‘What?’
‘Helps if it’s switched on at the wall, love.’ Mark puts a hand on my arm.
Jack sprays out toast through a laugh, though I can’t tell if it’s mocking or not. I manage a little laugh myself amidst this normal, happy family scene, closing my eyes as I sip my juice. But I quickly open them again when, inside my mind, all I can see is him.
Chapter Two
Lorna
It’s twenty past eight when I tie back my hair, then fiddle with my trainer laces because they don’t feel right. I set my Fitbit, making a note of calories burned over the week. I’ve lost weight these last few months – not that I needed to. I watched it fall away without even trying. Stress will do that. But then he’s on my mind again as I wonder what he’d say if he saw me now, if he’d like me like this, still find me attractive. I try not to think about him but can’t help it.
I set off, closing the front gate, breathing in the chilly morning air. Spring is here, but that’s not good to think about either – the bulbs in the park, the cold but sunny afternoons, the handmade chocolates he gave me last Easter. Switch the channel, I tell myself as my feet pound the pavement. Change your thoughts!
Then work is on my mind – which isn’t much better because everything leads back to him in some way. I try not to think about the clinic at weekends, but I’ll take anything as a distraction right now. Besides, it’s not the kind of job that stays put in the office. Cases are always on my mind. I suck on my water bottle, turning up the volume of my very carefully selected playlist, tripping on a raised paving slab. I stumble for a few paces, getting myself back in time with the beat, turning my thoughts back to yesterday.
Our weekly team meeting was cancelled, what with one partner being sick and another needed as part of a crisis intervention team. Then I had two no-shows after lunch, which was when Sandy, our receptionist, told me about a potential client who’d been calling all day, wanting an appointment with me and only me. She explained to him about my waiting list.
Why only me?
The insistence unsettled me, of course, made me on edge and out of sorts for the rest of Friday. Perhaps that’s the reason for my lack of sleep last night, the uncertainty, what it represented. It was exactly the sort of thing he would have done – the urgency, the demands. I felt rattled by it. Still do.
But at least we have dinner with Ed and Annie to look forward to this evening, I think, leaping over a puddle. Running is a good way to work things through, to process feral thoughts. And feral has no place in my life any more.
My breathing kicks up, burning my throat as I press on, speeding up the pace, heading downhill. It’s the route I always take on a Saturday – predictable, safe, a known path. My thigh muscles are aching and heavy already, even though I’ve only run half a mile.
But it’s back on my mind again.
‘Unrelenting is the word I’d use,’ Sandy had told me, her voice slow and cautious as if she didn’t want to worry me. ‘When I told him you had a waiting list, well that’s when…’ She’d looked perplexed for a moment, which was unlike her. Sandy pretty much held the clinic together. Nothing harried or fazed her. ‘Well, there was silence on the line for a while. Then I just kept hearing the same thing over and over again. “I want an appointment with Lorna Wright, please. As soon as possible.”’
I’d nodded, listening, allowing her to finish. She was sitting at her desk in the waiting area, fresh flowers and pleasant lighting doing nothing to allay the look of concern on her face, even though she was quite used to dealing with difficult or emotional clients. ‘I told him he could have an appointment in a month’s time and that I’d put him on your cancellation list. But…’
‘Go on.’
‘… but it fell on deaf ears.’ She shook her head, her neat bob haircut swaying at her neck. She looked embarrassed. ‘So I said I’d have a word with you and I’d call him back.’ She tapped her message pad where she’d written his number. ‘Sorry, Lorna. I know your list is full, but it was the only way to get rid of him. I didn’t want to be rude.’
‘It’s fine,’ I’d said, smiling and tearing the number off the pad. Even as I did it, I could hear myself screaming out to myself not to, that I’d knowingly set the ball of boundary-breaking in motion. Mistake number one. ‘I’ll sort it.’
