by A J Waines
But she’s obviously disturbed. She’s in the kitchen now and keeps sighing loudly as if something has upset her. I’m tempted – oh, so tempted – to break cover, to reach out and hold her. To comfort her and let her know I’m there for her. But before I get the chance to move, she’s got her coat on again. I’m disappointed. She’s leaving me. Don’t go. Please stay, Sam. I hear the click of the front door. She’s gone. I feel cheated. I’m all on my own again.
I go into the kitchen. Sam has boiled the kettle but not used the water, so I fill up the mug beside it and make the cup of tea she was going to have. That cheers me up a bit. It feels like we’re sharing something. Then a thought occurs to me and I shiver with delight. I’m going on a treasure hunt!
I’ve snooped before, of course, but this time I’m looking for something specific. Would she hide it away in her own flat? She certainly wouldn’t leave it in plain view in the sitting room; she knows I look at her bookshelves when we have our weekly session and she wouldn’t risk leaving it there.
I go through every room with a fine-tooth comb. I check top shelves, the backs of drawers, between folded sheets, under the mattress. All I come across is a couple of adverts for dating agencies torn from magazines and an out-of-date packet of condoms in a drawer. So that tells me something, I suppose. Not quite got the perfect life, then?
I’m about to leave empty-handed when I come across something. It’s not her personal journal, but a ring binder with my initials, ‘RC – confidential’ inside her briefcase. Could it be a special file just for me?!
I slide it out. She doesn’t use my full name, but it’s about me, all right; on the front page she’s written details of the crash and a few lines about my past. It’s not as good as her diary, but it’s still enough to set my heart racing.
It will be almost as good as having Sam here herself. Her words, her thoughts. I only get to see her for one hour each entire week; so that means a hundred and sixty-seven hours a week without her. How am I supposed to survive on that? Reading her notes will be like climbing inside her head and taking a good look around.
In my excitement I nearly drop the file and it falls open at the last page. I start reading, but within seconds I feel all queasy and churned up inside. I don’t like what I see. She’s written all kinds of awful things about me – saying I’m clingy and attention seeking.
‘…shows tendencies to manipulate…’
What? I can’t believe it! I thought she liked me. I read on and…what the f—! It says here she’s been trying to end our sessions, for ages. She’s had enough of me. It sounds like she hates me. What’s going on?
I slam the file down; it’s dirty, evil.
I want to rip out all the pages, but I make myself shove it back where I found it. I should go. If I stick around I might do something rash and ruin everything.
I slip on my trainers and pluck my jacket from under her dressing gown. I bury my face in the fluffy pink fabric to comfort myself for a moment and before I know it, angry tears have made their way onto the collar. I let them linger there as a gift.
Chapter 32
Sam
On Sunday, I took my bike on the train over to Richmond Park so I could pedal like a maniac into the wind and pretend I was in open countryside. As I wheeled it back to the station, I felt myself being spooked by the sound of footsteps gathering speed behind me, then by a car slowing down at the kerb. The silent calls were doing this to me. Turning me into someone who listens too hard and peers over their shoulder far too often. When I got home, I couldn’t shake off that jittery feeling and for some reason my flat didn’t feel as comforting as usual.
I was convinced there was a new smell in the air; some sort of floral perfume. Cleaning fluid? Air freshener?
My skin prickled. Was someone else here? How could they possibly have got in? The windows were all locked. I went into the hall and checked my front door; there was no sign it had been forced and there were mortice locks in addition to the Yale.
I had to set my mind at rest, so I started in the hall and began checking all the cupboards. I tugged at the thick curtains in the sitting room, squashing them against the wall before closing them. I checked the shower cubicle, then in the wardrobe and under the bed. I started to feel ridiculous. If someone had got in they’d have taken things of value; the television, iPad, laptop, camera – but nothing seemed out of place. I opened my jewellery case, but nothing appeared to have gone.
Finally, I gave up and went into the kitchen. I switched on the radio so I couldn’t hear the day-to-day creaks of the flat and misinterpret them. I did a few jobs to keep myself on the move; re-arranged books on the bookshelf, emptied the waste bin from my bedroom into the swing bin in the kitchen, but in truth there wasn’t much to do. The bath looked shiny and clean, the shelves weren’t dusty. I was about to put last week’s dead roses in the bin when I realised I’d already done it. The vase was empty and upside down on the draining board.
I was still uptight and couldn’t settle, so I decided to head out again. I wanted to wear my comfy brown boots, but couldn’t find them anywhere. This was getting weird. Maybe Miranda had borrowed them without telling me – except she hadn’t been to the flat in ages.
It was too cold to stroll around the common, so I drifted mindlessly in and out of shops on St John’s Road, trying to lose myself in the wafts of freshly baked bread, the rainbow colours of thick winter woollies with twenty per cent off. I held mohair scarves up to my cheeks, ran my fingers through the coarse oily fibres of Icelandic jumpers, trying to capture some of the comfort and get rid of my uptight feeling.
