Lydia nods.
‘I want you to go somewhere you can talk, so don’t choose the cinema or anywhere like that. Pick a nice restaurant, stay there for a couple of hours at least, and talk to each other. Some subjects are off limits: work, the kids, the house, money. Try to avoid mentioning anything that’s been said during this session as well, okay?’
‘There’ll be nothing left to talk about,’ Josh says.
‘You’ll be surprised what you find when you need to look for it, trust me. Is it a deal?’
‘Deal,’ Lydia says.
Josh nods. He stands from the sofa and reaches out a hand to me. ‘Thank you.’
When I take his hand, his fingers squeeze around mine, gently at first and then a little too tightly, his fingertips digging into the palm of my hand. I look up at him, taken by surprise. Our eyes meet, and he smiles; drops my hand as though the moment was completely normal; as though it hasn’t happened at all but is merely my imagination. I look away, wondering if Lydia has noticed the awkward exchange.
‘See you next week,’ he says.
I turn to Lydia. ‘I’ll get your coats for you.’
They follow me through to the hallway and I retrieve their jackets from the cupboard beneath the stairs. When I turn back to them, Josh’s attention is on the line of photographs that need to be straightened. He turns and sees me watching him, his face impassive as he walks towards me and reaches for the door handle. He says nothing as he passes me, so I hand the coats to Lydia. He lets himself out of the house and waits for her on the front step, the rain having finally yielded to a dry sky and made way for a struggling strip of blue that is attempting to push through the grey.
Lydia picks up the umbrella they left near the front door and puts her other hand on my arm, offering me a small smile. ‘Thank you for today.’
‘My pleasure,’ I tell her. ‘Take care.’
As I close the door behind them, I wonder why I added that, as though I am already sure that for one reason or another she might need to.
I hear my mobile ringtone coming from the kitchen, so I head back down the hallway, trying my best to ignore the photographs and the unsettling feeling they inexplicably evoke. Sienna’s name is lit up on the screen of my phone.
‘Hi, Karen,’ she says. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’
‘Of course not,’ I tell her, reassured at the sound of her voice. Sean’s daughter sounds so much like him, the same soft lilt in her vowels. Though she has lived in Australia for over two years now, her accent remains untouched. ‘It’s lovely to hear from you.’ I glance at the clock on the far wall. ‘It must be late there?’
‘Just past eleven. I’ve been meaning to call you for days now, but the kids have a way of putting a stop to my plans. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’ A feeling I know I probably shouldn’t allow myself to have punches me in the gut, a short, sharp jab that is there and then gone. This is a pity call, one that will ease her conscience once it’s over and done with, out of the way for the next month or so. I feel uncharitable for thinking it – Sienna is a kind young woman, well-meaning – but I know she is only calling to check I’m still managing to hold things together.
Which I am, most of the time.
‘So how are things?’ I ask her. ‘Is the baby sleeping any better?’
She laughs. ‘No. I think he might be a vampire.’
‘How much maternity leave do you have left?’
‘Only another few weeks. Silly, isn’t it? I’ve been looking forward to going back, but now that it’s creeping closer, I’m dreading leaving him. Mum guilt.’ She laughs again, but the sound is short-lived and is followed by an awkward silence. ‘How are things at your end?’ she asks. ‘Work busy?’
‘Not too bad. I could probably take on a few more clients, but I’ve got enough for the time being.’
I think about Lydia and Josh, how odd they seemed and how uncomfortable he made me feel. I glance into the hallway, my eyes darting along the row of disturbed frames. Uncertainty creeps through me like a chill, though I know there is no rational reason for it. Despite my mind’s attempts to fight it, I am taken back to another place, another time.
I am overthinking things, allowing my imagination to run away from me. Nevertheless, I find myself verbalising my disjointed thoughts to Sienna, letting them escape into the air as though holding them inside me will allow them to fester and grow.
‘Actually, I’ve just had a first session with a new couple. They’re nothing unusual on paper, thirty-something, two kids, normal sort of marital problems, but …’
My sentence trails into silence as I realise that I have no way of explaining this to Sienna. I have no way of explaining it to anyone, not in any way that wouldn’t make me sound unbalanced. How can I explain something that makes no sense to me?
‘But …?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I admit. ‘He just … he reminded me a bit of someone, that’s all.’
There is silence for a moment. Sienna is more than likely reciting Damien’s name in her head, though she won’t bring herself to say it aloud. Even if she did, our thoughts would lie with different people.
‘Do you think someone’s in danger?’ she asks.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say again. ‘It’s too early to tell.’ I linger over my next sentence, uncertain whether it should be aired. ‘Do you remember what happened?’ I ask, alluding to a time I don’t want to put into words. ‘You were just a teenager at the time, I know, but do you remember what I did?’
‘You didn’t do anything, Karen. It wasn’t your fault.’
Her words are well-intentioned and the sincerity in her tone is almost convincing, but I’m filled with a sadness that hurts my chest. Sienna is so loving, so kind, and – where this is concerned – so wrong.