Sandy’s mouth opened and closed several times and, even though she didn’t say anything, she didn’t need to. In our practice, and most others, therapists never contact clients outside of the therapy room. It’s a violation of our professional code of ethics. That’s why we have people like Sandy – to act as a buffer.
I glanced at the name on the paper – David Carter – though Sandy’s writing wasn’t the most legible. The name didn’t mean anything to me. ‘No problem,’ I said, giving her a cheery smile. She didn’t reciprocate. Rather she looked concerned, as if she’d failed at her job. As if I’d failed at mine.
At my desk, I stared at the number. I didn’t recognise that either. I also stared at the stack of notes that needed writing up from earlier clients. I’d only been working at the Grove Clinic for ten months, though I’d fitted in so well it was like I’d been here forever. The practice was efficient and friendly, with four full-time therapists – each of us adhering to a strict code of professional ethics, yet maintaining a camaraderie between colleagues that kept us going.
I looked at the name and number again, doodling on the corner of the note, trying to work out what was bothering me about it. Did it make me feel wanted and in demand because I’d been personally requested? At least I had enough self-awareness to see that – to see that my ego was inflated just a little bit bigger than the stack of papers on my desk. But what worried me more was what I was trying to recreate. What feelings I was trying to… well, feel again. It was dangerous ground.
I opened a file to get on with some work, but old addictions die hard, so I dialled the number. Just to see what happened, to prove to myself that it was nothing. That I was still in control.
After six rings a generic voicemail kicked in. I left a message. ‘Hi, it’s Lorna Wright here from the Grove Clinic. If you call me back, I’ll see what I can do to fit you in.’ I hung up, staring at my phone. Mistake number two – a complete violation of client–counsellor boundaries, not to mention preferential treatment. Well, mistake number three really, given that I’d called the number in the first place. I really hadn’t thought this through, acting impulsively for selfish reasons. And whoever David Carter was, he now had my personal mobile number.
I smiled at the background picture of Mark on my phone – the boys’ sailing holiday that he and Jack went on ages ago. It’s years old now, and I should probably have updated it with a more recent one, but it was very soon after that things got serious between us. It had taken him ages to fully commit. But after everything he’d been through, I understood he needed to take things slowly. So each new phone I have, the picture’s come too; my lucky charm. I tucked it back in my bag and set to writing up my clinical notes before the end of the day.
I keep running, my feet slipping into time with my heartbeat at last. What I did yesterday sits at the back of my mind like a dormant seed that’s just been given the tiniest amount of soil, water and light. Which is why I’m pounding it out on the pavement now, each footfall hammering home my stupidity.
The tarmac changes to grass as I enter the common, bracing myself for the incline. If I’m called out on it, if anyone – especially Joe, my supervisor – finds out, I’ll just say I was helping Sandy, that the client had been giving her a hard time, that she was rushed off her feet.
I put my head down, flicking the music volume up to max, running faster and faster, needing to punish myself. Then, without having any idea why, I break with routine and veer left at the fork, missing the point where I usually stop for thirty squats, some water, a dozen push-ups. I run on, completely off course now, heading down a path I’ve never taken before.
It was just a trigger, I tell myself
over and over. A silly, inconsequential trigger. Thing is, I know better than most that when the trigger’s pulled, the emotional gunshot is never far behind.
Chapter Three
Lorna
‘You’re kidding?’ I say as Mark hangs up. ‘Tonsillitis? Poor Emma.’
He nods, rolling his eyes. Our babysitter is sick, and we’re all dressed up with nowhere to go.
‘Ed and Annie will be in the taxi on their way to the restaurant by now,’ I say, pulling a face and taking off my coat again.
‘Shall I ask them over here instead?’ he suggests, nosediving into the fridge to see what we have. ‘You could whip something up perhaps?’
I glance at my phone. Nothing on the screen apart from a reminder to give Annie back the book I borrowed. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
‘Lorn?’
