I give a tiny nod, unable to speak.
‘Then I’d like to see your notes from that session and any subsequent appointments.’
‘Of course,’ I say, making a pained face. ‘Is tomorrow OK?’ I don’t reveal that he’s actually my next client.
‘Sure.’ He waits for what seems like an age before standing and going to the door. Hand on the knob, he turns, looking back at me. ‘You know where I am if you want to talk, Lorna.’
Chapter Seventeen
Lorna
‘Thank you for seeing me again,’ he says as we go into my office. As ever, it’s his scent that hits me – that familiar mix of spices and danger hanging in the air, making me feel light-headed as I lead him through.
‘No problem,’ I say, businesslike, closing the door, sealing us in for a third time. Though in reality, it is a problem. He’s the worst kind of addiction. The worst kind of danger.
‘I offered you the three sessions, Andrew, and I don’t renege on clients.’ What I really mean is that I’m too scared of the consequences.
We both sit down – me wearing grey trousers and a cream long-sleeve blouse to keep myself as covered up as possible – and him in jeans and a plain black T-shirt with a dark jacket over the top. I remember his brown leather shoes, remember once commenting on their quality. All these tiny things. Little triggers.
‘So, how have things been this last week?’ I try to make it sound the same as it does to all my other clients – interested but not pressuring, empathic and genuine without being patronising. But with Andrew, it comes out trite and awkward.
‘Fine, thank you. Really good in fact.’ His confidence makes me believe him, makes me hate him that things are so wonderful for him when they’re the opposite for me. Since he came back.
‘Good?’
‘Sure,’ he says again, shrugging and giving an amused smile. ‘You sound surprised.’
I pause, looking at him, trying to keep a neutral look, trying not to let it turn into anything more than engaged eye contact. Trying not to show my longing.
‘I’m a therapist, Andrew, and usually people come to see me when they have problems.’ I wait for his response, but he says nothing. ‘This is our second actual session now, not counting your initial assessment, and I’m still not clear why you’re here. You have one appointment left after this, so now’s your chance to share anything you’d like to explore with me.’
‘Three sessions isn’t a lot,’ he says, his tone suddenly serious, regretful.
‘Perhaps you’d like to talk about your personal life,’ I say. ‘It was the reason you came to see me last year, after all. Maybe a recap would be useful for you?’ Or useful for me, I think. Even though I’ve tried to forget him, I’ve been desperate to know what’s been going on with him, who he’s seeing. If he misses me.
‘Sure,’ he says, folding his arms across his chest and grinning. His scar creases upwards. ‘Ask me anything you like.’
‘Thing is, Andrew, therapy doesn’t really work like twenty questions. I’m here to help you help yourself.’
‘Help myself… to what?’ he says with almost a wink.
I look away, trying not to let the smile come. What is it about him, after everything, that still makes me want him? It’s as though a loved one has come back from the dead, as if he’s filling a void I never knew existed.
‘You know what I mean,’ I say. ‘And you know how I work.’ I just need to get through the next hour.
‘I can’t forget you, Lorna,’ he says, knocking me off balance. ‘What we had was—’
‘Have you tried dating since I last saw you?’ I can’t let him go there, taunting me, sparking old feelings. ‘It might help.’
‘You mean since we last fucked?’
‘Andrew—’
‘You’re curious, aren’t you, in a twist-the-knife-in kind of way?’
‘Is that what you think?’ I laugh, feeling my cheeks burning. ‘You’re the one who came to see me, remember?’
‘Anyway, “dating” sounds too much like teens at a high school prom,’ he says. ‘We didn’t date, Lorna. We had sex.’
I close my eyes for a moment too long. ‘Sounds like you’re feeling a bit cynical about the whole idea of meeting new people?’ I force myself to stay focused.
Andrew shrugs, pulling a face as if I’ve struck a nerve.
‘Have you tried any dating sites? That could be a good way to meet new people.’ I’m pushing hard, I know, but I need to know if he spotted me on Cath’s profile. ‘It might help you to move on.’
‘Christ, no,’ he says. ‘Absolutely not.’
