‘Are you okay?’ I ask her.
She glances at Josh’s back, making sure his attention is elsewhere.
‘Yes,’ she says, but she shakes her head, her eyes widened and pleading with me.
I reach down and rest my fingers on her cold hand, briefly, just long enough for her to understand that I know what is going on here.
‘I’ll just get something …’ I gesture to the tea stains on the carpet, and she looks at me and nods. She knows what I am really asking: whether it’s okay for me to leave her alone with him. I go to the doorway and turn back. I need to establish some boundaries. Though I’m sure he didn’t intend to knock the table and spill the drink, Josh’s behaviour today has been completely unacceptable. He has shown a capability for violence; one I now feel certain isn’t so well controlled within the privacy of his own home.
I hear Sean’s voice in my ear, telling me to stop this now.
‘If you want these sessions to continue,’ I say to Josh, ‘you need to control your reactions. I will not tolerate such behaviour in my home, do you understand me? You show respect, or you leave.’
It took me wasted years to discover that when you challenge a bully head on, they very often back down. The reaction is so unexpected that it catches them off guard and they have no other response to it. I wish I had learned this earlier in life, but what I failed to recognise for myself back then, I am now hopefully able to show to others. That’s why I cannot end this here. No matter how loudly I hear Sean’s voice drop warnings in my ear, I will not allow Lydia to be the woman who sits in the corner and accepts whatever is thrown at her.
If I abandon this woman now, the past has been wasted and I have learned nothing from it.
He must hear the shake in my voice, but if he does, he shows no signs of it. He turns to me and gestures to the table. ‘I didn’t mean …’ His sentence fades away and I notice that there is no apology, either to me or to his wife. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ he adds, as if ignorance excuses everything.
‘Whatever it was,’ I say, ‘it doesn’t happen again.’
I wait, my eyes meeting his and holding his attention long enough for him to challenge me if he chooses to. He doesn’t. Instead, he goes to the sofa and sits down, lowering his head so that he doesn’t have to make further eye contact with me or look at Lydia.
‘I’ll just get something to clear that up with.’
When I leave the room, I wait for a moment in the hallway. They probably realise this time that I am here and that I’m waiting to listen to what they say, but if Josh is aware of my presence just outside the door, it doesn’t stop him from speaking.
‘Well at least we know now what you really think.’
I wait for Lydia to say something in response, but she doesn’t speak. She just sobs again, the sound stifled perhaps behind the tissue she was still clutching when I left the room, and I hear Josh mumble something that I am unable to make out.
I wonder if this couple would have stayed together if they hadn’t had children; if she hadn’t become pregnant so soon after meeting him. Though I realise things are often different behind closed doors, it seems there is a divide in the house between James and his mother, and Lucy and her father, and at some point it is likely that at least one of the parents initiated this divide in a bid to seek some kind of ascendancy over the other. It is easy for me to believe I would never have used my own child in this way, but I know it’s not as easy as that. It would be a simple judgement based on a hope that I would get things right, but I have got so many things in my life so wrong that I know the assumption is naïve.
The image of Christopher, tiny and lifeless in my hands, snaps before my eyes, there and then gone again. It has the same effect on me now as it did all those years ago, emptying me of everything, hollowing me from inside. He would be not much younger than Josh, perhaps married now and with children of his own. How would I feel if he had grown up to be the kind of man who patronises and belittles the person he professes to love? Would I have blamed myself, or would I have held his father responsible for all that he had become?
When I return to the room, I glance at Josh and see the frustration that still plays out on his tautened features. My thoughts stray in a different direction, one I try to avoid returning to. I wonder whether Lydia realised when she met Josh that he had issues with his anger, or if it was something only revealed to her after they were married. It is easy to be misled by someone if the timing is right and they are the kind of person who can spot vulnerability and make it their target. I know only too well how a kind word, a soft touch and the promise of happy-ever-after can overshadow any flickers of doubt that might spark in the darkened corners the mind doesn’t want to reach. Had I looked hard enough sooner, the signs of what Damien Hunter really was were there all along. I chose not to see them, believing him every time he said he would change and that things would be different.
No one else makes me like this.
I scrub at the carpet with the wet soapy cloth I brought back with me from the kitchen, trying not to let the silence that has settled over the room drag me back to that place. No matter how hard I rub, it isn’t enough to keep me here. I hear those words spoken again in my head as clearly as though they were uttered just moments ago, and I am taken back to that day; to that hospital trolley and those awful incessant sounds: the bleeping of monitors somewhere along the corridor, the distorted distant voices of a television on another ward, the ringing in my ears that was so loud it was painful. And then the nurse’s words.
I really am so sorry.
I close my eyes, trying to push the image of Christopher to a place where I can keep him safe. I want to think of him, but not like that; in my mind, he is grown now, living away as Sienna is. He is with his family, happy and successful.
There’s nothing more we can do now.
