldn’t get over the coincidence … No, it wasn’t coincidence. Rachael didn’t believe in coincidence. It was Fate. And she couldn’t wait to see how things would play out.

  ‘Ms Smith. I’m Rachael Jones. If you’d like to come this way?’

  ‘My brother’s coming along too if that’s acceptable.’ It was more a statement than a question.

  ‘That’s not a problem.’ Rachael used her most professional of voices, wore her most professional of smiles as she bemusedly watched her client attempt to pull George Silbury from his seat. It was all very bizarre … until realisation dawned. ‘I never considered the problems men had with the clothes of the day. I know women struggled with corsets …’

  That comment trailed away for a moment as Rachael experienced an unexpected sensation. She shot a glance at Cassie, but now really wasn’t the time to sort through what her head was trying to send her way. Frowning, Rachael attempted to refocus. Not that difficult when it was such a pleasant refocus. ‘I never stopped to think how tight breeches might …’ She’d never seen a man look so good in breeches. Actually that wasn’t quite true, but she was getting distracted again. She shook her head to clear it. ‘How tight breeches might … I mean how difficult must it have been to get on a horse if they couldn’t even …?’

  Cassie snorted, while George, having risen abruptly to his feet, looked menacingly at his sister. Through gritted teeth, he ground out, ‘It wasn’t the breeches keeping me in the chair. It was me attempting to get answers from a sister who is—’

  ‘Come on!’ Cassie interrupted, propelling him forward. ‘Consulting room.’

  Susie bundled her mobile into her pocket, telling herself not to panic. Rachael would be fine. It was probably a migraine or … Why wasn’t she able to talk properly? Taking in the busy high street she gauged she was probably fifteen minutes away. At this time of day it was quicker by foot than taxi.

  Just how bad was Rachael? The more she thought about it, the more she worried. What if …? No, she told herself firmly. If she’d been choking, she wouldn’t have been able to talk. But would she have been able to hiss? Should she call 999? Trying to instil calm, Susie reminded herself Rachael had called her. If she’d been that bad, she would have called 999 herself … Wouldn’t she?

  Susie ditched the few bags of groceries she’d bothered to purchase, repositioned her handbag so it was on her back, and ran.

  ‘I don’t mind regressing your brother,’ Rachael told Cassie, sounding surprisingly calm. She was going to be regressing George Silbury! ‘You’re the last session of the day, so overrunning isn’t a problem …’ She paused as she looked over at the delectable man in question. He was standing with his arms crossed, frowning at his sister. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. Clearing her throat, she said, ‘Are you quite sure though, your brother wishes to be regressed? It’s very important he’s relaxed and happy to do this.’

  ‘Of course I’ll do it.’ George sighed, raising both arms in the air as if in surrender. He then marched over to the black leather couch in front of the window. ‘I rashly said I’d do anything, so here I am. You’ve not got a cat in hell’s chance of getting me under though, but let’s get this over with. And Cassie? Once we’re out of here, you are going to talk to me!’

  Susie was completely and utterly drenched. She would be, even if it wasn’t pissing it down with rain, she thought disgustedly to herself. Sweat escaped her hot, puffing body in copious amounts. And it was no good. She had to stop. Bending down, with hands on knees, she firmly told herself not to die. Taking in air through ragged, noisy gasps, she attempted to ignore the pulsing pain in her head. She forced herself into action again; staggering now, rather than sprinting. Not that she was sure she had ever started out at a sprint. That had been the instruction her brain sent her body but … God, she felt bad.

  Throwing herself across the road, dodging between stationary traffic, Susie wished for the millionth time that she was in shape. If only she had—

  ‘Accckkkkk!’

  Susie was forced to fling herself back to prevent being mown down by a motorbike zooming past the traffic on the inside. If her already flat-out heart was capable of further racing, it would have done so.

