The question is unexpected, though I try not to appear shocked by it. I’m sure others have wanted to ask it, but no one has ever thought to just come out with it before. ‘I didn’t go,’ I tell him.
‘How come?’ He raises a hand as soon as the question is asked. ‘I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked that.’
‘I can give you a couple of numbers if you’d like them,’ I say, keen to brush past the awkwardness that has settled over the room and move the focus of the conversation away from my own history. The irony is that I never went to counselling because I never believed it could help me, but if I say this to a client, then I am inadvertently suggesting that there is nothing to be gained from the time they spend with me.
I go to the sideboard and take a couple of business cards from the top drawer. There are some there that have been given to me by colleagues, and others that were offered to me after I lost Sean, which I then did nothing with. Lost. It has always seemed a strange word to use to describe a death. It suggests a carelessness and, in a sense, a kind of blame, as though had you been more careful, the loss might not have been incurred at all.
‘Do you enjoy your job?’ he asks as I hand him the cards.
‘Of course,’ I tell him, confident that this, at least, is something I am able to answer honestly.
‘Why? I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but listening to other people’s problems all day sounds like my worst nightmare.’
‘Really?’ I say, sitting back down. ‘And yet a lot of your work must involve much the same, mustn’t it?’
He says nothing for a moment, contemplating the similarities between what we do. ‘I suppose so. We’ve probably got more in common than we realise. We both try to help people. We both try to fix things.’
I feel Josh’s eyes rest upon my face, and his attention stays with me for longer than is appropriate. It makes me feel uncomfortable in a way I’m not quite able to describe. Whatever it is, it’s enough to persuade me that it’s time for him to leave.
‘Do you think you’ve identified what needs to be fixed with me and Lydia?’
‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that,’ I admit. ‘People’s problems are rarely caused by a single factor.’
‘Really? In my experience, they often are.’
I say nothing to this. Our careers can only be compared to a certain extent, and treating a physical injury is a different process to that of trying to heal a psychological wound.
‘Aren’t you going to ask us about our childhoods?’ he says, when I fail to reply to his comment. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it – listen to our problems and then ascribe all our issues to a single incident that took place way back when?’
‘That only happens in films.’
He is different with Lydia not in the room, less angry, the hard edges of his personality softened somehow. He sits upright on the sofa, no longer like a teenage boy who has returned from a hard day of not listening to anything at school, and my confusion about who this man really is continues to escalate. He is a myriad of contradictions: aggressive yet gentle, vulnerable yet suspicious, arrogant and yet somehow strangely naïve. Despite all these things, I believe in what Lydia has shown me of her husband. I believe in what he has shown me of himself. I remember that I need to keep my guard up with this man.
‘And I’m not a psychiatrist,’ I add.
‘What did you study?’
‘Psychotherapy – but Josh, these sessions aren’t about me, and this isn’t a session.’ I glance at the clock for the sake of continuing the pretence that we are to be interrupted at any moment. ‘My clients will be here soon. Why have you come here today?’
‘Honestly?’ he says, sitting forward. ‘I don’t know. I just … You’re not what I was expecting, that’s all.’ He looks at me for too long, his eyes glassy and distant. I dread another onslaught of tears, but thankfully for us both, they don’t come. ‘Can I ask you something?’
I nod, knowing that whatever he asks, I’m not obliged to offer an answer.
‘Do you ever have strange thoughts? Inappropriate thoughts?’
‘This isn’t about me,’ I repeat, thrown by the unexpected nature of the question. His words intensify the unease that crept up on me moments earlier. Just what is he trying to get at? I am unnerved by the question, suspicious of his intention. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and looks at me so intently that I suspect his coming here today is an attempt to unsettle me in some way. Ten minutes ago, I could handle him and anything he wanted to say to me. Now, I’m not so sure.
‘I get these thoughts,’ he says, jabbing a finger at the side of his head. ‘They sort of come out of nowhere. I’ll be doing something normal, driving or whatever, and they just arrive, whether I want them to or not.’
‘What sort of thoughts?’ I ask. Curiosity gets the better of me. It is starting to feel as thought Josh wants to confide in me, as though he is building up to some sort of confession. Whatever he has done, I’m not sure I want to be the one who has to hear about it. Yet if it helps me to help Lydia in some way, I know that I must listen.
‘Like I said … inappropriate.’
That could mean any number of things, I think. He could be referring to something violent, or to thoughts of a sexual nature. Things I don’t want to be forced to consider sweep through my mind like a film reel, flashing image after vivid image into my brain. A teenage girl on a hospital bed. Him, there, just out of focus.
‘Everyone has inappropriate thoughts,’ I tell him.
‘Do they?’
‘Whatever you can think up, someone else has thought it. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.’ I glance at the clock, making it obvious that I’m doing so. He knows I am trying to get rid of him. The more I attempt not to think about that girl, the more she is here with me. I have never seen her, I have no idea who she is, yet I am able to picture her as though she is a part of my own family, as though I could reach out and touch the pale flesh of her bare arm. As though she is me and I am her, our experiences the same.
