by A J Waines
I could sense tears bubbling away under the surface, but she battled to fend them off. I was annoyed that Rosie had put me in this awkward position, but I felt I had to say something.
‘It must be hard working in a music store with other people’s music around you all day.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘You so dearly wanted that for yourself,’ I said. ‘To be playing to an audience and recording your own CDs. You could so easily have been one of them.’
She gave a hollow laugh and turned to look at me. ‘I’m used to being invisible.’ She wriggled on to her side and made a pillow with her hands. ‘Do you believe in God?’ she said.
‘Er…that’s a big question, Rosie.’ I hid a sigh.
‘It makes no sense if I was the only one who survived the crash. I mean what would be the point in that? Why would God or fate or whatever bother to save the runt of the pack?’
When I got home I opened my laptop. I needed to know. Rosie had skimmed over her history during our sessions, but I wanted the details of all the bits she’d left out.
I typed a few key words into the search engine: death, Rosie’s surname and seven years old to see what came up. It was all there. Big news at the time, twenty-seven years ago. Mildred and Keith Chandler lived in a tiny rundown terraced house, in Bognor Regis. Rosie was their only child.
Mildred had come home one day, ready to pack her bags. She’d had enough. She was finally leaving the man who had gambled away all their money and beaten her on and off since their wedding day. She’d told a close friend she was taking Rosie to Portsmouth then heading over to the Isle of Wight, until she worked out the next stage of her plan. Keith Chandler had other ideas, however. He’d come back unexpectedly from the pub and as soon as he realised what was going on, he locked Rosie in the garden shed, telling her to see if she could count to a hundred before he came back. Then he took his air rifle, went into the bedroom and fired fifteen shots at his wife at close range as she folded her pyjamas. Rosie climbed out of the shed window and walked in on him just after he’d stopped firing.
He’d led her to the kitchen, saying there had been a ‘terrible accident’ and told her to butter slices of bread for tea while he went to get help. As she ran the knife across the squares of Sunblest, he took a length of rope from the shed and hung himself from the banister on the landing.
I closed the lid of the laptop and pressed my hand over my mouth. Rosie had been seven years old. Both her parents had died within minutes of each other. Right in front of her. How does anyone ever lead a normal life after that? How can you possibly pick yourself up, dust yourself down and get on with your life after something so devastating?
Rosie said she’d been passed from one set of distant relatives to the next never getting close to any of them. They took turns to reject her and then she embarked on an endless round of foster homes.
In the three sessions we’d had she came across as terribly immature for her age: hapless, inelegant and unsophisticated. Quite possibly, a result of never having had a consistent and solid role model. It occurred to me that she’d probably not been any real trouble to anyone; her only crime being a desperation to be loved.
I drew my feet up on to the sofa and stroked the threadbare velvet cushion that had gone everywhere with me since I was a teenager. What happened to Rosie wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault. None of it. I squeezed the cushion and made a decision. I was going to help this woman. I was going to give her the best shot I possibly could.
As promised, Hannah sent me an invitation to the retirement party of a psychoanalyst at her clinic. Being Harley Street it was a lavish affair with lashings of champagne and trays of speciality nibbles; odd little creations involving caviar, king prawns and avocado. There was even a melted-chocolate fountain for marshmallow and strawberry dipping.
Hannah wasted no time in introducing me to Giovanni, the new hypnotherapist. I saw his eyes travel down my slinky black cocktail dress and dizzily high stilettos and felt sultry and a little risqué, especially as our glasses were being constantly refilled by the waiters hovering at our elbows.
Hannah had already told me that Giovanni was in his mid-thirties and from Milan. A thin, expertly clipped chinstrap beard made him look like a philosopher and the whites around his smoky brown eyes were pure, without a single red vein. He explained he’d travelled as far as Peru, loved reading the Russian Classics and was partial to dancing salsa. He listened attentively, asking pertinent questions about our shared interest in the hidden machinations of the human mind. He was smart, erudite and thought-provoking. He couldn’t have been more perfect – except there was simply no spark.