I nod slowly, knowing for sure that he’s lying. My heart clenches. Such a basic lie confirms that he was no doubt lying about that woman too, his lodger – that he was doing the same with her as he was with me. I hate that I’m in no position to feel as jealous as I do.
‘You seem pretty adamant about that,’ I say, testing.
‘Why do you think I came back to see you, Lorna?’
‘Really, I have no idea. It’s what I’ve been trying to establish.’ I try not to sound scared, even though I am.
Scared of loving him again.
‘It’s simple. I wanted to see you,’ he says. ‘No other reason.’
He sounds genuine.
‘But… but why now? And why like this?’ My heart relaxes, unable to keep up its frantic pace, as though the toughened outer layers that have formed these last ten months are dissolving. Peeling away as my blood warms.
‘I told you, it’s simple. I miss you.’
I look away – towards the window, across at my desk, scanning all the psychotherapy books I have on the shelf behind it, the neat stack of files on my desk… anything. Anything to ground myself, to stop the feelings igniting.
‘Andrew,’ I say, uncrossing my legs, then crossing them again. ‘I’m in a very happy marriage and I want it to stay that way. I can’t explain what happened last year any more than you can. Yes, it was intense, and yes, it was unexpected. But we only met because I was your therapist—’
‘Are my therapist.’
‘No… no, I’m not your therapist. Don’t you see? A therapist having any kind of relationship with a client is strictly forbidden. Let alone a married one.’ I turn away again, closing my eyes and covering my face with my hands.
‘Did your husband ever find out?’
‘No,’ I whisper from between my fingers, feeling the tears prickling in my eyes.
Oh God, Mark, I’m so sorry…
‘Then he won’t find out about us this time either.’
I turn round again to find Andrew in front of me, crouching down, his hands resting lightly on my knees. Our eyes are locked in that fragile moment between something happening and me stopping it. My heart races, pulsing in my throat as his fingers work slowly up my legs, veering off at my thighs as he takes hold of my hands. He lifts them to his lips.
‘Andrew—’
‘I want you, Lorna. I still love you. I’ve always loved you.’
‘Please…’ I try to pull away, but he holds me tighter.
If someone comes in and sees us, I’m finished. I tense, finally sliding out from between him and my chair, going over to the window. I take a few deep breaths, pushing my fingers through my hair, sweeping it back off my face. I stare out of the window at the small square opposite, shaking, trying to ground myself. The same homeless guy is there, as ever, lying on the bench. And there’s a woman there too, smoking, looking agitated. She turns quickly away when she sees me watching.
Suddenly, I feel light-headed, as if the floor’s fallen away and I’m floating. I make it over to my desk, holding on to the edge to steady myself, putting a hand on my temple as the ringing in my ears grows louder. I don’t feel well. Don’t feel like me.
‘Lorna?’ Andrew says, coming over. ‘Are you OK?’
I shake my head, which makes him go more out of focus until he transforms into someone I don’t even recognise, as though
he’s someone from long ago. All I can focus on is his scar, while breathing in the strange, spicy smell. He holds me, guiding me back to my chair, pouring me some water. As I sip, the room gradually comes right again, and he turns back into Andrew.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling a cold sweat break out. ‘I… I don’t know what happened.’
He crouches down beside me, his hand on my legs again. ‘You’ll have to try harder than that to get rid of me,’ he says, his face deadly serious.
Chapter Eighteen
Lorna
‘You know me so well,’ he says, coming up behind me and pressing himself against my back. He nuzzles my neck, making me close my eyes. ‘My favourite.’
‘I’ll have to beat you off with my wooden spoon,’ I say, waving it in the air as he slides his hands down my body, across my hips and around to the front.
‘You don’t want to go upstairs quickly before dinner?’ Mark takes the spoon from me, dipping it in the saucepan, tasting it. ‘Oh God, scratch that. This trumps sex.’ He licks his lips.
‘Oh. Thanks a lot,’ I say, laughing. ‘Second best to fish curry, am I?’ I spin around, grabbing him.
