The silence seemed to last for an hour. Then came the squeak of rollers as large red curtains moved across the stage. No sooner had the curtains grazed each other, they parted again to reveal Jerome, now very much alive and standing centre-stage. His wife and children stood on his right, the woman in the red dress on his left. Other bodies swept in from the wings. As the audience rippled with sparse and unforgiving applause, the actors bowed.
Twenty minutes later, the dingy theatre bar was alive with voices and clinking glasses.
“So, what did you think?”
Emily sipped her orange juice as she looked around. Crushed blue velvet covered the walls. Gold-painted cornice, which was cracked and faded, decorated the edges of the nicotine-stained ceiling. A few of the other actors were gathered around tables with friends and family, who had come to see the show and were now sat smiling and nodding emphatically; a clear sign that they had hated every minute.
Jerome tapped his wine glass as he waited for Emily’s verdict.
“It was terrible,” she said. “Badly written, predictable, not to mention completely misogynistic. But you were very good in it.”
“Thank you, that was very succinct. You should write reviews for the papers.”
“Perhaps I will.”
Shoulders sinking, Jerome said, “Seriously though, for our opening night there was no one here. If numbers don’t pick up tomorrow, we’re finished. Then it’s back to waiting tables for me.”
“Which, to be honest, has more ethical merit than The Devil Wears a Red Dress.” Emily twirled the straw in her glass. She looked up to see Jerome’s wounded expression. “I’m sure another play will come along.”
“Thanks for your positivity.” Jerome winced as he gulped his wine. “For the amount they charge per glass you’d think they’d invest in something a little classier. Cheap shits.”
He watched Emily, who was lost somewhere in the space between them.
“What’s wrong? I know the show was bad but you’ve got a face on you like a cat’s ass.”
“I’m flattered you could tear yourself from your ego to notice.”
They both smiled. As their friendship had blossomed over the past months, they’d discovered a mutual fondness for playful banter, teasing each other like siblings.
“Touché,” Jerome said. “What’s up?”
“Bad day at the office.”
“Therapy? What did the delectable Doctor Dewar have to say today?”
“That’s confidential and you know it.”
“Sorry, my lack of boundaries knows no bounds. You know I’m here if you need to talk.”
Emily nodded. “Thanks. But can we talk about something other than my addled mind?”
“But it’s so much fun!” Jerome winked, then reached over to squeeze her hand. “We could talk about my lucrative career path as waiter to the denizens of London. Or the fact your sofa’s going to need new springs soon if I don’t save enough money for my own place. What a pair we are!”
He laughed. It was such a deep, heartfelt sound that Emily could not help but smile.
“You know you can stay with me as long as you want,” she said.
Jerome took another sharp sip of wine. “I know. And I appreciate it. But sooner or later, we’re both going to want our own space. Heaven help us, maybe we’ll both get boyfriends! Besides, not to sound ungrateful, but that sofa is wreaking havoc with my posture.”
“Is it weird? Living above the flat you used to live in?”
“A little. But mostly because I despise the couple that moved in there. Awful people! I shared the lift with them the other day and they behaved like I was about to pull a knife and snatch their wallets. I’m surprised Harriet hasn’t had anything to say about them.”
Emily pushed her orange juice away. Laughter exploded from the adjacent table. The bar had grown suddenly very noisy.
“I don’t think Harriet’s been out of her apartment much. I’m worried about her,” she said.
“I know what you mean,” Jerome nodded. “She hasn’t been the same since her fall.”
“It wasn’t a fall.”
Emily sighed, feeling the muscles in her chest contract. A group of twenty-somethings spilled in through the door behind, their excited chatter adding to the din. Emily’s thoughts returned to today’s session with Kirsten, to her desire to move on with her life. How was she going to do it? She felt trapped; as if the floor was quicksand and she was sinking further and further into a perpetual gloom. The bar closed in around her. Bodies pressed against each other, forming an impenetrable wall between Emily and the exit.
