Her Greatest Mistake

by Sarah Simpson

  Me or her? I wondered. What must it be like to be so without conscience, never giving a second thought of repercussions for people? How much lighter and freer must you feel? Freedom or isolation? But then I’d learned: you could never feel isolated, could you? Not with so much ego filling the void. You never lost sleep over such issues, as I would. But then, as you often bragged, ‘Sleep is for the weak. I can survive on a few hours if necessary!’ To be fair, you often did. Were you part robot? A cog for a brain, a casket for a heart?

  You were senior partner material in a respected firm of solicitors. You worked ridiculously long hours, demanding the obligatory networking and entertaining at extortionate costs to the clients. There were other things too, though I wasn’t supposed to know about those. And I didn’t initially, leaving my conscience so much lighter then too. But as time bellyached on, I heard things I shouldn’t have. Clumsy speak of clandestine meetings. I heard murmurs; I wished I hadn’t. These changed us for good. I say us, but there never really was an us, was there?

  ‘Eve? Where are you this morning? You look vacant.’

  I bit my tongue. ‘I’m listening.’ How you relished being the centre of attention, exhibiting a burly confidence, fine-tuned into mists of abundant charm. But to me you were becoming a monster, banqueting on compliments and far-reaching praise. This was your fuel, was it not? In so many ways I saw a walking contradiction, a complete enigma, but in others, a straight and concrete operator. You led without followers being aware. A consistent crowd of disciples and hangers-on. Callous motives lay behind those eyes. Nobody else seemed to notice.

  You removed your trousers from the overused press. ‘You think too much,’ you said.

  I ignored you. ‘Did you sort things with Andy yesterday?’ I asked.

  You fished out your belt from the wardrobe. ‘Huh. Of course. I just told him – we’re working late tonight.’ Flashing a smile at yourself in the full-length mirror.

  ‘He wasn’t amused – “I can’t, I’ve family matters, Gregg.” So I replied, “Okay, fine. But you really should have mentioned your lack of commitment before.” “But, Gregg, I’ve worked late for the last two months. It’s my daughter’s birthday,”’ you mimicked your colleague as you fastened your tie, still smiling.

  ‘I told him, “As long as we’re both reading from the same sheet, realise where your priorities lie. Of course, join your family. Please do, pass on my very best wishes.”’ You smirked, reaching for your jacket. ‘Sometimes, I can’t resist pulling rank. He’ll learn.’

  I bit hard on my lower lip. I wondered at your ability to interchange or amputate your emotions. In the next breath you would send flowers to a senior partner’s wife. A thoughtful anniversary gift. You’d wine and dine and charm your disciples. Deliver compassion, empathy and concerned expressions. Learn of their weaknesses and plot their demise. I take little solace in knowing you deluded even the most astute. Ruthless, spellbinding. You, the sculptor. You didn’t fall at the feet of empathy. You picked it up and stored it. A human emotional jukebox. Selecting and demonstrating appropriate emotions to achieve the required outcome.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll learn. Or lose his job, whichever comes first,’ you said.

  Bile threatened my throat. How many people had fallen at your feet? How well you were camouflaged in your professional suit.

  ‘Don’t wait up.’ You smirked over your shoulder. ‘Oh, and say hi to Jack from his daddy. Tell him I’m going to make us rich.’ You smiled. ‘Very rich.’

  A sixth sense forewarned me there was still far worse to come.

  Chapter Four

  Cornwall 2016

  The dashboard clock ticks to 08.02 on a typical autumnal Cornish morning. A low sun hangs between turning leaves. A morning warranting a mindful appreciation. But I’m switching in and out of autopilot as my world attempts to submerge my floating body. I see the beautiful horizon; I don’t feel it. My mind is a stew of rapid bubbling thoughts and images, desperately trying to push back each mutinous ingredient.

  Just because I’m a psychologist, people assume I’m so together; if only they knew the half of it. Had some appreciation of my inner turmoil. I’ve even noticed recently, I’ve been afraid of time alone. Too much interfering noise, thumping at my rationale. Ever since the phone call. Not so much a phone call as a silence. A drawn-out silence, with someone listening intently at the other end. The number was withheld but I understood the message. I ended the call – my instincts told me to – gathering a small amount of feigned control.