  She was still digesting the close call when the deluge hit her. After spitting out that which had entered her mouth, she took in the sludgy, scum-covered filth bubbling up from the overflowing storm-drain the motorbike had roared through.

  For Rachael …

  ‘Is he under?’ Cassie scrawled onto the page with a shaking hand. She now held up her notebook and waved it to attract Rachael Jones’s attention. She lowered her suddenly heavy arms, following the thumbs up.

  This was a terrible idea. Cassie wondered what had ever possessed her to get George regressed? She should have just scrapped the story, admitted defeat – had herself sectioned – because nothing could be worth this. What if it had been him? What if they had been brother and sister in the past? What if she had destroyed him … them, and then …? She lowered her head to her hands. George was George. He had never been Freddie. Freddie had never existed. There was No. Such. Thing. As. Past. Lives.

  ‘George. I’d like you to close that door you’ve just walked through,’ Rachael instructed serenely to his reclining form upon the couch. ‘Now turn back around. Take your time, allow yourself to acclimatise. When you are ready, could you describe to me what you see?’

  Silence, although the sound of Cassie’s own beating heart in her ears was thunderous. That door. It had been in a corridor full of them but that one had had almost painfully bright light behind it, escaping around its edges. It had almost pulsed as it compelled her to select and open it.

  ‘Take your time … All in your own time …’

  More excruciating silence. Cassie had found herself drawn to what she found behind it, swept along. Powerless to change direction, to stop what she saw herself doing. Dreading where it would lead, but innately knowing.

  She felt nauseous now, but the physical sensation helped bring her to some sense. It had not been real. And she would intervene the moment any unacceptable or leading questions were asked of George. She was not going to allow them to screw him up as well.

  ‘Do you feel able to share with me what you are experiencing, George?’ Rachael’s quiet, patient voice intruded. ‘What do you see around you? Perhaps you are doing something. Or perhaps there are sensations you are feeling?’

  There was a raspy sound from the couch. Cassie stared at George, her nausea stepping up a notch. But silence returned. Followed moments later by another such raspy sound. And then more silence.

  It almost sounded like �
��? No way! ‘You’ll never get me under,’ Cassie mimicked in her head as another sound, suspiciously like a snore, was emitted. Well George, you seem pretty under to me! But the relief Cassie felt at this turn of events was immeasurable.

  ‘Did he just snore?’ Cassie scribbled on her notebook, holding her message up high, on now feather-light arms. Rachael’s attention seemed to be trained on George though.

  ‘When you are ready you can—’

  Rachael’s calm hushed words abruptly halted, and Cassie simultaneously screamed. An almighty crash had reverberated around the room.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Crap!’ Rachael released with her breath. It wasn’t that Susie had entered the room so dramatically, sending the door crashing and rebounding into and off the wall it was flung against, but the fact she had staggered into the room and looked …

  Rachael wanted to weep. How was that possible? Susie looked worse than she’d initially given her credit for. Half-drowned … but in what looked to have been the filth of the Thames at low tide.

  ‘I’m here, Rach,’ Susie wheezed, bent double and gasping for air as she shrugged off her handbag. ‘Barely, but I’m here. Are you okay? I think I might call 999 anyway.’

  How could this have been allowed to happen? Rachael had had such a good feeling. One of those ‘ring-a-ding-ding Fate is doing his thing’ feelings.

  Well things could still be salvaged. She evidently needed to get Susie out of here. She’d get her to the flat upstairs; hosed down; clothes, hair, make-up …

  ‘Are you there?’ Susie was more audible now, but sounding seriously worried. ‘Please be alive. Talk to me!’

  Leaping from her seat by the couch, Rachael let out a horrified gasp and physically froze.

  No. No. No. No. This wasn’t happening. He had not just done that. He was out for the count and deeply so, having not reacted to the earlier crash. And she had definitely told him the eye stuff. Your eyelids are feeling so heavy you won’t be able to open them. She distinctly remembered it. So … so …