A handsome man called to Jerome, beckoning him towards the bar, where a group of cast members had gathered.
“Do you want to meet the guys?” Jerome was staring at her, concern wrinkling his otherwise flawless skin.
Emily shook her head. “There’s only so much fun you can have with orange juice. Go have fun. I’ll see you at home.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Go, before I tell your friends all about how you never wash your underwear.”
“Emily Swanson, you’re a scurrilous liar.”
Concern gave way to a blinding smile. Jerome leaned over, planted a kiss on her forehead, and then scurried over to join his friends.
***
The night was warm and sticky. Londoners were still sat on terraces and crowding the pavements outside of bars, making the most of the above average June temperatures. It didn’t matter that it was Tuesday and there were jobs to go to in the morning.
Emily walked along the Strand, moving away from the towering lions of Trafalgar Square and the tourists still posing for pictures despite the late hour. Soon, she was moving along Fleet Street, once home to the country’s national newspapers and named after London’s largest underground river.
She still preferred to walk than take the Underground. The idea of being squeezed into one of those trains along with millions of other bodies filled her with sweat-inducing claustrophobia. Besides, walking had helped her to get to know the city well. She had learned which streets were the busiest and which backstreets to take to avoid them. Despite the constant push and shove, she was getting better at manoeuvring through the crowds. But if there were quieter, less stressful routes to get to places, then it seemed ridiculous not to take them. And at least she was getting to places instead of staying cooped up in her apartment, slowly losing her mind.
Taking a left onto Fetter Lane, she journeyed towards Holborn Circus, crossed the busy junction and continued onto Farringdon. It wasn’t long before she was back at The Holmeswood and sipping valerian tea in front of her living room windows. Below, the street was almost empty. Above, the sky was a muddy green—the darkest London was ever going to get.
Thoughts played over in her mind like an orchestra tuning their instruments. She tried to shut them out, but they were relentless; taunting her, pointing accusing fingers.
Putting down her cup, Emily fetched sheets and pillows from the hallway closet and made up Jerome’s bed on the sofa. Normally, he would make it himself, but she had a sneaking suspicion that tonight he would require a little help. Switching out the light, she padded along the hall towards her bedroom.
This was the worst part of the day, which she approached with quiet dread. Kirsten had told her sleep would be the hardest nut to crack. After being induced into a three-month coma against her will, it was no surprise that her unconscious mind now associated sleep with blind terror. Recovery would take time. The sleeping pills had helped at first, but drugging herself nightly with more chemicals did not feel much like a cure.
Alongside exploring alternative natural remedies, Kirsten had provided Emily with a CD of relaxation exercises. Slipping it into the player, she hit the play button and then sank into her armchair. As calming music began to fill the room, she placed her heels flat on the floor and rested her hands on her lap. Kirsten’s velvety voice tickled her ears.
“Close your
eyes. Take in a deep, wide breath through your nose. Now, let it out slowly through your mouth. Imagine you are in a calm place. Somewhere you feel safe. A forest, or a beach. Take a moment to feel the warm sun on your face, a gentle breeze against your skin...”
The bedroom slipped away. Trees grew up. The scent of pine needles hung on the air.
“Take a moment to enjoy your surroundings. What do you see? What can you hear? You feel protected in this place. Nothing can harm you. Feeling very relaxed, you lie down...”
The trees turned to ash. White walls closed in around her. Harsh electric light crackled over her head. Something was choking her, reaching far into her belly.
Emily leapt out of the chair and switched off the CD. All she wanted was peace and quiet. How was she ever going to achieve that when her mind was constantly filled with chaos?
She wanted a sleeping pill. She wanted it now. It took all of her willpower to not pay a visit to the bathroom cabinet. Instead, she forced herself into bed and finished her valerian tea.
When she fell asleep two hours later, Doctor Chelmsford and Doctor Williams were waiting to greet her like old friends.