‘What’s brought all this back?’ she asks.
It’s never gone away, I think, though I don’t tell her this. I can’t. She is happy now, living the life she deserves; it isn’t fair to burden her with something that has nothing to do with her.
‘I’m just being silly,’ I say, trying to make my tone as breezy as possible.
‘You’re a good person, Karen. You were a brilliant wife to my father and you’re a wonderful counsellor, just remember that. Think of all the people you’ve helped over the years.’
Her words cut through my chest, stealing my breath. ‘Thank you,’ I say quickly. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, my next clients will be here soon.’
I’m lying to her; my next clients aren’t due for another couple of hours. It’s easier for us both this way: she doesn’t have to witness my neuroses, and I don’t have to be embarrassed by their exposure.
‘Okay, but look, Karen, any time you need me, please just call, okay?’
I tell her I will, though I know the promise is made lightly. When she ends the call, I put my mobile back on the worktop and go out into the hallway, where I straighten each of the eight photographs in turn.
My life is ordered, structured, and that’s how it needs to stay.
Two
Josh
He hated the room within moments of entering it for the first time, and it fails to show any signs of improvement during their second visit. He sees the pride Karen Fisher takes in the atmosphere she thinks she has created here, and he pities her for her self-delusion. The place is everything marriage so often seems to him to be, showy and misleading, furnished with glossy aesthetics that attempt to distract from the blandness that sits at its core.
Karen has gone to make tea again, her little ritual allowing him time to contemplate the long hour that stretches ahead of them.
‘Please try at least to look as though you want to be here,’ Lydia says.
‘I don’t want to be here,’ he tells her.
‘I can’t do this on my own. I need you.’
The plea sounds so pathetic, her voice so whiny, that it sends a ripple of irritation through him. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
There was laughter. She would deny it now, but he knows it existed.
Karen enters the room a moment later, carrying the tea tray. She puts it on the coffee table before reaching for the teapot and pouring Lydia a cup.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like one, Josh?’
He shakes his head.
She adds milk to her own tea and stirs it, the tinkling of the teaspoon against the side of the cup sounding like the announcement of a speech at a wedding breakfast.
‘I think we should talk about what’s happened since the first session,’ she says. ‘How have things been between you?’
‘Nothing’s changed.’ He pushes the sleeves of his sweater up his arms. The heating is on – somewhere in the hallway he can hear the clunk of a radiator that needs bleeding – but neither woman seems to feel the warmth that is filling the room and making him feel sticky beneath the stupid shirt he is wearing. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t expect it to after just one session, obviously.’
‘Did the two of you go out somewhere for the evening, somewhere you could talk?’
‘We went for dinner.’
‘Great. Where did you go?’
‘There’s a new restaurant opened not far from us. Italian.’
‘And how was it?’
‘Great. I had lasagne.’ He holds Karen’s gaze, wondering what she makes of him so far. He knows he has been flippant; he often finds it hard to be anything else. ‘We talked about what we’d done that day,’ he says. ‘That took all of five minutes. It all got a bit boring after that.’
‘And what had you done that day?’ Karen asks.
‘Work, but we weren’t supposed to speak about that, were we? We had to in the end – there was nothing else to talk about. It was all pretty tedious stuff.’
‘I can’t imagine for a moment that your job is tedious. I’m sure Lydia must find it interesting.’
‘Do you?’ he asks, turning to her. ‘Do you find it interesting, Lydia?’ He stretches her name, turning it into a sneer. Karen’s eyes haven’t left his face; he feels her stare, heavy and concentrated, studying him.
‘Of course I do. I’m always interested in your day; you just never ask about mine.’
‘I did ask,’ he defends himself. ‘You just didn’t give much of an answer.’
‘What was there to say? Every day is much the same for me.’
‘And that’s my fault?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You didn’t need to.’
‘This is what he doesn’t get,’ Lydia says, turning to Karen. ‘He keeps using the word “boring”, but that’s what my life is.’
‘Must be awful for you,’ Josh drawls, rolling his eyes. ‘Nice house, plenty of money, all that free time to do whatever you want with. What a nightmare you’re living, you poor thing.’
‘Have you returned to work since the children have been at school?’ Karen asks, ignoring his comments.
Lydia shakes her head. ‘It’s so hard getting back into employment after time off. Most employers don’t take you seriously if you’ve had more than nine months off for maternity leave, and even then it isn’t easy. It’s impossible to compete with anyone younger and more experienced.’
‘Excuses,’ Josh mutters.
‘It’s not an excuse, it’s a fact. I’m not that employable.’
‘You don’t want to be employable, though, do you? Why work when you can continue to be a kept woman?’
The look that is shared between them is prolonged and uncomfortable.
‘Let’s go back to the restaurant,’ Karen suggests, apparently keen to cut through the mounting tension.
‘Which bit?’
‘After you’d each talked about your day, what happened then?’
‘Well,’ Josh says. ‘Things just got increasingly awkward after that.’