I swallow down the bitter taste of bile that has risen in the back of my throat.
‘But I do worry,’ Josh says, sitting back. ‘I worry about it a lot.’ He places his hands behind his head and rests against the back of the sofa in a way that suggests he isn’t going anywhere. I feel a shiver snake through me, starting at the base of my spine and creeping up and around into my chest.
‘I’ve read up on it a bit. Intrusive thoughts, they’re called. You’ve probably got something about it up there.’ He gestures to the bookshelf. ‘They tend to be about the same sort of thing a lot of the time, though sometimes they throw something random at me. I used to analyse them a lot, before I found out what they were. I used to think there was something wrong with me.’
I listen, but say nothing. I know what he’s talking about, and with anyone else I might sympathise. Where Josh is concerned, however, I can’t help but think that all this is leading somewhere, some attempt at justification for how he has behaved in this room and for the way he has treated his wife, because I am sure that thus far I have only been exposed to a fraction of what might take place behind the closed doors of their home.
‘These thoughts,’ he continues. ‘I’ve had them in this room, while I’ve been here with you.’
I feel a pulse building behind my ear, dull at first but rapidly stronger.
‘You must analyse your own thoughts a lot,’ he says.
‘I try not to.’
‘Doctors diagnose their own symptoms. It’s unavoidable. It must be the same for you, to an extent.’
The more he speaks, the more uncomfortable I feel. I shift in my seat and look at the clock again, trying to think how I can get him out of here. I need him to leave, but I know I must be careful about it. I have seen evidence of his temper, and if I push him too far, I will lose any chance to help Lydia.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he says, still wa
tching me intently. ‘What do you think of me and Lydia?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, just that. Do you think we can make it work?’
‘If you want the relationship to work, then yes, I think you can.’
‘It’s that easy?’
‘If you’d like it to be.’
He studies me carefully, his grey eyes casting a steely chill upon my face. ‘Have you ever told anyone they’d be better off divorced? I mean, you must have seen all sorts of relationships over the years. There must have been times when you’ve thought people would be better off apart.’
The headache I had this morning surges back to the forefront of my brain, making me dizzy for a moment. I feel cold, then hot, then cold again, sick with the fluctuating temperature and with memories I would love to bury but am too weak to carry to their final resting place. I would reach for a drink, but today there is no tea tray on the table. ‘Once,’ I say, hearing a ringing noise start to whistle in my ears.
‘It must have been a bad relationship for you to advise divorce. I’d imagine it was extreme circumstances.’
‘It was,’ I say, keen to end the conversation and get him out of here.
‘How bad?’
‘It wouldn’t be professional for me to talk to you about other clients.’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘Of course not. I’m sorry.’ Then he gives me a look I’m not quite able to read. ‘And what about us?’ he says.
‘Us?’
He holds my gaze until I feel his eyes burning my face. A reaction skates across my skin that I know is ridiculous, and I am immediately ashamed of it. What the hell was that? Here he is, talking to me about inappropriate thoughts, and I respond with the notion that maybe he is flirting with me. And for the briefest moment – so barely there that I might convince myself it didn’t happen – I welcomed the attention.
I berate myself for my naïve and inappropriate thoughts. I am fifty-six; he is almost young enough to be my son. I think again about the allegation made against him. Was there any truth in what that girl said about him? He wouldn’t be the first person to get away with it.
‘Me and Lydia,’ he says, smiling as though he has read my misunderstanding; as though his meaning wasn’t purposefully vague in order to unnerve me. ‘Do you think we should get a divorce? I mean, I know you said you think we can make it work, but I suppose you’re compelled to say that.’
‘Do you love her?’ I ask, trying to shake myself from the awkwardness that is still gripping my body.
He hesitates. ‘In my own way, yes.’
I wonder what that means, although I’m not sufficiently curious to keep him here any longer than he already has been. ‘It’s your marriage,’ I say, trying to make the words not sound flippant. ‘Your way is the only way that matters. If there’s still love there, you can make it work.’
I stand breezily and smile, as though our encounter has been anything but strained. ‘Keep the grief counselling in mind.’
Josh hasn’t moved from the sofa. He is still sitting there, still giving me that look I find impossible to read.
‘She’s going to lie to you.’
I feel my body tense, but I can’t explain why. I have no idea what he is referring to; all I know is that I want to get as far away from this man as possible. I have made a huge mistake letting him in here. I need to get him out of my house. I hear Sean’s voice, louder now than ever, and I wish I could call him in. I just wish he was here.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I know her.’
He stands and closes the space between us. I find myself flinching at his proximity and hope my reaction isn’t visible. If it is, I have only empowered him further. My hand slips into my pocket as I reach for my phone. I am disgusted by the thought that crossed my mind just minutes ago, angry with myself for being so vain. Have I become that sad, that lonely, that I could entertain the notion of attention from this man?
‘Lydia tells lies,’ he says. He speaks calmly, with a matter-of-fact tone, as though this should already be obvious to me. ‘It’s what she does. She can be incredibly convincing.’
