‘Oh, the irony,’ he says calmly.
We’re two feral cats sizing each other up, pacing around a cage, uttering throaty warning growls, claws out. When all we really want is to tear each other’s clothes off.
‘But you were – are – living with a woman?’ I hedge my bets at it still being current. Although it can’t be much of a relationship if you’re on a bloody dating site! I want to scream.
‘And you were – are – living with a man, Lorna.’
‘She’s your lodger. Your girlfriend. Your lover for fuck’s sake.’
‘And he is your husband.’
I swallow, flicking my eyes at the clock behind him. Never before has a session run so slowly.
Chapter Fifteen
Lorna’s Journal
I don’t have long this time, but I need to read more of this, to throw some light on what’s going on for me now. I feel guilty snatching these moments to myself, but I convince myself it’s for the best, that it will help repair things, to help me do what’s right, to stop my family falling apart. I couldn’t stand for that to happen. Not after everything. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Freya and Jack happy, my relationship alive. Thank God these words are here for me to look back on, to learn from, to reflect on until I figure out a plan. Because something needs to be done. I can’t carry on like this.
25 January 2017
It’s been nearly a week since I last wrote here. Mark’s downstairs watching something on Netflix, Freya’s been asleep for several hours and the kitchen is all tidy. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about Mark, that he likes everything shipshape for the morning. It makes things so much easier with busy family life. It’s a trait inherited from his military father, I think, though I hardly know Geoff, what with him and Margie living up in Durham. I didn’t meet them until I’d been living with Mark for at least a year and I know his relationship with them has always been a bit tense, but he told me especially so since Maria died. I’d hoped I could help build bridges for him, that we’d go and visit often, take the kids, but Mark is stubborn. His grief in the early days drove a wedge between him and most of his family and friends. He needed to mourn alone, turn in on himself, and I understood that. I’ve seen it enough times with clients. But long term, it’s not healthy. I wanted – want – to help him somehow.
I still sometimes wonder if he’s ashamed of me, that I don’t quite fill Maria’s shoes, and that’s why we don’t see his family very often. But I have to remember that I came with my own footwear, that hers couldn’t possibly fit. Though God knows, I keep trying to shoehorn myself in.
Anyway, I was quite happy to clear up the kitchen just now while Mark chilled with that new series he loves. He’d had a hard week so we’re not going out tonight. What was it he said? ‘I don’t deserve someone like you, you angel…’ It made me smile. So now I’ve come upstairs ‘for a bath’, as I told him, which is why I’m running one, even though I have no intention of taking it. I just need to write, to get it all out, to clear my head.
Andrew’s next appointment – only the second time I’ve ever seen this man in my life – was at three o’clock today. But he didn’t actually arrive at the clinic until three twenty-five. I thought he wasn’t coming. Felt so disappointed that he’d not called to cancel or say he’d be late. In fact, I felt panic-stricken. Bereft! Gutted! When he finally did arrive, he apologised of course, looking flustered, telling me about issues at home, stuff going on with his lodger. But I didn’t really hear him. Not as I should have done. I was just giddy to see him, as if he were someone I knew from the past and had missed terribly. (Giddy? Can’t believe I actually wrote that.)
I agreed to continue with the remainder of the appointment – he was still within his session time, after all, and had thirty-five minutes left – which is all I should have given him. Boundaries etc. But I let him run way over until four thirty. Rewarding his tardiness. The reality is, I broke a basic contracting rule for my own pleasure – the pleasure of being in his company. He was a delight to look at and I was still entranced by him – his kind voice, his warm and genuine words. It was easy to justify because I didn’t have any other appointments that day, was only planning on writing up notes afterwards, making some referrals. But I never got round to doing any of those things. Rather, afterwards, I sat staring out of the window, thinking about him. Thinking about everything. Trying to work out why he’d affected me so much. What it was about him that chimed with me. I still have no idea. Except that it’s something. I’ve never felt like this before.
‘I think we’d better end here,’ I’d said finally as the clock ticked on, making a point of glancing at my watch.