In that moment, the nurse was the person I was most angry with. Was she really sorry? How could she possibly be sorry enough when she had no idea what or how I was feeling? My child had been beaten inside me, stolen away by his own father before I had a chance to witness the rise and fall of his breathing body. And why wasn’t this woman doing anything to help? She was a nurse, wasn’t she? She was supposed to make things better; she was supposed to save lives. She was supposed to save his.
‘I’m going to end this session here,’ I say, my head reeling with dizziness as I stand. ‘I’ll refund you the half an hour.’
‘Must you?’ Lydia asks, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘End the session, I mean?’
Josh is sitting silently on the sofa, looking down at the carpet between his feet like a sulking child. It occurs to me that his behaviour appears surprising considering his profession, although I should know better than to make judgements based on career choices and qualifications. Some of history’s most notorious criminal minds were well-educated, successful members of society, able to hide their true selves behind a facade of respectability, and whatever Josh appears to be within these four walls, there is no reason why the rest of the world shouldn’t see a completely different man. It wouldn’t be the first time it has happened.
Just how much suffering does Lydia endure behind closed doors?
I glance at them both. It doesn’t matter how much they might pay me for my time: I won’t be made to feel like this in my own home.
‘I don’t think anything more can be achieved today.’
‘What about next week?’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say non-committally.
With her husband’s attention removed from us both, Lydia meets my gaze. Her eyes are glassy, as though she is on the brink of tears. She holds contact for longer than is comfortable, and just as I’m about to turn away, her mouth moves, her lips forming the shape of words that can’t possibly be read as anything else.
Help me.
I feel a wave of nausea roll in my stomach; taste a shock of bitter bile at the back of my throat. Something turns in my brain, an image I h
ave seen so often yet have tried so hard to push away, and I am almost grateful for the interruption from Josh, who stands and presses his fingertips against his closed eyes.
‘I’m sorry about today. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.’
It is a solid performance: he almost sounds as though he is genuinely remorseful. But I have seen and heard enough to mistrust him. He is going to have to work hard to convince me that he is anything other than a bully. I have known plenty of people like him before: I have grown up with them, worked alongside them; married them. I know what Josh Green is.
After what I have just seen, I know that I am needed. I believe that Lydia is desperate for my help; she’s just waiting for an opportunity to tell me so.
After the two of them leave, I go to the kitchen to fetch my mobile phone. I unlock it before getting a glass of water and two paracetamol, which I swallow despite knowing they will do little to ease my headache. It is within me, this sickness – there is no painkiller in the world powerful enough to erase it or disguise its existence. I glance at my phone screen, seeing a notification of two unread emails. The first is a circular from a department store I have previously ordered clothing from, and I delete it without opening. The second email has no title and is from an address I don’t recognise: [email protected].
I open it, my heart swelling in my chest when I read the eight words that have been delivered.
How do you sleep at night, you bitch?
The glass of water I’m still holding in my other hand slides from between my fingers and smashes on the tiled floor. The sound pierces the silence that has swallowed the room. Ignoring the shards of broken glass at my feet, I scroll the message up and down, but there is nothing more to it than this. Once again, I feel bile rise in the back of my throat. Leaving my phone on the kitchen worktop and the broken glass on the floor, I go upstairs to my bedroom, pull the curtains closed and lie down on the bed. The searing headache that throbs at my temples tightens, and I stare at the ceiling as I wait for the tablets to kick in.
The words of the email have stamped themselves upon my brain, and though I try to find a way to erase them, they remain fixed there, taunting me. Their irony doesn’t escape me. I close my eyes, try to nap, but there is no peace to be found. Sienna’s assurances circle my head, echoing in my ears. I am a good person, I tell myself. I am a good counsellor.
But no matter how many times I hear the words, I can’t believe in them.
I go downstairs and return to the kitchen, retrieving my phone. Before I have a chance to change my mind, I search for Sienna’s number, calling her and praying that she will answer. She is the closest thing I have to a family; she understands me better than anyone else does. Though I have acquaintances in London, there is no one I would describe as a friend. After Sean died, I isolated myself from the world, and there were few people who persisted in waiting for me to return to it.
Sienna answers after a few rings, her voice hushed. I remember the time difference; it is past eleven p.m. in Australia.
‘Sorry, have I woken you?’
‘Ha,’ she says, whispering the sound. ‘I’d have to be asleep to be woken up, wouldn’t I?’
‘Baby still not settling?’
‘I’ve just got him off. He’s been screaming all evening. Luckily I left my phone in the bathroom.’
‘Sorry. I hope I’ve not disturbed him. Look, we’ll chat another time if now’s not good for you.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says. ‘Hang on.’
I wait a few moments until she lets me know she is now downstairs and able to talk in something more than a whisper.
‘You sound tired,’ I say.
‘It’s not for ever,’ she says, with typically glass-half-full optimism. She was five years old when I met Sean, and she has always been this way. She never sees limits, only obstacles to overcome, finding challenges where many would only see problems. She faced her father’s cancer diagnosis with stoicism, focusing on keeping him as positive as possible, rarely speaking of her own feelings or how his deteriorating health was affecting her. ‘Is everything okay, Karen?’