After the obligatory speeches, a singer took to a small stage at the side of the room and began crooning his way through a few slow ballads. When I heard the opening sax intro to Careless Whisper, I stood and listened, my neck tingling as the melody surged around the room. The singer caught my eye and from then on he seemed to be directing the words straight at me, holding his microphone suggestively, his voice seductive and intense.
Guilty feet…should’ve known better…
He was breathtakingly good-looking – and very young.
‘You’re not serious?’ exclaimed Hannah, when she spotted me ogling him. ‘Melissa, over there, has just told me he’s twenty-two, for goodness’ sake – and lives in Leeds.’ She put her hand up to my eyes to block my view of him. ‘He’s totally unsuitable – don’t even think about it.’
‘But…he’s gorgeous…’
She tugged my arm and pulled me to one side. ‘Sam, listen to me. Your relationships are always the same; fabulous sex at the start, then weeks when you’re scratching your head trying to work out what on earth you’re doing with the guy.’ She discreetly checked over her shoulder. ‘What about Giovanni? I thought you two were getting on really well.’
‘We were…’ I avoided her eyes, ‘but there’s no oomph.’
‘Don’t give up so fast!’ she hissed. ‘Can’t you try being friends first – give it time and see if the magic happens later? Do you at least like the guy?’
‘Yeah. He’s…’ I struggled to find something remarkable to say. ‘Interesting…’
She tutted at me. ‘Interesting is one of those bland words, Sam. Try a bit harder.’
‘The problem is I’ve met loads of guys like Giovanni who seem, on paper, like they’re a perfect match, but it rarely seems—’
‘You’re hopeless,’ she groaned, but didn’t walk away.
‘You’re spot on,’ I conceded. ‘I’m supposed to be an expert in psychology, paid to counsel others on affairs of the heart amongst other things, yet I’m a complete fraud when it comes to my own love life.’
She nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, you are, Willerby…yes, you are.’
I leant against her, the alcohol causing havoc with my ability to stand upright in high heels. ‘One of these days I’ll get myself into therapy again – get someone to sort me out.’
‘That’s the best idea you’ve had in ages, Sammie,’ she said, putting her arm around me. ‘You’re still bloody gorgeous and I’m truly blessed you’re my best mate.’
I felt myself flush and my thoughts led me back to Con. I fell so hard for him at the start. The sex had been brilliant and I’d loved feeling desired; just being in his presence seemed to heighten all my senses, but the rest of our relationship had been out of kilter. As well as his possessiveness, he didn’t really ‘get’ me as a person. I’d tried to understand and respect him, but it felt like a one-way street.
Things came to a head between us when I got close to someone special at St Luke’s, although I never stepped over the line while I was seeing Con. I’m loyal like that. Nonetheless, it was enough to show me how much emotional intimacy was missing between Con and me, and after that it was hard to make the relationship work. It was a shame and I missed him. The world had felt different when we were together; brighter, fuller, more alive and exciting, trembling with possibilit
ies.
‘Why is love such a minefield?’ I said, with a sigh. ‘I know “companionship” and “compatibility” are essential qualities for a lasting relationship, but in the heat of the moment, the chemistry takes over with me. My brain wants one thing, my body wants another.’
‘Because there are so many kinds of love,’ Hannah said gently. ‘It gets mixed up with attraction and sex and family patterns…’
‘You see, I know all that. If a patient came to me in my situation – you know, lust obliterating common sense every single time – I’d conclude they were damaged in some way.’ I looked into her face. ‘Am I damaged?’ I tottered slightly and she kept her arm around me.
‘We’re all damaged, if you want to use that word,’ she replied.
‘What word would you use?’
She shrugged. ‘I’d say we’re all still learning.’
I thought about it and smiled. ‘That’s a much better way of looking at it.’ I grabbed her hand. ‘I’m going to miss you like crazy when you go,’ I added.