He just stared at me, gave me that smile – the one I’m slowly coming to know, even though I’ve only spent a total of two hours with him. A part of me believes that he knows what I’m thinking – a sort of wry flicker that gently tugs the corners of his mouth, flexes the scar above his lip. And, of course, I’m curious where the scar came from. It doesn’t look recent. But it does something to me. Something I can’t explain.
‘Shame,’ he replied, which tied in perfectly with what was in my head. ‘I was just getting warmed up.’
Warmed up. I wondered what he meant by that, but seeing as I’d not truly focused on anything specific he’d said that last hour – rather just got lost in his presence again – it was difficult to know. He wasn’t pushy, though. Nothing to suggest he wasn’t completely self-possessed. Unlike me.
(Writing’s getting messy again. I need to be able to read this back. And I still haven’t bloody well spoken to Chrissie to arrange a supervision session!)
‘Life has a habit of… changing,’ he’d said as he stood to leave.
I felt a chill then. Head to toe shivers as I showed him to the door, reaching out for the handle to open it, everything in slow motion, my hand not even looking like mine. As though I were someone else entirely, someone I didn’t recognise. I’ll be honest, I hated that he was leaving, hated that there was stuff I wanted to say even though that’s not the point of therapy. Then that scent again – the scent I’d noticed last week.
I felt dizzy, insane, upside down and inside out. I wondered if he knew.
He was beside me at the door, almost touching me as I stood frozen to the spot.
‘Just when you least expect it,’ I’d replied stupidly, looking directly at him, my cheeks flushing. His eyes drilled into mine for the shortest time, but long enough for a second wave of shivers. Then that smile. Melting me. Drowning me in… kindness. As though he was wrapping me up, taking care of me, rather than there being any chance of me actually helping him. ‘Maybe we can talk about that next session,’ I said, wanting nothing more than him to bend forward and kiss me.
And in my mind, he did.
Chapter Sixteen
Lorna
‘Cath, hi, it’s me.’
‘Oh… Lorna, what’s up?’ She sounds groggy, as though I’ve woken her.
I imagine her looking at the clock beside her bed, wondering why I’m calling at 7.21 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I pace about the kitchen. Mark has just popped out to get milk, and Freya’s up in her room playing. Jack won’t surface for hours yet.
‘I… I was just wondering if you’d heard back from, you know, that guy on Double Take.’ I slug a big mouthful of coffee. I don’t feel like my usual protein shake. And I certainly don’t feel like a run either. I shouldn’t have had that extra glass of wine last night, but my mind wouldn’t switch off.
‘Wow,’ Cath says with a throaty laugh followed by a cough. ‘I’m so glad you care… at the crack of dawn.’ She groans loudly.
‘But did you?’
‘Fuck knows, Lorn,’ she says. I hear noises as though she’s sitting up in bed, shifting into a comfortable position. ‘Why do you want to know?’ She makes a groggy sound again.
‘I was… I was just concerned for you, that’s all. You seemed sad about it last time I saw you.’
‘You
should have come to book club this Wednesday, then, to find out the next exciting instalment…’ She manages a laugh, having woken up a bit.
‘I’m sorry, Cath. You know I had to work late.’ Which was true. I stayed on at the clinic until nearly 9 p.m., catching up on all the things I’d let slip since Monday – since my second appointment with him. My mind had been in other places. Dark places. Places that I never wanted to visit again. Mark was understanding, as ever. I told him that we were short-staffed, that I’d been asked to help out. I hate myself for lying. For my tight routine slipping. Slipping because of the very person I implemented it for in the first place.
‘So, did you?’ I ask.
‘What?’
‘Hear back from that guy.’
‘I’ve been messaging several guys, actually,’ she admits in a flirty voice. ‘It gets hard keeping track of who’s who, to be fair. But Annie was right, improving my profile worked wonders. I’ve had loads of messages.’ Cath giggles and then I hear her footsteps, followed by the sound of her running the tap. ‘But I have to be realistic. It’s probably just because my hot friends are in some of the photos.’