‘Sorry, love…’ I smile, grabbing his hand. ‘Sure, let’s ask them over here. We can just chill, listen to that new band you like.’ He gives me a peck on the lips. ‘And let’s send out for a Thai instead.’ I squeeze him. ‘Will you call Ed to let them know? I’m just going upstairs.’
Mark hesitates – a brief frown – but then smiles, those warm eyes of his creasing at the corners. His smile was one of the things that attracted me to him most – the way his whole face lights up with kindness. ‘Will do,’ he says, tapping my bum as I go. ‘Can’t waste you looking so good. I love seeing you in that dress.’
And I can’t stand to break from routine, I think, heading up the stairs. Tonight was all planned out, everything in my life designed to fill large gaps of time. The danger zones. Breaking the habit. Twice a month, on a Friday night, it’s just Mark and me. We don’t like to call it ‘date night’, but I suppose that’s what it is. We’ll try a new restaurant or go to the cinema, maybe a gallery preview, or a concert depending what’s on. Monday is Mark’s sports night – usually squash, followed by a curry with the lads, while I catch up with things around the house or, if I can’t be bothered with boring jobs, I’ll do my nails or write in my journal. It’s more important than ever for me to keep up with that. I’ll be honest, Mondays are tricky.
Tuesday evenings are filled with an online food shop and anything else we need ordering, then Mark and I will hit Netflix if we’re not too tired. Wednesday evening is book club – always a laugh – while Thursday is Pilates, and Saturday is all about friends. Letting our hair down with some drinks, decent food, a good catch-up. Other than that, I’m either at work, ferrying kids around to various activities, or cooking and cleaning.
Halfway up the stairs I stop, feeling a pang as I realise my life has become nothing more than a timetable. Spontaneity, surprises and spur-of-the-moment decisions are a thing of the past. Holding on tight is the only way I know how to cope, to get through the months, to avoid slipping through the cracks.
Damn him to hell!
After I’ve checked on Freya – she was fine, happily doing a jigsaw in her room – and, of course, checked my phone again, I come back down. ‘All cleared with Annie and Ed,’ Mark says, giving me a thumbs up. ‘Smudge in bed?’
‘About to brush her teeth,’ I say with a smile. He’s always called her that, because of the little birthmark that looks smudged on the back of her neck. I take a bottle of Pinot from the fridge. ‘Though when I told her Annie and Ed were maybe coming here, she assumed Lilly was coming too and got all excited.’
‘But their babysitter didn’t cancel.’ Mark takes the wine I pour for him. ‘So they can have a kid-free evening.’
I admit that, at seven, Freya’s my little baby. My only baby. Jack is Mark’s son from his first marriage and never got to know his real mum, Maria. Mark was widowed before we met, and Jack was only three. He has no memories of her.
Even now, it’s hard not to think of Maria as the ‘competition’. Mark loves me dearly, of course, and we’re a family now, but it’s tough to know that, given the choice, he’d rather she was still alive, that they were all together. I can’t help feeling like the consolation prize. He once told me that they’d had plans for a big family, perhaps a move to the countryside, maybe even a holiday home abroad. It was hard to hear. I know Mark would love us to have more children, but I often wonder if it seems the same for him second time round with me. If I live up.
If I’m as good a wife as Maria.
As good a lover.
Truth is, since him, these feelings have got worse. My fears have been confirmed. Guilt will do that.
The doorbell rings and I hear a squeal as Freya comes running down the stairs.
‘Careful, Frey, slow down or you’ll trip.’ It’s a bit dim in the hallway. I still haven’t found a replacement lamp for the one that got smashed last year.
Proves you vacuum, at least, Mark had said, when I’d told him I’d knocked it off the side table when hoovering. I didn’t know what to say back; wasn’t sure if he was joking.
He answers the door to Annie and Ed while I try to damp down my daughter’s excitement. ‘I told you, sweetie, Lilly’s not coming this time. It’s a grown-up night tonight.’ I go to cuddle her, but she ducks away. ‘We’ll fix up a play date soon, OK?’ She stomps back upstairs again, her arms folded across her pyjamas.