At that point, Hannah was swept away by a colleague with an album of wedding photos, so I helped myself to the buffet.
Shortly afterwards, the singer took a break from his set and I watched him weave his way around the room, stopping to chat to people, nodding and smiling, hands in his pockets. His messy hair fell in long blond layers over his forehead – it probably took him ages to create that unkempt look. His skin was immaculate, so smooth that perhaps he hadn’t even started shaving yet. Inwardly I cringed. Sonny, that was his stage name, was way too young.
He saw me and I felt my cheeks prickle. A raw desire ignited inside me, but after my brief chat with Hannah I was determined not to act on it. If he’d been interested I could easily see myself jumping into bed with him, but I knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere and I’d regret it the next morning. He’d have left by first light, back to Leeds, anyway, without so much as a nice knowing you.
Instead, I slunk back to Hannah and tried to look interested in the wedding album. Would I ever manage to sort my own love life out?
Sonny was beside the fondue fountain by then, talking to a woman around my age wearing tight leather trousers. When I looked up again, they’d gone.
Chapter 9
Sam
Rosie came hurtling in to her next session, her hair in a cartoon frizz as though she’d been plugged into an electric socket, her eyes panda-black with smudged mascara.
‘I can’t come any more,’ she gasped between sobs. ‘Work won’t let me. They won’t give me any more time off. I can’t believe it. It was all going so well. What am I going to do?’
‘Hold on. Slow down. What’s happened exactly?’
She flopped into the chair. ‘My boss thought I was only going to need a couple of appointments, like physiotherapy or something. I thought they understood!’ She dropped her face into her hands. ‘I can’t see you any more. It’s a disaster.’
Knowing Rosie’s fractured background, I could see how this could, indeed, feel like a catastrophe to her.
‘You don’t work weekends…or after hours, do you?’ she asked looking up, her face suddenly hopeful.
‘I’m afraid not.’
Her shoulders sank. ‘What am I going to do?’ she repeated, she had a finger in her mouth and began chewing from nail to nail. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to cope…’ She put her head to one side. ‘You don’t work in another clinic, do you? Or privately?’
I hesitated. No, I didn’t, but there was, in fact, no reason why I couldn’t work from home. I’d thought about it many times. All I needed to do was set up the insurance.
I was about to explain this to Rosie when I stopped myself. I could almost hear the blare of a loudhailer in my head shouting, Don’t do it! I knew exactly why. I’d come across clingy patients before. Was Rosie likely to be one of them? Would I regret inviting her into my own personal space? She’d already turned up ‘coincidentally’ at the spa. Did I want her knowing where I lived?
‘Listen, I’ll give our sessions some thought. I’ll contact you – but I can’t promise anything, okay?’
‘Okay…’ she whispered, with an undertone of defeat. Her cheeks puffed out into a pout as she dropped her eyes to the floor.
I waited.
‘Are you ready to try a memory exercise?’ I asked softly.
‘Er…yeah,’ she said, shuffling in the seat, as if she’d forgotten why she was there.
I invited her to lie down and get comfortable on the low chaise longue I use specially for this kind of therapy. I unfolded a blanket, laid it over her and pulled it up to her chin.
‘I’d like you to close your eyes and visualise exactly where you were before the crash. Choose a moment when you were in the van, before it left the road. Can you do that?’
‘Mmmm,’ she muttered, her eyelids fluttering.
‘Now keep that image in your mind and really imagine that you’re there. Step into the scene as if it’s happening now. Notice the temperature, the quality of light and what you can feel under your hands…’ She stayed still. ‘Try to recall the taste in your mouth, what you can smell, whether anything is touching you and what’s going through your mind. Can you do that now?’
She dipped her chin a fraction, without a sound.
‘Try to keep all your senses alive as we proceed.’
She made a little sighing noise and held out her hand. ‘I want to keep part of me here in the room with you,’ she murmured, her eyes screwed firmly shut.