‘Can you check?’
‘Check what?’ She gulps down water. ‘God, I’m thirsty. Overdid it a bit last night.’
‘Check your messages, Cath!’ I don’t mean to sound so on edge.
‘Yeah, I will later.’
‘Can you do it now?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. Now.’
‘Blimey, you really do care, don’t you?’ She laughs again. Good-natured Cath. I can’t tell her that it’s my marriage and family I care about more.
Me and Mark and Freya and Jack.
‘OK, hang on,’ she says. ‘You’re on speaker now so I can go on the app.’
I hear her breathing, the sound of her finger lightly tapping the screen. She hums for a moment while I go into the living room, glancing out of the window. There’s no sign of Mark.
‘Oh wow, I’ve had three new messages overnight,’ she says with a chirp. ‘Mmm, he looks nice…’
‘Cath, what about that guy, though – did you hear from him?’
‘Sorry, what was his name again?’
That’s a good question. I didn’t see if he’d used his real name or some other user name. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘You’ll remember him if you see him. He’s the tall one with the dark hair, green eyes. And the scar above his top lip.’ A shudder runs through me, a familiar wave of dizziness.
‘Lorn…’ Cath says, drawing out my name into a long, accusatory syllable. ‘You remembered he had a scar. And green eyes. Oh my God, you’re into him, aren’t you?’
‘Hell no! Don’t be so stupid. I mean, he’s good-looking, sure, but I’m with Mark for God’s sake. Why would you even say such a thing?’
‘Lorn, I was joking. Chill.’ Then silence while she checks through the app. ‘OK, I see the guy you mean. His username is Andy_jag.’
That figures, I think. I once read an online interview he’d given, and he mentioned his love of Jaguar cars, how he’d always wanted to own a classic.
‘No, no message back from him,’ Cath says. ‘Oh, but wait…’
‘What is it?’ Someone is coming down the stairs – Freya, most likely. I go back into the kitchen.
‘I can see he’s viewed my profile.’
‘Really?’ My heart thumps. In that case, he’s seen me too.
‘Yeah, actually about twenty times by the looks of it.’
‘You can tell how many times?’ I say, ruffling Freya’s hair as she pulls the chocolate milk from the fridge.
‘Yes… I can,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘In fact, it’s way more than twenty. He’s viewed my profile about twenty times a day since Annie sent him that message. But there’s no reply from him.’
‘Oh well,’ I say, trying to sound casual even though my throat is closing up. ‘Can’t win ’em all.’
‘He’s fit, but I reckon he knows it, if you ask me. He has that certain look in his eye, a bit cocksure. Frankly, I find it a bit creepy he’s been stalking me. Think I’ll block and delete him.’
‘No!’ I shriek, making Freya slosh milk on the counter. Instinctively, I reach for the cloth by the sink, my hand shaking as I wipe up the mess. ‘No, don’t delete him.’
‘Too late,’ she says. ‘Already done.’
And with those few words, the rest of my weekend is ruined.
I’d know Joe’s knock anywhere – three raps followed by a quick double tap.
‘Come in,’ I sing out, propping my glasses on my head. ‘Hey,’ I say, smiling. ‘It’s OK, my next one’s not due until three.’ I glance at the clock. Still half an hour. Half an hour before he comes. Joe sits down at the chair the other side of my desk.
‘Good weekend?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, not bad. You?’ It’s a lie.
‘Ah, you know,’ he says. ‘The usual. Footie training for the kids. Shopping. Chores. Errands.’ He pushes back a clump of curly blond hair that’s fallen across his forehead. It’s a habit he has, an endearing one that suits his casual but academic look – an open-neck pale blue shirt, light trousers, loafers without socks – it makes him seem approachable yet still professional for his clients.