  I see my knuckles pale, so I reduce the grip on the steering wheel. Shaking off the shiver running down my spine. Nothing too strange about receiving withheld calls, wrong numbers. But this wasn’t one of those; this was a message. Glancing at the dashboard clock, I see I’ve seven minutes before you call again. You’ve called every day since that first call, at 08.10 sharp.

  There’s something else pushing the adrenaline button, a horrible nagging feeling. Jack missed his school bus this morning, so I was chasing him around the house like a sergeant major, his ability to interpret the notion of moving quickly being non-existent. I’ve been rerunning through the events since, over and over, but I can’t quite remember.

  I waved the Geography book in front of Jack’s face, having spent the previous ten minutes hunting for it. ‘For God’s sake, Jack! Why didn’t you look for this last night instead of messing about on that stupid game? We’re going to be late. I’m going to be late for clinic. Again!’

  He was sitting on the sofa, squashing the back down on his shoes, rather than undo them, to slide his feet in easily. ‘Because… I didn’t think about it last night, did I?’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Exactly! You didn’t think about it!’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly, how could I have looked for it, then, if I didn’t even think about it?’

  ‘Again, this conversation is going nowhere. This attitude of “only think about it when I have to” has to change. Jack. Are you even listening to me?’

  He frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Just hurry up. I’ll see you in the car.’ I reached for my mobile and keys, then opened the front door. ‘One day it would be nice to leave the house without my blood pressure reaching for the sky.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, Mum. Sounds cool.’ He continued lifting cushions and throwing them back down again. ‘Before you go, have you seen my—?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  So, I was running late, in such a fluster. For the life of me, I can’t remember – did I lock the kitchen door? Did Jack do it? I’d let our cat, Humphrey, out before we left, but did I lock the door after him? I keep trying to retrace my steps in my mind. But all I come back with is brick walls and fuzz. With a twisted stomach, I continue to wind my way home to St Agnes, my home village, postcard pretty. It’s 08.09. Until the phone calls, we’d almost managed to stuff our heavy baggage deep down in the dark limbic system. Now, stress hormones are gradually creeping back through the back door. My sleep cycle has bowed to their intrusion. Hence why I keep forgetting things, doubting myself. I’m anxious but haven’t the time to be. Is Jack aware? My little absorbent sponge, soaking up my emotions, internalising them as his?

  I jump at the trill of my mobile, breaking hard, I squeeze my car into the bramble and stop. I snatch at the device, to answer your call. I don’t speak. Each intake of air hurts; something is crushing my chest. I hold the phone at a distance on loudspeaker, not wishing to be close to you, in any way. Silence. I see you smirk, loving your perceived power. You don’t see it, do you? Despite my fear, I will not bow down to you again. I’ve too much to lose. At 08.11, I hang-up. Why do I play your games? Because it’s the only way I will ever be rid of you. However much it pains me, playing your game is the only way. Sometimes, I scare myself, no longer recognising who I’ve needed to become. It revolts me to think I’ve needed to behave anything like you, in order to survive.

  I head back off, being roughly only five minutes from home, switching on the radio.
Anything to shroud the images of you. The curse of the imagination, I tell my clients, re-establishing old neural pathways. The greater the imagination, the greater the fear. How often I see people’s lives destroyed by this and worrying, the perverse comfort blanket. Somewhere along the twisted life line it’s believed worrying keeps us safe. Always on-guard, balanced on the lookout post, with a gunshot startle response. Last night it meant I slept with my car keys and mobile laid ready in position on my bedside table. Just in case.

  From my objective position in clinic I ask anxious clients, ‘What evidence do you have for this worry? Actual facts, not subjective reasoning?’ Mostly, they have none, but my worries are fed from past battered memory templates. Preparing me for fight or flight. With the smell of impending danger. A whiff of insanity. A scent of you. I do have the evidence. We relocated to Cornwall to escape. But even then, how do you ever escape something implanted in your mind? I turn off the radio, or the Pied Piper of emotions, as I prefer to call it. Each track to be vetted as a potential co-conspirator, sneakily partnering up with emotions in a microsecond. Does perspective change with music? Or does music change perspective?