‘A very close second,’ he replies, making me think of what – or who – else I fall short of.
‘Anyway, I made it because I wanted to do something nice for you. You deserve it.’
‘I do?’ He kisses me, tasting of Thai spices. ‘It’s not even my birthday.’
‘Does it have to be?’ I kiss him back, this afternoon’s session with Andrew still thrumming in my head as though there are three of us in this kitchen. Then my phone pings in my bag on the table, making me stop, mid-kiss. Frozen. I turn back to the hob feeling the colour rise in my cheeks even though it’s probably just Annie or Cath texting about something or other. Then it pings again. And again.
‘Miss Popular,’ Mark says. ‘Want me to get that for you?’ He reaches for my bag.
‘No. No, that’s fine. It can wait.’ I screw up my eyes, stirring the curry.
‘Sure,’ he says quietly, and I hear him hanging it on a hook on the door. ‘I’ll set the table, then.’
* * *
After we’ve all eaten, I busy myself with washing up – plus scraping Freya’s virtually untouched meal into the bin. I hate it that she’s not eaten properly, and she didn’t say much when Mark asked her about her day either – checking how her reading book was going, coaxing her to do her piano practice later. She shrugged an evasive reply, nibbling a piece of fish and complaining the sauce was too spicy. Jack wolfed his down, not saying much either before making excuses to get back upstairs to his coursework.
A normal dinner. A normal family. A normal wife and husband, except the wife has unread text messages on her phone burning into her heart. The last ten months’ work on myself may as well have not happened.
‘Want to carry on with that Netflix thing?’ Mark says when I’m finished. ‘I’m too knackered to play squash tonight.’ He’s already told me about his tough day.
‘Tempting,’ I say. ‘But I ought to listen to Freya reading first. There was a note from her teacher in her school bag last week, asking me to make sure I do it with her every night.’ I pause for a moment. ‘Then I’ll need to chase her into the bath, help her tidy her room.’
‘I’ll watch the news until you’re done, then,’ he says, giving me a squeeze. When he’s gone from the kitchen, I slip my phone from my bag and go upstairs.
‘Frey-frey,’ I say from the landing. ‘You reading your school book?’
‘Uh-huh,’ comes the vague reply from her bedroom.
I poke my head around the door to find her lying on top of the bed, her tablet propped in front of her. She quickly pauses the movie when she sees me, a guilty look on her face. I make a silly face in response. ‘Run yourself a bath soon, then, you monkey.’
She nods gratefully, making me curl my toes into the carpet and close my eyes for a second. I shut the door behind me and head up the narrow staircase into the loft spare room – the room Mark and I both use as an office. We converted it not long after I moved in, and there’s a sofa bed for guests up here too. It’s a bit cramped, but there’s enough space for us to catch up with work if necessary.
I sit down at my desk, stubbing my foot on a box underneath. ‘Oww,’ I say, scowling. It’s the last of Maria’s personal stuff – a few things that Mark still can’t – or won’t – let go of. I don’t mind him keeping it, but we could do with the extra space these days. I’ve gently mentioned charity shops a couple of times, but his blank stare stopped me bringing it up again.
I pull the dusty carton out from under the desk. The flap pops open, allowing me a glimpse of some of her clothes, a jewellery box, a few scarves and a couple of books – none of it very neatly packed. I stare at the contents for a moment, wondering whether to dig deeper, but decide to seal it up with tape instead. I don’t want to pry. I slide it across the floor under Mark’s desk, along with the couple of others he’s got stashed there.
I drop down on the sofa, closing my eyes, allowing my head to fall back.
I remember the first time he invited me here, a little while after we’d started seeing each other. Maria’s stuff was still everywhere, as though she’d just popped out to the shops even though she’d died a couple of years earlier. I was surprised, but knew it was because he wasn’t grieving properly, not moving on. Bringing me into the house for only a couple of hours was hard for him, let alone considering us moving in together. He needed to accept that she really wasn’t coming back, but I knew it was going to take time. I just wasn’t sure how long.
