As I reach the Tube and begin my descent into the bowels of the earth, at last breathing more easily, I remind myself that I didn’t go near or speak to the woman who fell. She wouldn’t have recognised me even if I had. Long gone is my dejected air and sunken cheekbones. The leggings and baggy shirts have been replaced by designer chic and my straggling locks have been shorn.
If she did glimpse me, she would have seen a stranger. It has all been a matter of coincidence.
Present day
2
I’m lying prostrate on the therapist’s couch like a patient waiting for a massage to begin. I’m fully dressed but the aim will be to strip my soul bare. This woman though isn’t into gentle manipulation but rather into kneading deep-tissue knots embedded savagely along the spine accompanied by hands-on aggressive probing.
‘Names,’ she begins. Pause. ‘Do these men have names?’ She peers at me over the top of her half-moon glasses tempting me to respond using the severity of her stare as a challenge. With eyes closed, I hope she’ll be fooled into believing that I’m considering a carefully constructed and thoughtful answer.
It’s the way the questions are phrased that rankles. Sarcasm oozes from the single opening word, ‘names’. My knee-jerk reaction is to say, ‘No. They don’t have names. One went by the letter “x”, one by “y” and then there was “z”.’ But I don’t. I hide my irritation and decide to play fair. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner I can escape.
‘Jeremy is a name I think you mentioned before.’ This is followed by a meaningful silence. My left eyelid peels gently back and through the narrow slit I see my interrogator twirl the end of a pen round in her mouth. She has checked her notes to find the name and is sitting patiently. I’ve heard somewhere that’s what therapists do. Ask a question, wait quietly, and bore their clients into responding. It’s an easy way to earn money.
‘Yes,’ I say. Jeremy. How could I forget? He was my first love; the deepest cut is what they call it. At the time he could do no wrong. Or let me rephrase that. I believed he could do no wrong. I conjure up his face, the beautiful perfect features. Only a woman in love would call them perfect. His nose was slightly hooked, his lips well formed but rather thin and the third tooth on the right overlapped its neighbour, giving rise to an endearing lisp. Endearing at first, irritating in retrospect.
‘What happened?’ She’s going to pick at the sores, try to find out what makes me tick and why a restraining order has been slapped on such an innocent-looking young woman. Silence. I have all the time in the world.
Outside the birds are tweeting, cheerful background music. The large sash window is ajar, letting in the first warm wafting breeze of summer; early June, my favourite month. A thick red book, a tome by Freud or Pavlov no doubt, holds it open, jammed in at one end. Perhaps the cord has snapped.
‘Nothing much really. He went off with someone else.’ It sounds so simple, so normal but I’m not going to own up to the shock I felt on discovering that he’d been sleeping with three women at the same time.
‘We were young,’ I continue, reluctantly, as I scan the room through lazy eyes. Bookshelves line the walls and stretch heavenward towards corniced ceilings. Psychotherapists must be well paid.
‘Did you feel betrayed?’ she asks, her voice soft and marshmallowy. A strange question really. At the time I kept going back for more, disbelieving and listening to the excuses, desperate for a few crumbs of encouragement. I used to ask him questions, willing the truth to set me free but he wasn’t that noble. He was the first guy, since my father, that I couldn’t let go. The worse Jeremy treated me, the more determined I got to hold on. The more elusive, the more driven I was to see him. Stalking isn’t a word I would use. I was keen to catch him out, so I followed him around, day and night, until he disappeared.
‘A complete bastard.’ Thinking out loud, I’m shocked by the venom in the three words and wonder if the excavation of my soul might be starting to bear fruit, finally revealing its hidden depths. I know that’s what Ms Evans is digging for.
‘In what way?’ A neatly shaped eyebrow raises. Miss, or perhaps to be more accurate, Ms Justine Evans as depicted on the gold embossed nameplate, asks questions for a living. I have a few questions I’m tempted to throw her way. For example, portraying single status for professional purposes gives me a clue as to her character. She doesn’t want to be defined by marriage. She likes to play act that she’s single and it’s tempting to ask why.