Now I realise what his visit today is all about. He is worried about my forthcoming one-to-one session with Lydia; about what his wife might tell me about the marriage and about him once she is free of his watchful eye scrutinising her every movement. Just what does he fear she might tell me? The truth, I presume. All of it.
He has come here with the intention of intimidating me, and I am allowing him to do so.
Josh has played a role for me today, crying when he needed me to see a vulnerability; smiling when he needed me to see another side to the man who has spent these past weeks dismissing his wife and me with his narcissism and his arrogance. He has tricked his way into my home, his words designed to make me listen and to make me believe that he is not what I have decided upon, because I suspect he knows that my opinion of him has never been set in stone. He is one thing and then another. He is this, and then he is that. He is more than capable of sending an intimidating email.
I remember how he accused his wife of being controlling, and of always wanting him to see things the way she sees them. When I asked him for an example of this, he avoided giving me an answer, instead turning the conversation towards what had happened between them at the restaurant. The opposite of what he claims is more than likely to be the truth. It isn’t Lydia who wants to be agreed with about everything. Josh wants things his way, on his terms, and he is prepared to use intimidation to get it. He is the one who seeks control, and he is doing it now, here with me.
‘Sometimes people see things in different ways,’ I say, keen to gloss over his comment and put an end to this meeting. ‘We’ve discussed this before. Her version of events may be at odds with yours.’
He shakes his head. ‘There can only be one truth, Karen,’ he says, reaching out a hand and touching my arm. ‘Not everyone might like it, but there can only be one.’
I pull away from him, burned by his touch. An image flits into my head once again, vivid and unwelcome: a teenage girl in a consultant’s room, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed that has been covered in paper towel drawn from a roll at the end. She is half dressed, the details of her body blurred, but her face is as clear as though I have known her. I don’t see him at first, but then he is there: a shadow in the corner that waits just by the curtain and shifts into focus as the picture grows clearer. His face is one I have tried to erase from my memory.
‘I’ll see you next week,’ I say, hoping Josh will finally take his cue to leave. This time, thankfully, he does. I follow him to the front door and close it behind him, turning and resting my back against the frosted glass panel. Things I don’t want to think about flood my brain: the way he looked at me, the way he touched my arm, that question that threw up a hundred memories I don’t want to have to be exposed to again.
Another voice fills my head, taunting me with its echoes.
What are you going to do about it?
The past stands in the corner, an intruder that throws its shadow across me, suffocating me, reminding me that I will never be free from what happened. I will never escape what I did.
I am seeing Lydia alone tomorrow and I know I must follow my commitment through and meet with her as arranged. After that, I don’t know where I go from here. I thought I could do this, but now I realise it is all too soon. I should have listened to the well-intentioned advice of those who suggested I not return to work so quickly after Sean’s death. I was reminded that from a financial point of view I didn’t need to return to work at all, but what would I have filled my time with then? My clients need me. I need them equally.
And yet it occurs to me sometimes that perhaps I am lying to myself, that I have been doing so for the three years since Sean died. Some days I feel as though I am merely going through the motions, acting out this role I am supposed to play, never actually achieving anything constructive for the couples I
work with. Am I really any help to anyone? How can I help anyone else when I am useless to myself?
Glancing up the staircase, I follow the trail of photographs that document the holidays Sean and I shared together. I still can’t bring myself to put his face among them, to have to walk past him and say goodnight every evening when I go up to bed alone. If he was here now, what would he advise me to do? I know what he would say, but there is a part of me that will refuse to acknowledge what can be heard so loudly.
Do what makes you happy, he always used to remind me, but I can’t listen to that advice any more. All the happiness I have known in my adult life came from him; without him, I don’t know what I’ll do with whatever number of years I have left. I thought I served a purpose in helping other people, but every time I go back there – each time my mind returns me to that time and place – I am reminded that some couples can’t be saved. And now I wonder if Josh and Lydia are one of those couples.
When I take out my mobile phone, there is an email waiting for me. I see the address of the sender, [email protected], and my heart feels heavy in my chest, dragged down by a weight that I am always carrying but that has felt increasingly burdensome during these past few weeks. Whatever is behind the unopened message, it means that the first one I received was no mistake. It was intended for me, as this is. Someone wants to remind me of what I did, though if they realised how much my thoughts are plagued by the memories, they would understand that there is no need to torture me with it. I have done that to myself enough already.
Josh didn’t send this message; he can’t have. He was here, with me, when it was sent.
I open the email.
It’s time you paid for what you did.
With fumbling fingers and a pounding heart that threatens to burst from my chest, I call Sienna’s number. Though I know she can do nothing to help me – that she can’t provide answers to the questions that furiously circle my brain – sometimes just hearing her voice is enough. Listening to her speak makes me feel closer to Sean somehow, transporting me back to a time and place where I felt safe. I need someone to reassure me in the way he used to, though I know there is no one capable of doing so.
The Divorce: A gripping psychological thriller with a fantastic twist Page 11