‘Annie,’ I grin, opening my arms and pulling my best friend close as they come in out of the rain. A waft of chilly air comes in with them. ‘It’s so good to see you both. Sorry about the babysitting fail.’
I take their coats, propping wet umbrellas in the porch, and we all get settled in the living room, each of them proclaiming not to mind about the change of plan. Mark puts some music on while I fetch the drinks. I hear him telling Ed how he first heard the electro swing band live in the Old Picture House, the place that’s been converted into a music venue, how he can’t get enough of their stuff.
‘Here, help yourself,’ I say, putting out some olives and mini stuffed peppers as well as a couple of takeaway menus to browse. I flop down next to Annie on one of the floor cushions. She prises off her shoes, exposing perfectly painted toenails, and spreads her long flowing skirt around her. It’s peach and purple – something Mark would never allow me to wear – but it suits Annie. Free, easy, unafraid.
‘These are lovely,’ she says, patting the cushions. ‘Though white’s a brave choice. Tell me you’re not turning into Charlotte?’ She whispers the last bit, about Mark’s house-proud sister. ‘Lilly would trash these within a day with ice cream and paint.’
‘I think the covers will wash pretty well,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Freya knows she isn’t allowed anything messy in the living room. Mark wouldn’t allow that.’ I glance over at him, worried he might have heard. Even though I’ve been living here nearly nine years now, it still feels like his place, his rules. And I’m OK with that. ‘How’s the new head teacher working out?’ I ask, wanting to change the subject.
‘So much better than Daggers already,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘She’s acting head for now but is applying for permanent for next year.’
‘The shit hit the fan like you thought, then?’
‘Yep. Thankfully, the governors took it seriously. Anyway, let’s not talk about that. Our school is brilliant, and we lanced a boil.’
‘Maybe I’ll think about moving Freya there now,’ I say. It’s been on my mind since Freya’s seemed… well, unsettled. The timing is no coincidence. Another wave of guilt hits me.
Annie shifts on her cushion, pulling up her knees and sipping more wine. She takes a stuffed pepper. ‘But I thought she loved her school?’ she says, chewing. Mark turns up the volume on his favourite track.
‘She used to,’ I say, wishing I could pour out my heart. But not even my best friend knows what I’ve done. ‘I think she’s a bit bored there.’ It’s partly the truth.
‘But you can walk from here,’ Annie says. ‘You really want to have to drive?’
I laugh. ‘We rarely walk. That’s the irony. If I’m driving to work, I drop her off on my way and the childminder picks her up
in her car. It would be just as easy to drive to your school.’
And then drive past his place just around the corner, I think, to see if his car is there, perhaps get a glimpse of him. Or her. I never once went inside.
Then, with perfect timing, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a call, not a text, so I let it go to voicemail, trying not to seem too distracted. If it was Jack, he’d call Mark first, not me. That alone hurts, that I’ll never be as good as his real mum, the one he turns to first. For a long while he even refused to put my number into his phone, saying he wouldn’t ever need it, that there was no point when he’d got Mark’s. It was only after he broke his arm, and his school couldn’t get hold of Mark that his dad insisted he have my number. I can count on one hand how many times he’s used it.
The buzzing stops, and I wait for a voicemail notification, but none comes. I can see by the look on Annie’s face that she heard the call too, but she says nothing.
‘Anyway, it would be great knowing you’re there, to watch her back.’ I smile, refocusing on our conversation. Annie is Freya’s godmother. She was there at her birth. If anything ever happened to me and Mark, I’d trust her implicitly to take care of our little girl. She and Lilly are like sisters anyway.
‘Does she need her back watching, then?’ Annie looks concerned.
My phone buzzes again, this time indicating a text.
‘I… I’m not sure,’ I say, pulling a face that tells her I don’t want to talk about it now. I’ve not mentioned anything to Mark yet.
Tell Me A Secret Page 2