‘Goes in a flash,’ I say, rolling my eyes. After I’d spoken to Cath early on Saturday morning, I was agitated for the rest of the day. Mark and I had planned to go shopping for a new sofa in the afternoon, but I told him I didn’t feel like it. I would have liked to replace the old one with something we’d chosen together, but my heart wouldn’t have been in it. I felt bad. We were also meant to go out that night to meet his work colleague and wife for dinner, but I feigned a headache way worse than just the nagging sensation pressing on my temples. Stupidly, I’d had one too many glasses of wine the night before and couldn’t face the chit-chat, the pleasantries – not with him on my mind. Mark didn’t grumble, but I could tell he was disappointed. I need to make it up to him somehow.
After months of hard work on myself, a solid ten months of not contacting him, of letting go, of healing the pain that had burnt through me, of trying not to allow a single thought about him to enter my head by fixing on a rigid routine that had reached OCD proportions, he’d burst his way back inside my mind. It was as though he’d never gone away.
Maybe he hadn’t.
Maybe he’d always been there, even way before I’d met him.
I stare at Joe, all these things rushing through my mind.
‘Is everything OK, Lorna?’ he asks.
‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘Why?’
He watches me, pauses, sizing me up. Then comes his empathic face, as if he knows something’s up but isn’t going to drill it out of me.
‘I dunno, you just seem…’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Maybe a little stressed, distant perhaps?’
I shake my head, grabbing my reading glasses as they dislodge. ‘No, not at all.’ I clear my throat.
The dimple in Joe’s chin puckers as he pulls a face. ‘Come on, Lorn. You can talk to me. Anything you want to bring to supervision?’
‘Oh, well actually, yes,’ I say, appreciating the diversion. ‘There are a couple of cases I’d like to talk about. One in particular. I’m seeing a lad called Tom. He’s nineteen. I think there may be historical abuse. Not certain yet but I’d like to get your take on it.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ Joe says. ‘You’re booked to see me Friday, but we can bring that forward if you like. Just in case there’s anything else on your mind too?’ He’s not letting up.
‘Friday’s fine,’ I tell him, when in reality I want nothing more than to open my heart, pour everything out right now. But I can’t. There are some things therapists never reveal in supervision – not if they want to keep their jobs, anyway.
‘Certain?’ He clasps his hands across his chest.
‘Certain,’ I say, shrugging, trying to look vague.
Joe nods, watching me.
> I clear my throat, straightening a stack of files. ‘How’s Sarah, anyway?’ I’ve only met his wife a couple of times.
That smile again. He leans forward, ignoring my question. ‘OK, look Lorna, I’ll be straight with you. Sandy mentioned something to me the other day, and I was wondering if you’d like to discuss it. About client booking arrangements.’
I feel the first flush of my cheeks as the burn begins to spread, radiating down to my neck and chest. I’m nodding a little, my mouth slightly open. ‘Oh, yeah.’ I give an awkward smile.
‘Sandy handles all the appointments, as you know, and obviously I don’t need to say anything about therapist–client contact outside of session.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ I say. My mouth has gone dry, but I daren’t reach for my water because my hand would shake too much.
‘She was just a bit concerned, that’s all.’ He pauses. ‘And frankly, I am too. She said that you took a client’s phone number from her desk a couple of weeks ago.’ He laughs, trying to dispel any tension in his usual Joe way, rubbing his beard. ‘In fact, she said that you snatched the client’s number from her pad, but I couldn’t imagine you doing that.’
I stare at the ceiling, pretending to recall what he’s talking about. ‘Ah, yes. I think I remember now. There was a client who was very demanding with Sandy, phoning all the time, giving her hassle. She seemed really upset about it.’
‘OK, so it sounds like you were trying to help her?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘Some people can be so rude.’
Joe nods. ‘Thing is, Lorna, a client is a client. Sandy knows how to handle the bookings, how to deal with the awkward ones.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Did you make contact with the person directly?’
‘Well, hardly,’ I say. ‘Just to fix up an assessment.’
Joe sighs, leaning back in the chair, slowly rolling his eyes to the ceiling. ‘And he came for the assessment?’
Tell Me A Secret Page 9