  Then there are the shadows too, the feeling of being watched, opaque dark shapes playing with my eyes. Not long before that first phone call, they seemed to appear. When I leave work, when I’m at home, something in the air, something dark, lingering. Biding time. I can’t go to the police; experience tells me I’d be wasting my time. Not long after our divorce proceedings began, you were there, waiting, and watching. I know you were; I could feel you. Following us home from the park, waiting for me to leave for work, just outside the window – whilst I read Jack his bedtime story. You were there. No crime without evidence though.

  Just a feeling of being watched. That’s it? they said.

  How stupid would they make me feel again?

  Miss Sands, what exactly do we have to go on? they’d say. Other than an empty phone call, and what else was it you mentioned? Oh, yes, shadows in the dark?

  History repeating. I was married to a psychopath. Years of hell. Near-death experiences. The things I thieved, how about those?

  It’s 2016. There’s been no contact for ten years. That’s a very long time ago. We’ll need something more concrete to implicate your… ex-husband? they’d demand.

  Something else: there’s been a definite shift in Jack’s carefree demeanor; I’m sure he senses you too, your presence. Hunted, wounded animals, aren’t we? Or, even worse than sensing your proximity, maybe Jack knows something he hasn’t wanted to share with me? He’s really only a child but even so he tries to protect me, from you, from the memories. He’s been a little secretive with his mobile, now I think of it. But he’s just being a teenager, normal. Isn’t he?

  I will not go back to my cell of old but how can I deny I remain locked in your world? Too many lies; too many secrets. The world we created together. Both of us declaring to be the casualty. But now I hold the key to freedom, there doesn’t appear to be a door, never mind a keyhole.

  You have the door; I have the key.

  Waiting and watching.

  You’re getting closer again, aren’t you?

  Chapter Five

  Nothing can be obvious; discreetly does it.

  No one will realise I was ever here.

  How bloody crazy; why leave the door unlocked? Especially you.

  A foolish mistake or, in your defence, an overwhelmed mind? Both.

  Dangerous. Good job I’m here.

  Still, can’t help getting a thrill, being places I shouldn’t be, operating behind the scenes. Takes me back to the good old days. To be fair, I could only observe for so long; I needed to gain access to what lay inside. For your sake and mine.

  My mind has become an expert camera.

  Record an image and store.

  Move important object to become an untrue image.

  Return to reflect the true image.

  Time; I must be aware of time.

  I’ll secure the back door before I leave, then exit via the front.

  Come on, you should know, Eve, the truth is dangerous in the wrong hands.

  Chapter Six

  Cornwall 2016

  I creep nervously into my own home; listening. Silence. Keys clasped tightly in my hand. No obvious signs of an intruder, no kicked-down doors or shattered crockery strewn across the floor. My heart pounds in my ears like a damp drum as I slink through the kitchen towards the back door. Startled, as a dark shadow thuds at the window. I jump and drop my keys. The minute sound of my keys hitting hard floor fills the room. ‘Christ, Humphrey, why did you do that?’ He waits in total nonchalance at the foot of the door outside. I rattle the handle, and breathe again. Thank God, I did lock the door.

  But still there is something alien dangling in the air. If I didn’t know better, if the door had been unlocked, I’d swear someone has been in my home.

  I pull open the door to an appreciative ball of fluff; he wraps himself around my legs. Purring. I pick him up and snuggle my face into indulgent fur, allowing my heartbeat to return to baseline. ‘You’re coming upstairs with me, mister, keep me company whilst I get ready for work. Frightening me like that, how could you? Haven’t you realised you’re living with a neurotic woman?’