In the end, it was another eighteen months before he finally asked me to move in. Most of her stuff was gone by then, with the sentimental things he couldn’t let go of packed away. I know he gets them out occasionally to look at with Jack, to tell him stuff about his mum he wouldn’t otherwise know. I try to keep out of the way, understanding it’s part of the process. It was a big change for him, bringing me into his life, and it wasn’t long after I moved in that I fell pregnant with Freya. This loft conversion was me wanting to put my stamp on the house, wanting to make it feel more like mine and Mark’s. My nesting instinct. It was all worth the wait.
I turn my phone over and over, still not knowing if the messages are from him. Savouring the moment. In reality, it’s probably nothing more than a silly YouTube link from Cath, or a message from my mum about coming to visit at the weekend for Easter or, more likely, something about Dad. When I finally pluck up the courage to unlock it, my finger shakes.
Meet me.
Tomorrow morning.
Shots 10.30.
‘Shots,’ I whisper, thinking back to that morning last year, when everything was OK. When I was just hanging on. I still don’t know if it was coincidence or a set-up by him – I’d only stopped at the café to grab a quick takeout coffee, and I was already running late for the office.
‘Lorna?’ someone behind me in the queue said, touching my shoulder. I swung around to see a man’s face.
‘Oh… I, um…’ I tucked my hair behind my ear.
My eyes locked onto his as they drew me in, his very presence stripping me of coherent words. He had exactly the same effect on me there as he had done in the few therapy sessions we’d had so far. I hated myself for it. And it wasn’t getting any easier.
Shit, I’d thought, reeling myself in, stepping back a little. There’s a protocol for bumping into clients outside of a session, but all good sense seemed to dissolve in an instant. I couldn’t help it.
‘Oh, Andrew, hi,’ I said, trying to sound casual. My smile came automatically, and he reciprocated with a bigger one. ‘After a caffeine fix too?’ I joked, putting my hand on his arm. His arm. Three rules broken – only acknowledge a client if they acknowledge you, but certainly don’t use their name in public. And definitely don’t ask questions or prolong the conversation. As for touching them…
He looked down at my hand, so I whipped it away, pulling m
y purse from my bag, head down, as we edged forward in the queue. I knew some of my colleagues from the Medway came into the café sometimes. I’d have a lot of explaining to do if I was caught chatting to a client.
‘Essential to get the creative juices flowing,’ he’d said. ‘What’s your poison? My treat.’ He’d already told me in session he was an artist.
‘Oh,’ I said, caught off guard again. However small a gesture it was, it would make me indebted to him – and not just financially. In therapy, it’s all about balance of power – in that there should be no disparity between client and counsellor. It’s an equal relationship. Accepting gifts, however small, is against the rules. ‘That’s very kind,’ I replied, knowing I should have made my excuses, left the café. ‘Thank you. A soy latte would be great. With an extra shot.’ I dug my nails into my palms, praying no one I knew would come in.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘I like a woman who takes it strong.’ He winked then, though I couldn’t be sure because all I heard was good girl ringing in my ears a thousand times. The ground seemed to fall away, and I went woozy, almost as if I was drunk. All I could manage was a laugh – a stupid little girl laugh that dissolved the last of my boundaries.
He ordered, paid and we went outside. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his paper cup.
‘Yeah, um, cheers. And thanks,’ I replied, cupping my hands around my drink. It all felt so wrong, yet ridiculously right too.
Looking back, I hate it that Mark was nowhere in my mind.
‘I’d like to buy you a proper drink sometime, if you’re free one evening,’ he said as I was about to leave, wrong-footing me again. By then, I was punch-drunk.
‘Oh, well…’ I said. ‘It’s not really, you know…’
‘Ethical?’ he said, so I didn’t have to.
‘Yeah.’ I pulled a silly face, stepping from one foot to the other. It was freezing. ‘I shouldn’t even really be talking to you now, truth be known,’ I admitted, which, in hindsight was stupid. But those eyes, his lips, the scar, the stubble on his jaw disappearing down beneath the black scarf he wore… I didn’t think I’d ever seen a man I found more attractive. Or if I had, it hadn’t felt anything like this.
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