‘He wouldn’t phone for several days and this would force me to turn up at his flat, very late at night banging loudly to be let in.’
It was his fault entirely that I was forced to hang around outside and lose what dignity I had left. Following him every day to work might have been a bit over the top but I was in love and when he told me to back off, it only made things worse.
‘He forced you? To turn up like that, I mean.’ Ms Evans, ‘call me Justine’, is trying to pass the blame my way, make me own up to being desperate and neurotic, perhaps slightly unhinged. Ms Evans has a plan but then so have I.
‘Perhaps that’s a bit harsh but we were virtually living together so I would expect to see him at the end of the day.’ My smile is like a politician’s, a fixed grin set firm to sell my pitch. As his girlfriend, Jeremy had sworn undying love within the first three weeks of hooking up and I took it for granted that we would end up together. Together forever. We kept moving through difficult phases in our relationship, that was all, or so I told myself.
Ms Evans will guess I’m lying. We lived in two separate flats a couple of miles apart and even after a year, Jeremy showed determined reluctance to move in together; in fact to do anything together anymore.
‘What about the sex?’ Ms Evans’ lips have a gentle upturn at the corners.
The clock is ticking onwards and my one-hour slot is nearly up. Although I’m being treated like a sick criminal, I think it’s quite amazing that the cost of my treatment is being funded by some governmental body; probably a specially set-up unit for the criminally insane.
‘That was the hardest thing to give up.’ This is what she’s expecting to hear. I don’t disappoint.
Ms Evans’ legs are neatly crossed, silken nude-coloured stockings giving a hint of an inner sexuality. I wonder when she might uncross them and for what sort of clients. I suspect sex is a major topic on most of her questionnaires and maybe the answers get her excited.
‘Was it special?’
What does she mean ‘special’? We had been lock and key, first-time lovers who couldn’t get enough of each other. Several times a day, inside and out, upstairs and down, covertly and brazenly. Isn’t that how it is with all first-time lovers? La-di-da-di-da.
‘I thought so.’
‘Before we round off our session, perhaps you can tell me how you finally accepted the end of the relationship.’ This will be central to her enquiries. Once a stalker, always a stalker.
‘I didn’t. He disappeared off to America and I’ve never been able to track him down. I did try but eventually “out of sight, out of mind”.’ This is something else she needs to believe, my ability to move on.
I don’t tell her about the fury, hurt and devastation that clung to me after he left. Clothed in a cloak of self-loathing and failure, I spent day and night trying to track him down. Not to mention the three futile trips to the States. A blackness suffocated my soul. Until I met Scott.
‘Next time we can perhaps talk a little bit about Scott. He was “your saviour” I think you called him.’ She smiles, but again I sense sarcasm lurking below the measured statement. Scott is the reason I’m here so I knew she wouldn’t want to waste too much time on his predecessor.
‘I met him on the rebound. He treated me even worse than Jeremy.’ A tinny laugh pops out, accompanied by a distinct puff of disbelief. Puff the Magic Dragon.
‘Okay. Next week you can tell me all about Scott.’ As her notebook closes, an acknowledgement that the session is over, a crinkly smile r
eplaces the professional mask.
Standing up straight, I flick back my hair in an act of defiance, and pass the buck firmly towards my interrogator. ‘I’ve no idea why Scott has had a restraining order slapped on me as I wouldn’t go within a hundred miles of him.’ No need to tell her about my plans.
Without reply, the prim consultant opens her desk diary and pencils me in for the same time next week. I thank her, but unsure for what. When I leave, Ms Evans dictates her conclusions into the little Dictaphone on her desk and her secretary types up a report which gets sent off to all interested parties. That is, all parties interested in my psychotic and unbalanced state of mind. Not to mention those footing the bill.
I close the door quietly behind me and wander out through the ornate portico entrance, pleasantly calm and weirdly refreshed from the lie down, and head back out into the sunshine. I glance heavenward, pause, and let the heat seep through my pores.
I trace the winding path back towards the road, through the carefully manicured grounds with the mature stately trees lining the route. The Abbott Hospital grounds have the distinct feel of an upmarket stately home. Luxury and insanity nestle side by side; an unlikely union.