CHAPTER THREE
“You know what you need, don’t you?” Harriet Golding poured tea from a teapot and with a trembling hand, pushed a cup and saucer towards her guest. Emily sat on her neighbour’s couch, surrounded by piles of books and shelves of ornaments. Her neck muscles tensed. When Harriet began a sentence with those words, it invariably ended with a man or children.
“What you need is a holiday,” Harriet said, stirring a small mountain of sugar into her tea.
Surprised, Emily thought of the last time she’d taken a holiday. It had been seven years ago. She’d taken her mother to Somerset for a long weekend at a beautiful old guesthouse with a view of the River Sheppey. What should have been a relaxing break quickly dissolved into twelve nerve-wrenching hours. Convinced that her house would burn down while she wasn’t in it, Emily’s mother became increasingly agitated. When her worry turned into a deep-seated panic, Emily packed up the car and drove back home, the weekend over before it had begun.
A holiday might be the answer, she thought. A few days away somewhere quiet, far from the noise and pollution of the city. Far from people.
“You know, that’s the first good idea I’ve heard all week,” Emily said. “And thank you for not trying to marry me off for once.”
The old woman’s laughter descended into a cacophony of coughs and splutters. Emily put down her cup and placed a hand on Harriet’s arm.
“Don’t you go worrying yourself. I’m tough as old boots, me,” Harriet said, waving her away.
Emily wasn’t convinced. Harriet’s health had deteriorated over the past two months, leaving her gaunt and tired-looking, with constantly trembling hands. The night she had been attacked by the doctors’ men was taking its toll. Watching Harriet grow frailer each day left a horrible ache in Emily’s chest.
“You’re looking at me funny,” Harriet said as she used a handkerchief to wipe spittle from the corner of her mouth. “I hope you’re not sitting there blaming yourself again. I’ve told you a million times, the only ones to be pointing fingers at are the thugs who thought it was fine to throw an old woman down the stairs.”
Emily stared at the carpet. “But it would never have happened if I hadn’t given you that—”
“I don’t want to hear another word. The trouble with you Emily Swanson is you’re always giving yourself a hard time. I’m still here, aren’t I? And as long as there’s still tea in the pot I ain’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Got it?”
Emily leaned forwards and squeezed Harriet’s hand.
“You’re a good friend,” she said, smiling weakly. Despite Harriet’s words, the guilty weight in her chest remained. Distracting herself from further thoughts that Harriet would scold her for thinking, Emily stared at the towers of books filling the room. “Where’s that son of yours?”
Harriet snorted. “Andrew? I sent him for a walk. You know what he had the cheek to suggest this morning? That I go into one of them retirement homes for old folk! I shan’t dirty the air with what I suggested he do in return. My own son, trying to get rid of me! What a travesty! When my time comes, I’ll go quietly in the privacy of my own bed, thank you very much. Cheeky sod! If he don’t like it, he can take his bloody books and find his own place to live.”
“I’m sure Andrew’s just concerned about your welfare.”
“I tell you what that boy should be concerned with—finding himself a nice wife, that’s what.”
Emily tried to stifle her smile. At the age of fifty-two, Andrew hadn’t been a boy for quite some time.
“Speaking of concerns,” Harriet said, slurping her tea, “is Jerome still sleeping on your sofa?”
Emily nodded.
“People will talk you know.”
“I’m sure people have far more scandalous tales to gossip about than a friend sleeping on my sofa.”
“All the same, you’d think he’d have found a place to live now that you’re back with us again. Here, he’s not taking advantage of you, I hope?”
Emily bit down on her lip, refraining from telling Harriet to mind her own business.
“I’m sure Jerome will find his own place just as soon as he can afford to. Until that happens, he can stay as long as he likes. Besides, it makes me feel safer having someone around.”
Harriet narrowed her eyes. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it’s a pity he’s fancy or you two would be perfect for each other. Still, you don’t want him sleeping on your sofa for too long. What if that fiancé of yours shows up one day wanting to woo you back?”