A display with a running model train in a window caught my eye and I stood to watch the locomotive stop at the station, then carry on into a tunnel. I was about to turn away when a shape in the reflection made me shudder. A man was standing still, conspicuous because everyone else was on the move, heading somewhere. I turned slowly, but by the time I was facing the pavement, he’d moved.
He must have had a trim; the bald patch between the two tufts was more pronounced, but it was definitely Bruce. He was carrying two plastic carrier bags and was looking away from me, marching purposefully up the road. Did he live around here? Had he been following me? Was this just a coincidence?
I didn’t want to risk bumping into him, so I swiftly retraced my steps and jumped on the first bus to Camden. I found myself walking into the Urban Shack Café, where I’d been with Miranda, and ordering a coffee with a cheese and onion pasty. The people here seemed like Miranda’s kind of people – colourful, exuberant and spontaneous. With the familiar bustle and lively music, it felt safe. I half expected her to walk in – half hoped she would, but I was unlucky.
I dipped the last of my pasty in the tomato sauce and decided to see if Miranda was at the gallery. I wanted nothing more than to make contact, feel connected, feel attached to the one person I hoped would be a cornerstone in my life. Finding out that she and Con had been…well, it was devastating and had hurt me more than I could ever have imagined. But, my relationship with Con had been over for months and I had to find a way to cope with it.
I walked into the main display area, the café and workshop in turn, but Miranda wasn’t around so I approached someone in the foyer.
‘Miranda’s not in, today. She works at home a lot. Shall I tell her you came by?’
‘No, it’s okay…’
I wandered out like a lost dog unable to find its owner.
Unwilling to go back now without at least seeing my sister, I crossed the road, passed a line of cars and turned into the street where she lived.
What was the point of this? If she was painting she wouldn’t want to be disturbed and she could easily be out somewhere. Besides, she might not be alone. He might be there. Then what would I do? But still, my footsteps carried me onwards.
I was only a few houses away when I saw her front door open. My first thought was to hide, so I dived behind a wheelie bin at the roadside as if I was tying my shoelace.<
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Miranda stepped out and turned to stretch a hand towards the person behind her. Sure enough, Con took it and locked the door behind them, like it was second nature. I cursed myself; I shouldn’t have come unannounced like this.
They were heading towards me. I pulled up my hood and turned straight through someone’s gateway, hoping no one was home. Standing on tiptoes to see over the high hedge, I watched them walk hand in hand up the road. A scorching pain flared under my ribcage. I hurried back to the pavement and strode out in their direction, staying on the opposite side of the road, watching them. They swung their arms like children and Miranda nuzzled into his neck. Not serious, eh?
They reached the end of the road and turned in the opposite direction from the gallery, heading along the high street. I half jogged to get a bit closer; with more people around it would be easy to lose them. What was I doing? What was I hoping to gain? I knew the answer straight away. I wanted to see how they were with each other. I wanted to see what their relationship was like for myself, not hear a watered down version of it from Miranda.
They went into a fashion boutique and I feigned interest in a shop window opposite, trying to find them in the reflection. I heard Con laugh as they moved on and took off after them, staying on the other side of the street.
I remembered the last time I’d been alone with Con. I’d left him sitting on a bench at a National Trust property with only a bottle of whisky for company. We hadn’t spoken since. I’d had a few measly postcards from him telling me when his next film was coming out, that’s all.
When had it started with my sister? Had they talked about me, about how they would keep it a secret? I was quite prepared for Con to let me down, but not Miranda. That felt like one twist of the knife too far. Except, could I really call it betrayal, when I was the one who had ended it?
I kept a steady distance until they reached the park. At times they hugged, walked arm in arm or had their arms wrapped tightly around one another, always in contact. It was difficult to watch, yet I was transfixed. I kept wondering how often we’d done that, Con and I. Not often. That had probably been my fault. He’d always criticised me for not throwing myself into the relationship.
Miranda skipped along beside him until they found a bench under a sprawling horse chestnut. They huddled together, Miranda reaching inside his coat to bury her face in the crook of his shoulder.
From time to time they exchanged words and looked at each other and kissed. Miranda gave him a playful punch at one point. Then they kissed for a long time.
Why did I let him go?
I had to pull myself up short. Hold on. Be realistic. This wasn’t the full picture. Con had been moody and aggressive whenever other men came on the scene. I’d only had to mention a name and he’d bristled. It happened time and time again. That wasn’t what I wanted. Perhaps he was different with Miranda. In any case, I didn’t need to be concerned. She wouldn’t put up with any nonsense. She was never one to hold back if something was cramping her style.
For a while, I hovered at the edge of the grass, watching, stepping from side to side to keep warm. I checked my watch a few times, so I’d look like I was waiting for someone. Pathetic. What had I been reduced to?
I was exposed now and it was difficult to stay close without being seen. I began to worry that one of them would look up and recognise me so I turned, head down, and hurried back to the bus stop.
When I got home, I blocked my number and called Con’s mobile. As it rang, I pictured him still sitting where I’d left them. Wrapped around each other, oblivious to the cold.
‘Yup…’ came his chocolatey actor’s baritone.
‘It’s Samantha – er, sorry to bother you.’
‘Sam…’ He sounded surprised.