Up ahead a thin wiry man pushing a bicycle approaches. He’s not dressed in striped pyjamas, and isn’t wandering haphazardly in a delusional psychotic state. That’s the thing with mental issues, they’re hard to spot. But this guy, Bob Pratchett, is a regular.
‘Hi. All okay?’ He pulls up alongside, his smile beaming like a toothpaste advert. It’s a bright, overly forced, ‘see how at ease I am with the world’ kind of smile, yet his rounded shoulders and fidgeting fingers suggest that he’s anything but.
‘Hi. I survived,’ I say. Bob is wearing a weird baseball hat, askew at an angle, with Boston Red Sox emblazoned in red across the brim. His mouth displays small perfectly-formed pebbles for teeth but his lips are wet, small spots of saliva congealed in the corners. He’s like a salivating mongrel, rabid and malnourished.
‘Perhaps you fancy a coffee sometime? We could swap stories and perhaps tell each other the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ His hearty laugh convulses his body as he makes the courtroom pronouncement.
‘Sounds good,’ I lie.
‘Don’t talk to anyone from the Abbot Hospital. They’re all mad. Walk straight on past.’ My mother’s warning is still with me even after all these years. She wasn’t quite so vehement though after the beatings sent her scrambling through the wrought-iron gates in search of drugs and a sympathetic ear to ease her torment. Mental illness is something horrendous that happens to other people, she told me. Her assurances and smile convinced me that this was indeed the case.
‘Great. Let me know when suits.’ With that, Bob pushes his bike on past, whistling a distinct triumphant ditty. ‘See you later,’ he calls over his shoulder.
When I reach the end of the driveway I stop and look across the road at my childhood home. A chill shiver runs down my spine. The sun has dipped behind a cloud, hiding under a large fluffy map of Australia, and has taken the heat with it.
It’s hard not to remember what happened. Even my determination to gut, cleanse and rebuild the interior of my household legacy can’t wipe away the memories. As I wait for a break in the traffic, I wonder if I should invite Ms Evans across to my home one day. She could witness first-hand the source of my discontent; where it all began and perhaps where it’s all likely to end. It might help with the answers.
My therapist will soon start probing, digging deeper into my family past. Her concentration will be on my violent alcoholic father and my neurotic drug-addled mother. She will try to make me accept that my parents are to blame for my sick unhinged behaviour. Opening up and talking about them should help me address the issues and lead to a ‘cleansing of the soul’. I know the terminology. She believes my parents are at the root of all my problems and who am I to disagree?
As I step out in to the road a car horn blasts through the air. Shit. I automatically reel backwards, catapulted out of my reverie. A large black Range Rover misses me by inches as it swerves across the white line.
I am a black cat. I have nine lives. My mother told me she had nine lives. I scuttle across to the other side, and pray I’m that lucky.
3
Covent Garden is packed, but then it’s a Friday. End of the week, time to let the hair down. The milling throngs have been my camouflage. I’ve wafted in and out unnoticed for the past few weeks, floating by like a soft breeze, but today I will emerge, a phoenix rising from the ashes.
The café where I’ve settled is a small French bistro. Tables and chairs are slotted neatly into the confined outside space. I’m sitting at a table for two, having swivelled my chair round, strategically pointing it to face the length of pavement he walks every Friday for his lunchtime session. He won’t be able to go past without spotting me.
The sun is directly overhead, but under the striped awning there is welcome shade. I remove my hat, Audrey Hepburn chic, and lay it carefully on top of the red and white chequered tablecloth. Today has been a long time coming but it has finally arrived, my patience rewarded.
Then I see him as he turns the corner and heads in my direction. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets and sunglasses perch on top of his blond wavy hair. Oakleys. Only the best for Scott. Suddenly his pace falters as if everything has gone into slow motion. For one awful moment I think he might turn round and go back the way he’s come, but he doesn’t. His hands hang by his side, the casual air replaced by unease and a furrowed brow.