Emily stiffened. Perhaps she would tell Harriet to mind her own business after all. Not that Harriet would take the slightest bit of notice.
“I haven’t spoken to Lewis in a year,” Emily said through tight lips. “And if he did show up, the only thing he’d be wooing is the door in his face.”
Cackling, Harriet set her cup and saucer down with a clatter.
“You definitely need a holiday!”
***
By the time Emily returned to her apartment, her mind was clogged with unwanted memories. She found Jerome at the table, nursing a mug of coffee.
“How’s the hangover?” she asked him.
“Like a pickaxe to the head. Where’ve you been?”
“Across the hall. Harriet is still convinced we’d make couple of the year. If only you weren’t fancy.” Emily slumped into the chair next to him.
“Fancy? That’s a new one. Well, let the woman have her dream, I say. You have to feel sorry for her—she has more chance of us getting together than someone ever taking Andrew off her hands.”
Emily prised the mug from his fingers and took a sip of coffee. She liked the way Jerome made it: syrupy and bittersweet.
“I think that’s the last thing Harriet wants,” she said. “She’d be all alone. Anyway, maybe Andrew’s happy being single. There’s more to life than getting married, you know.”
“I think we’re both living testaments to that.” Jerome rubbed his tired eyes. “Someone’s got a bee in their bonnet. Why the angry face?”
“Harriet brought up Lewis again. I wish I’d never told her about him.”
“She just wants to see you happy.”
“By marrying the man who walked out on me weeks after my mother died? Who chose to save his career rather than his relationship after everything happened with Phillip?”
“The man’s an asshole and if I ever have the displeasure of meeting him, I shall tell him so too,” Jerome said, stealing his coffee back. “Harriet’s just being Harriet. She has an opinion about everything, but she doesn’t mean any harm.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.” Emily sank lower in the chair. She could feel the start of a headache, and judging by the pressure already building at the base of her skull, it was going to be a humdinger. She glanced at Jerome,
who had picked up his mobile phone and was flicking through emails. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Acting my heart out. Sunday’s a day off, though. How come?”
“I was thinking about getting away for a few days.”
Jerome looked up from the screen. “You mean like a mini break? Emily Swanson, you’re becoming so London! I’m impressed. Did you want me to come with you?”
Emily shrugged a shoulder.
“So Harriet was right. You are in love with me.”
“The only person in love with you is you.” She wrestled the coffee mug out of Jerome’s hands again and brought it to her lips.
“A break would do you good, you know,” Jerome said. “Recharge the batteries, reset that crazy brain of yours...”
“Less of the crazy, please.”
“I’m just saying that you’ve been through the wringer lately.” He shifted his gaze for a second. “You’re looking tired too. I know you’re still having trouble sleeping.”
Emily stared at him, feeling prickles of heat on her face. If Jerome had heard her screaming herself awake at night, he’d been keeping quiet about it. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really. The walls of the apartment might be thick but they weren’t exactly soundproof.
“So where would you go on this mini break?” Jerome asked, holding out a hand. Emily gave him back the mug, which was now empty.
“I don’t know. Somewhere quiet, leafy ... where there are no crowds.”
“Sounds terrifying.” His face lit up with an idea. “How about going on a weekend retreat? A friend of mine goes twice a year. He swears by it, says it helps him to put his life into perspective. You could work on your meditation or try out some yoga. Give your mind a spring clean.”
A weekend dedicated to clearing her mind certainly sounded appealing, Emily thought. She had only just begun experimenting with meditation and was struggling to get the hang of it. Perhaps a weekend of learning the correct techniques would help her decide. Just as quickly as her intrigue had appeared, however, it faded and was replaced by anxiety. What if she spent two days in intensive meditation and still couldn’t get it right? What if she failed in front of the other participants? What if exploring the dark recesses of her mind accidentally freed all those nefarious thoughts she kept locked in cages?
Cruel Minds Page 2