‘It’s okay, by the way, I know about you and Miranda and I’m…fine with it…honestly. I know that Miranda lost the baby, too.’ My voice cracked. ‘You can tell me to mind my own business, but I need to know…one thing.’
I heard a roar of traffic. They were still outside.
He was going to put the phone down, I just knew it. I gripped the receiver, as if by holding tightly enough I wouldn’t lose him.
He cleared his voice. ‘Didn’t you ask Mirrie?’ he said.
‘Mirrie? Who’s M—’
There was so much I wasn’t party to. He sounded like a total stranger and he was turning my sister into one too.
‘You and I haven’t seen each other for over a year, right?’ he said coldly.
‘Yes.’
‘Haven’t I the right to move on?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s just—’
Why was I so desperate to know whether he was the father of her child or not? Couldn’t I let it go?
‘Is that everything?’ he said. He was enjoying exerting this power over me.
‘No…no, it’s not...are you going to brush this away without…?’ I could hear my voice splintering and felt a tear roll down my cheek.
‘Mirrie wants a word,’ he said. There was a crackle and my sister came on the line.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said chirpily. There was a tiny hesitation. ‘We’d like you…to…you know…come and have lunch or something, sometime.’
I admired her bravery in attempting to smooth things over, but I wanted answers. Was I overreacting? Would any normal person think that I had no right to know the whole story, that this was none of my business?
‘That would be…lovely,’ I said.
I could think of nothing worse. My feelings of betrayal cut too deeply to move on so quickly. How could I sit there, helping myself to another fondant fancy, carrying on a merry conversation with this hanging over us? It wasn’t so much that she and Con had been to bed together, it was the fact that Miranda had been with Con in a relationship, had got pregnant and never told me. It made me feel shut out, totally disregarded, trampled on. ‘Got to go – someone at the door,’ I muttered.
I put down the receiver and sank down onto the sofa, burying my face in the stale cushions.
Chapter 33
Sam
Rosie was due any minute, but I was weary after a hectic day at the hospital and had a churning stomach ache. I should have been reading through the notes I’d made last week, but my mind was meandering all over the place. It had leapt to a different time altogether. How it had all started – last Christmas. Scenes began playing out inside my head.
It began with a call from Joanne on my mobile, late one evening. She sounded like she had been running, was out of breath and babbling something about not feeling safe in a whispery voice.
‘Can you come over, please, just this once,’ she’d rasped at the other end. ‘I’m not feeling right at all.’
Joanne was only seventeen and had been seeing me for three months at the hospital for severe anxiety following the stabbing of a fellow student at college. She’d mentioned having suicidal thoughts during our early sessions, but we seemed to be making progress and I judged her to be no longer at risk.
‘You know I can’t do that,’ I said. ‘You know I’m not able to see you outside of hospital hours, but you can get help in lots of other ways.’ I’d given her the numbers of 24-hour helplines so many times that she knew them off by heart, but I ran through them again and explained that I’d contact her GP the next day, if she wanted me to. All the usual steps.
‘I don’t want to speak to a stranger,’ she’d pleaded. ‘I only want to speak to you. Please come.’
Joanne wasn’t living with her parents because they’d had a terrible row about her boyfriend. Her father had more or less kicked her out, though her mother wasn’t happy about it. As a result, Joanne lived with a bunch of rowdy students in a house due to be demolished – not the best environment for her in my view.
‘I can spend a few minutes on the phone with you now,’ I told her, ‘but that’s all. You’re due to see me tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. We can talk again then.’ I’d already had a telling off from my sup
ervisor for giving her my mobile number to use ‘in an emergency’.
Joanne had sounded desperate and started to cry, but it wasn’t me she needed – just someone who would listen, be with her and calm her down. There were plenty of trained and willing volunteers out there who could do that job just as well as I could.
That’s what I thought, anyway.
‘Can’t we bring our session forward to tonight, instead, at my bedsit?’ she sobbed.
It had been drilled into me, during my training, to watch out for patients who tried to manipulate situations. Dr Rosen would have said Joanne was using classic techniques to test me. He’d already warned me that turning up to ‘rescue’ her would only feed into her early childhood fantasies and ruin all our work together.
I knew it made sense, but nevertheless I’d always felt there had to be exceptions. She was only seventeen – she was allowed to need rescuing at seventeen, wasn’t she?
But I didn’t step in.
I should have acted on my instincts. Joanne was vulnerable and felt like my responsibility. I should have been there for her.
‘I’m sorry, that won’t be possible,’ I’d told her. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock and it’s not the way this works. You managed to call me. You need to call one of the other numbers I gave you…’
Even as I said it, I knew at the back of my mind that I was wrong.
Her morning session came and went and that’s when I bolted over to her house. But I was too late.
Her parents came to St Luke’s every day for five days after I found Joanne’s body, to point the finger at me for letting her die. There was nothing I could say or do to ease their pain. I’d let Joanne down. I’d failed her because I’d stuck to the rules.
The intercom buzzed and I let Rosie in.
She walked brusquely past me towards her chair and started talking before she sat down, obviously agitated and upset.