I hold my breath, still as a canny predator, and watch. I feign sudden recognition and spring up in my seat. After months of planning, Scott is in front of me, staring as if at a ghost. Face to face at last. Pistols at dawn.
‘Oh my God! Scott!’ My face reddens. The heat is helping my meticulously rehearsed embarrassment as a creeping swathe of crimson sweeps across my cheeks.
‘Beverley?’
Perhaps he isn’t sure if it is really me, the wanton curls and weight loss might be bolstering his surprise but there’s an unmistakable element of shock in his intonation. I suspect he’s praying that he might be wrong.
‘What are you doing here?’ My eyes are wide and my mouth agape. I’ve been practising in the mirror, perfecting the look of surprise. ‘Oh my God,’ I repeat. ‘Is it really you?’
I push back my chair, standing up to proffer the customary kiss on both cheeks as would be expected between old friends and ex-lovers. I’ve toyed with the gesture, wondering whether it might not be better to let him take the lead but decided that a coincidental meeting requires knee-jerk reactions, nothing stilted. The staged coincidence needs to be convincing.
‘I work round the corner,’ he says. ‘But then you know that.’
‘Are you still at the bank? It’s great to see you. It seems ages. How long has it been?’
‘A while.’ Dead pan; not a smile nor flicker of emotion.
‘Here. Sit down. Have a drink. Old times’ sake?’ I lift my handbag off the spare chair and pat the seat. ‘One can’t hurt. Surely.’
He hesitates. My surmise was that he would be curious, anxious and perhaps afraid that the meeting was orchestrated, but he’ll need to find out. My next comment helps him make the decision.
‘It’s weird but I thought I spotted you earlier, round the corner by the market.’ I straighten my skirt and sit back down under the awning. ‘You were with a young girl.’ My stomach knots and I bite the inside of my cheek but still manage a lightness of tone.
He sinks down into the seat, cramming his long legs uncomfortably under the table. His muscular thighs bring back memories.
I toss my hair from side to side, teasing the fringe. ‘I’ve grown my hair. What do you think?’
He gives it a cursory glance. ‘Yes, suits you.’ He doesn’t mention the weight loss, suntan and flawless complexion or my expensive outfit. It’s taken time and effort but I’m looking good. His mind is elsewher
e. Either that or he wants me to think it is as he won’t throw me any crumbs by engaging.
‘Where?’
‘Where what?’
‘You said you spotted me earlier. Whereabouts?’
‘The French cheese stall.’ I point to the carrier bag by my feet. ‘Camembert, Brie and Roquefort. Old favourites, eh?’ I tease. He’ll remember the al-fresco picnics on Hampstead Heath with the baguettes of French bread, the runny cheeses and chilled white wine. He might have tried to forget but I’ll not let him.
‘Oh,’ is all he says.
‘Are you okay? Perhaps a cool beer? It’s so hot.’ My smile is wide, a bright, innocent beam. I run the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away theatrical sweat. ‘My treat.’
I can hear the cogs in his brain working, ratcheting up. Click, click, click. The perspiration on his forehead might be from the heat but there’s definitely a frisson of fear about his demeanour. I snap my fingers at a hovering waiter.
‘A bottle of Peroni?’ Scott doesn’t humour me when I raise a questioning eyebrow, a knowing glint that this is his favourite tipple, especially in the heat.
‘No thanks. Water’s fine. Still, please,’ he says, making his request directly to the waiter.
‘Another glass of white wine for me, please. Sauvignon Blanc.’ I drain an almost-empty glass and hand it across. ‘I should have ordered a bottle. It’s cheaper if you have more than two glasses.’
‘Beverley.’ The single word speaks volumes. I can hear Ms Evans using the same modus operandi when she threw out the single word ‘names’. Perhaps they’re in cahoots.
‘Yes, Scott.’ But I’m ready for him, my answers are carefully prepared. My sessions with Ms Evans are helping with the manufacture of pertinent replies.
‘What the hell are you doing here? You moved to Cornwall. Why are you back?’ An angry skiff of spittle spurts from his tight lips and lands on the table. I swish it away with the end of a serviette.
The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye Page 2