‘What made it awkward?’
An image flits through his brain, fleeting yet as vivid as the sofa he now sits on. Karen is at his feet, lifeless, her brain spilling in bloody tendrils from an open wound that has been carved into the back of her head by his own hand.
‘Are you okay, Josh?’ Karen asks.
He has self-diagnosed these pictures that often snap into his mind, moving quickly and in stages like those flip books that he used to draw when he was a child: a man running across the pages until a cliff edge appears, and then splat, a smear of red ink on the final sheet of white. Intrusive thoughts: he has read about them in psychology magazines, in articles that describe exactly what he experiences and how these images make him feel; how, on his worst days, he is frightened of himself and what he might be capable of. ‘I’m fine,’ he lies.
‘You were going to tell me what made the evening at the restaurant awkward for you,’ Karen reminds him.
‘I just don’t know what she wants from me,’ he says, returning to the conversation and folding his arms across his chest. ‘Well, I do know … I just don’t know if I can give it to her. I don’t know if I want to.’
He feels Karen’s eyes upon him as she wonders about the meaning of his comments.
‘What do you think Lydia wants from you? What can’t you give her?’
‘She expects me to agree with her on everything, that’s the problem. She likes to argue with me a lot, particularly when things don’t go her way. That’s what happened at the restaurant. I don’t need her to tell me what I should be thinking. You don’t get it, do you?’ he says, his words thrown across the room. ‘I’ve spent years trying to please you, going along with everything just to keep you happy, but coming here and doing this, I’m still not sure it’s right. I’m sorry,’ he says, as he watches her expression change. ‘I’m just saying how I feel. Why can’t you be happy just to live your life? Why do you always have to go over and over the past? It’s like a scab,’ he says casually, looking back to Karen. ‘She keeps picking away at it until she makes it bleed.’
‘“Expects me to agree with her on everything”,’ Karen repeats. ‘What do you mean by that? Can you be more specific?’
He exhales heavily, trying to expel the tension. He needs to be calm and in control here. ‘Just day-to-day things,’ he says, waving a hand to swipe the question to one side. ‘You know.’
Karen’s face says his answer isn’t enough. ‘You mention the past. What is it you think Lydia wants to keep going back over?’
‘It’s hard to explain. She wants me to see the world the way she does, but I can’t. I won’t. She might learn one day that things would be a lot easier for her if she argued with me less.’
He wants to know what Karen is thinking. He imagines tapping into her head, cracking it like an egg with a teaspoon and watching the blood spill like red yolk down the fragile shell of her face.
‘Can you give me an example, Josh?’ she asks.
He sits forward, puts his elbows on his knees and rests his chin in his hands. He is losing himself in this room and he knows he can’t afford to let that happen.
‘Let’s talk about what really happened in the restaurant,’ he suggests, avoiding a direct answer to Karen’s question.
‘What happened in the restaurant?’ Lydia repeats, glancing nervously at Karen.
He raises an eyebrow, knowing no matter how poor her memory is she can’t possibly have forgotten this. ‘At the weekend,’ he says slowly, stretching the syllables as though talking to a wayward and disobedient child. ‘You know … what you did. How you behaved. It was supposed to be a nice evening, wasn’t it?’ But everything gets ruined when you’ve had a drink.’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she says, looking imploringly at the counsellor. She sips the tea as though it is a medication for her nerves before balancing the cup on her bony knee, all the while avoiding making eye contact with him. ‘I felt so uncomfortable there.’
‘What made you feel uncomfortable?’
God, he thinks, all the woman does is ask bloody questions: question after question, each one taking them round in incessant circles that lead nowhere. Is this how it works, that eventually she asks enough questions to make a couple decide that they would rather endure one another than face having to sit in this room for yet another hour of their sorry lives?
‘It’s what he does,’ she says, her voice small and pathetic. ‘He makes me feel uncomfortable whenever we go anywhere. That’s why I stopped going out. That’s why I drink,’ she adds.
He feels like getting up from the sofa to give her a standing ovation.
‘I know I’ve got a problem, okay?’ she says, finally meeting his eye. ‘But have you ever asked yourself why that might be?’
‘It’s my fault?’
‘This is the problem,’ she says, speaking to Karen, her voice lowered to little more than a whisper. ‘He never sees any fault in anything he does. He never thinks he’s to blame for anything – it’s always my fault.’
‘Let’s slow things down a minute,’ Karen says, raising a hand in the way a schoolteacher might. ‘Josh, if we could come back to you for a moment. You said you feel that Lydia wants you to see the world the way she does. Could you expand on that?’
‘The thing with Lydia,’ he says, tilting his head to one side and delivering his words in a mocking, sing-song voice he knows will infuriate her, ‘is she likes to have things her own way. She’s always been the same.’ He holds her gaze, drinking in the look she is giving him. That look. ‘She can’t seem to accept that she doesn’t need to get her own way all the time.’
The Divorce: A gripping psychological thriller with a fantastic twist Page 4