I think of the email, of how eight simple words have had the power to throw me so forcibly off balance. I think of Josh Green, and how his narcissism has brought my past back into my home. Sean fills my being, fills this room; his voice resounds inside my head, trying to reassure me that everything is all right.
No, I want to tell Sienna. Everything is not okay.
Instead I find myself saying, ‘Everything’s fine. I just wanted to see how you’re all getting on.’
She is happy, and who am I to mar that happiness for her? It’s just an email – it has probably been sent to the wrong address by mistake, or is the result of some random prank, and I’m thinking too deeply into things, as I know I am sometimes prone to do. Sienna is on the other side of the world, enjoying a beautiful life with her beautiful young family. Even if something was amiss here, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. It would be selfish of me to burden her, and what would I be burdening her with exactly? Only my own insecurities, my own overactive imagination.
She talks for a while about the kids, and though I love to hear her speak about them, I find myself unable to focus on her words. My thoughts are elsewhere, trapped in a different room, caught up in a different life.
‘Are you okay after … you know. What you mentioned last time we spoke. That couple, have you seen them again?’
‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘Everything’s fine, just me being silly. You know what my imagination’s like … runs away from me at times.’
‘You sure?’ she says, her tone suggesting she doesn’t believe me.
‘Positive. I look too much into things.’
‘Well, there are worse things to be guilty of,’ she says lightly.
Her words, though meant in one way, ring in my ears with the sound of something very different. As though realising the impact they have had, Sienna clears her throat.
‘Anyway, when are you coming to see us?’ she asks, keen to change the subject.
‘Soon,’ I say, as I have promised countless times already. ‘I can’t wait to see you all.’
But I know I am probably lying to her. I am not her mother; not her children’s grandmother. They have someone else who fills those roles.
‘I should let you get some sleep while you’ve got five minutes’ peace,’ I tell her. ‘Give the kids a cuddle from me in the morning.’
‘I will do. Take care, Karen.’
I end the call and put my mobile on the breakfast bar in front of me. The fridge hums in the silence of the kitchen, and I have never felt more alone.
Five
Josh
He doesn’t want to be here today. His memories of the last session have circled his mind, keeping him awake at night and interrupting the cloud of other thoughts that contribute to his restlessness. There is something about Karen, something he can’t put a name to. He knows that she is alone in this house that is far too big for just one person, and he wonders whether she craves company: a pair of shoes lined up alongside her own in the hallway; a second wine glass sitting on the kitchen table. Another person’s limbs tangled with hers beneath the bed sheets.
‘Karen,’ he says by way of greeting, nodding but avoiding making eye contact with her.
‘Would either of you like tea?’ she asks.
‘No thanks,’ he says.
Lydia also declines the offer and Karen hesitates, her routine disrupted and her expression suggesting her job has now been made more difficult: she has now to fill those three minutes that would usually be spent in the kitchen.
‘I think we should start again,’ she says, taking the chair in the corner. ‘Think of this as a second chance, the page wiped clean. We’re going to go right back to the beginning again. Tell me about your wedding day.’
Josh shrugs and tries to focus his mind on something constructive. ‘It was a church wedding. She wanted a church weddi
ng, the whole white dress and veil thing, so that’s what she got. There were guests. A cake. Bad dancing.’ He shrugs again, knowing his response is limited.
‘Lydia,’ Karen says, seeming to realise that that’s the most she’s likely to get from Josh. ‘What’s your best memory of that day?’
He glances at her, sitting there on the sofa and basking in the memory of the wedding, a lavish affair for which little expense was spared. She has everything, yet she appreciates none of it. ‘It’s a wonder she can remember,’ he says. ‘Knocked a few back that day, didn’t you?’
‘Lydia,’ Karen prompts her, ignoring what has been said.
‘Signing the register,’ Lydia says, having had time to carefully consider the answer. ‘There’s something so official about that part, isn’t there? No going back then.’ She laughs nervously, and the sound seems to bounce around the room, hitting each of them as it passes.
‘Why am I not allowed to mention Lydia’s drinking?’ Josh asks, fixing his eyes on Karen. ‘The allegation made against me was discussed in quite some detail, yet every time I mention her drink problem, you seem to gloss over it or change the subject.’
‘Lydia has acknowledged she has an issue with alcohol,’ Karen reminds him. ‘It has been discussed.’
‘Do you remember that barbecue at the neighbours?’ He addresses Lydia, ignoring the fact that Karen has responded to him.
She shakes her head.
‘Liar. You must remember it. You got smashed, and when I suggested we go home, you caused a scene in front of everyone. Yeah,’ he adds, watching her face change. ‘You remember now.’ He turns back to Karen. ‘I’ve never been so embarrassed. It was the first time I really saw her drunk. She could barely walk, and the more she had, the louder she got. We’d never been invited over to any of the neighbours’ houses before. Funnily enough, we never got invited again.’
The Divorce: A gripping psychological thriller with a fantastic twist Page 8