  I survey the sitting room as I creep through, before gingerly taking the stairs, still half-expecting someone to jump out. ‘What’s wrong with me, Humph, eh? Why can’t you talk to me? Did you see anyone?’ I sneak along the landing towards my bedroom, stopping to check Jack’s room first, all the usual potential hiding places. The wardrobe, under the bed. Nothing but used crockery – Jack and his blinking late-night cereal cravings. Still with Humphrey purring in my arms, I move on to my room.

  I place him on my bed, where he immediately stretches out to fill the abstract shape of sun rays. ‘So tell me, Humph, to pull myself together. No one’s been in the house. The door was locked and there’s no other way in.’ Big round eyes glare back at me before he begins his grooming process. ‘No useful words of wisdom, eh? Anything will do? Or have you been silenced? Coerced to the dark side?’ He gives me the look of disdain only cats can do. ‘I get it, you’re just refusing to humour me. Wise move.’

  I convince myself it’s safe for the moment. I need to get a move on for work. An invigorating shower of soft florals, all the time with a watchful eye on the door. Only panicking when the shampoo temporarily obscures my vision, rinsing it through as quickly as if my life depends on it. Not long later, I leave the house, double-checking the locks. Not bad, a transformation from home-comfort clothes to a tailored azure dress. Softly applied make-up, coral lips. Elegant shoes with a sharp distinguishing echo. Finally, my files, mobile and diary. All in less than thirty minutes. Trepidation has its perverse benefits.

  Ready for another borrowed day.

  Choosing where to open my clinic was easy. I peered through sash windows before a toadying agent opened the door to the pretty, terraced, Cornish sandstone and slate building. Proudly nestled between its charming unassuming neighbours. Two mottled slate steps lead the way to the solid wood door of 39b Lemon Street. Warm, humble and crammed with character. Inside, a large reception window films passing life, sweeping down to the heart of Truro. ‘Sometimes, things just feel right,’ I’d agreed with the toady agent.

  Knowing Ruan, my fresh-faced, uncomplicated-by-life assistant, will always be there to open up first is a blessing. Despite his ungodly early morning jaunt to catch the sunrise waves. He’s then usually followed by Bea, the physiotherapist who sublets a room. Today, when I push through the door, characteristically late, the sunlight fills the reception area, elbowing through the leaded window. The cream slatted blinds are pulled back tight to allow shimmering beams to create a warming ambience. Thoughtful shadows grace the archetypal dense walls. Not all shadows are dark, I remind myself.

  ‘Hey,’ Ruan greets me, sauntering away from my room. He nods towards a rigid-looking man sitting in Reception between us, who�
��s eyeballing the window. Gazing anywhere other than at me.

  ‘Morning, Ruan. Here, grab these, will you?’ I pass him the loose bundle of files trying to leap from my arms.

  ‘For your room or filing?’

  ‘My desk, please. Any chance of a—?’

  ‘Coffee? Yep, already on it.’ He smiles, feigning to stagger with my files.

  ‘You’re an absolute star, have I told you? I couldn’t ever be without you.’ I indicate towards my client. Ruan shakes his head. No, I didn’t think he’d accept a coffee.

  My room leads directly from Reception, where old fosters new, modern, light and airy but still entirely intimate. The colours are cool yet warm, shades of white, pale blues and citrus-fruit seasonings. Natural oak shelving engulfs the walls; heavy with journals and books, some receding to my undergraduate and training days. Two hardbacks take precedence on the top shelf. One of these, an extremely worn leather-bound Complete Works of William Shakespeare. The other being The Meaning of Dreaming, my early allure to the workings of the human mind. Little did I know then the importance of dreaming, the power of REM sleep. As I sat cross-legged on the floor devouring its contents, I trustingly believed all dreams became true. Now, I understand, it’s only the nightmares.

  I reach for the timeworn literature bible; inside the cover, an old-fashioned script reads:

  Mervyn Oliver 18th April, 1909

  My grandfather. I grew up in Stratford-upon-Avon. It still riles me that I was never a fan of Shakespeare; his works were, though, significant to someone who was significant to me.

  I jump with the awareness of movement behind me. ‘Coffee time!’ Ruan swirls my china mug under my nose before placing it on the desk. ‘Hot and strong, just for you.’