I took it, allowing her fingers to wrap tightly around mine. It wasn’t unheard of for patients to reach out for support as they sent their minds into the darkest recesses of their past.
‘Tell me where you are,’ I said.
Rosie wriggled for a moment, then settled. ‘I’m sitting hunched on the wheel hump…’ she muttered. ‘It’s dusty and I can feel a layer of grit under my hands…’
‘Good…’ She had tuned into the exercise straight away. ‘What else?’
‘The windows aren’t open. Why not?’ she mumbled, squirming. ‘It’s stuffy inside the van. I’m sure Richard had his window down when we came up from London.’
‘Okay, stay with it. Focus on what you can see out of the back of the van…the road…how fast you’re going…’
I stayed quiet, watching her face as she began reliving the horror of what happened next.
‘I tip to one side as we go round a bend, then we seem to be going really fast all of a sudden. I’m getting thrown around and I’m trying to stop the instruments from getting bashed about.’
She winced. ‘There’s a rough jolt.’ She squeezed her eyes tighter, scrunching up her face, gritting her teeth. ‘We’re falling forward and the instruments are sliding towards the front seats. Whoa…I can hear a splintering sound…we’ve broken through a fence. There’s another thud...’ She squirmed, her hand sticky now, holding on for dear life. ‘Oh, God, it’s coming in. The water. Really fast. It’s covering the floor, swooshing over my legs…’ She tried to sit up, her eyes still shut, but I gently eased her back down again.
‘It’s okay, Rosie, you’re safe,’ I said. ‘Try to stay with it. What else can you see?’
‘I don’t know…f-figures in the front seat.’ She snatched a breath and her skin whitened a shade. ‘Stephanie’s throwing herself across Max, hammering at the door. She’s yelping like a dog. Max is swearing. He’s shouting out something about the seat belt. They’re both wrenching at the straps and the plastic sockets. I can’t remember Richard. The water’s getting higher. Hurgh…’
She sounded like she was about to be sick and reared up, opening her eyes. ‘I’ve got to get OUT…’
‘It’s okay – you’re at the hospital. Let the pictures fade for now and take some deep breaths.’ I peeled my hand away from hers and held out a glass of water.
We left the exercise there. I was astonished: Rosie was a natural. Most patients took weeks before they could relax sufficiently to relive a traumatic inci
dent like this.
I brought her fully out of the trance state and she sat with her knees pulled in towards her chest, still under the blanket. Revisiting a shocking event brings its own level of trauma, so I gave her a few moments to establish that she was back in my office and out of danger. She returned to her original seat soon after and we discussed what she’d remembered.
She looked grave. ‘I think there was a problem with the seat belts. I don’t think Max or Steph could unfasten them. They were trapped.’ She sat up holding her throat and I thought she might be about to heave again. I ran for the waste bin.
‘I’m okay,’ she said, patting her chest.
‘When you travelled up from London were you in the front of the van?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have any problems with the seat belts, then?’
‘They were a bit stiff…’
‘Did the windows have winders or were they electronic?’ I’d been meaning to ask this question for a while.
‘There were buttons. I remember fiddling with them on the motorway and Richard told me off.’
In reading up about the crash, I’d come across reports of similar accidents where the central locking had gone haywire underwater. One driver, having escaped from a submerged car, had gone back down inside it to find his wallet. Without warning, the windows and doors had locked – the system jammed shut – trapping him inside.
‘You think someone messed with the controls so we couldn’t get out?’
‘It’s more likely that the central locking system shut down underwater. I’ve read that can happen.’
‘But what if someone wanted us trapped down there so they could get their hands on Max’s violin? I mean that’s the obvious motive, isn’t it?’
‘I really don’t know, Rosie. It’s probably best not to jump to conclusions.’
‘Max certainly wasn’t shy about telling everyone how much it was worth.’ She stroked her earlobe absently. ‘Such a terrible risk, though – deliberately sending the violin into the water…it doesn’t make sense.’