Eventually he raised his eyes and looked straight into mine. “I’d need to know you better before I could . . .”
I tried to listen, but I began to feel like a startled rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car.
“I’m hoping to find someone . . .”
A car with very big headlights on a very dark, rainy night.
“. . . someone I can trust.”
I felt a sudden flush of heat rising up from my chest. I looked away, hoping it wouldn’t spread to my face.
Countertransference, I told myself. When you get emotionally entangled with your client, start to believe that you love or hate them with a passion. Just displaced emotion from other relationships in your life. It had cropped up rather quicker than usual in this case, even before the transference. (That’s when the client starts to think they love or hate you with a passion.) But I wasn’t too worried. I was pretty sure I could handle it. The situation, if kept well under control, could even prove enlightening, for both of us. As I said, I’ve learned to trust myself over the years.
Gwydion blinked, and I blinked, and the moment passed.
I glanced at the relief on the opposite wall. It was white, and calm, and serene. The circle seemed to sit naturally among the squares, quietly confident that it was in its rightful place.
“Well, Gwydion,” I said. I looked back at him and smiled my kindest, most sensible smile. “I consider myself quite trustworthy. If you decide you want to come and see me, I’ll do my best to help.”
2
I saw another four clients after Gwydion Morgan, all regulars, all spinning stories that still managed to fascinate and move me, whether the stories themselves or the spinning of them; and then I drove over to Nella’s school. She was due to be singing at a concert that afternoon. She’d only recently taken it up—all the girls did it for music GCSE, she said, it was an easier option than learning an instrument—but so far I’d never heard her utter a note. On the rare occasions when she practiced, she shut her bedroom door firmly, turned up the volume on her stereo, and forbade me to enter until she’d finished. And she hadn’t wanted me to come to the concert, but I’d insisted on being there.
I was running late, so I drove over to the school a little faster than I should have done, swung the car into the forecourt, and parked hurriedly. Then I ran over to the main hall, joining the last of the parents as they were filing in. I found a seat, nodding politely at the people I knew, and looked over at Nella. She was standing to one side of the stage with her classmates. When she caught sight of me, I waved discreetly, but she didn’t wave back. Instead, she turned away and began to talk to her friends.
The teacher went over to the door, shut it, and the chatter in the room quieted down. Then he went up onto the stage and introduced himself, thanking us for attending. He seemed rather too grateful for our presence, which didn’t bode well.
The first performers were two painfully shy boys with electric guitars, one of them chugging out a dull blues riff while the other improvised haphazardly over the top. While they were playing, my mind wandered back to the photograph I’d received that morning. Probably just a disgruntled client, I told myself, but all the same, it was odd. I’d have to try to find out who the man in the photo was; perhaps that would tell me who’d sent it . . .
Next up was a plump, ungainly girl with glasses, who sawed her way through a piece on the cello. She had the air of a young woman who hadn’t got a lot going for her in life but was determined all the same to beat Bach’s flibbertigibbet arpeggios into submission, and get herself an A-grade in the process. By the end of the piece, although it was excruciating to listen to, I felt like standing up and cheering.
Looking somewhat weary, the teacher came back onstage, sat down at the piano, and announced that the singers would now perform. As Nella had predicted, they were all girls, like her. Not a boy to be seen among them.
The first was a pretty fifteen-year-old with carefully streaked and blow-dried hair, whose mannered rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” was note-perfect. Despite the song’s nonsensical lyrics—not her fault, of course—and her absurdly dramatic gestures, her performance was greeted with wild applause. Afterward, Nella shuffled out onto the stage, head bent, hair covering her face, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jeans.
I held my breath and my heart began to beat. I tried not to sit on the edge of my seat. As the teacher played the opening notes to the song, I willed her to look up at the audience, but she continued to gaze stubbornly down at the floor.
She began to sing. Her voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. I felt irritated, frustrated. What was the matter with my daughter? Why wasn’t she confident, sure of herself, like the girl with the streaked hair? She was just as pretty, probably just as good a singer. If only she’d . . .
Then she raised her head. This time, her voice came out loud and clear. I swallowed. Tears came to my eyes. She had a beautiful voice, and this was the first time I’d ever heard it. For an instant, as she sang, she looked my way. She must have seen the emotion on my face, and it must have encouraged her, because, as she came to the final verse, she seemed to let go of her inhibitions and forget where she was.
When she finished the song she glanced up at me triumphantly, as the audience began to clap. I clapped along with them, as hard as I could. Somebody gave a cheer as she left the stage, and I saw her laugh as her friends clustered around her, congratulating her.
The next pupil came on, a tall girl with a clarinet. I listened politely as she started her piece, but by now I’d had enough. As the notes cascaded out, the odd squawk and hoot escaping from the instrument, a feeling of intense heat came over me and I passed my hand over my forehead, closing my eyes for a moment. As I did, I saw Gwydion Morgan’s thick, black eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks.
The heat subsided, and I opened my eyes. Don’t panic, I told myself. It’s just hormones. And the shock of hearing Nella sing, so beautifully, so unexpectedly.
The clarinet let out a high-pitched squeak, and a ripple of laughter went through the audience. The girl began to giggle, stopping for a moment to fiddle with the neck of the instrument while the teacher waited patiently at the piano. The audience shifted on their seats, and a few of the parents got up quietly and left, having seen their children perform. I took the opportunity to slip out of the hall with them, giving Nella a quick wave as I went. I knew that if I went over and congratulated her, she’d feel embarrassed. She looked away, but I noticed her trying to suppress a smile.
Outside in the car park I walked quickly over to my car, unlocked the door, and was just about to get in when I heard someone behind me, calling my name. I turned to see a man in his thirties wearing a loose checked shirt and jeans. He was carrying a guitar case. For a moment, I didn’t recognize him, and then, as he came up closer, I remembered him as a former client of mine.
“Emyr,” I said. “Hi.” I paused for a moment. “What are you doing here?”
I’m often buttonholed by ex-clients as I go about my daily business—Cardiff’s a small place, after all—and usually I’m pleased to see them. But Emyr’s slightly overfamiliar manner had always made me feel a little uncomfortable.
“Same as you. Watching the show.”
He smiled and came up closer. He had a wide smile—rows of straight, white teeth—and light brown freckles on his face. He stood a head taller than me, and his hair was that golden auburn color that you often see in Wales, despite the fact that the Welsh are always thought of as dark and short.
“Just like to see what the youngsters are up to,” he went on. “Keeping my ear to the ground.”
“Youngsters.” Maybe that was the problem. Emyr had a penchant for teacherish words like “youngsters.” He’d come to see me a couple of years before with low-level depression after losing his job, but as he’d simply wanted to fulminate about the injustice of the situation, rather than explore his reaction to it, there hadn’t been much I could do for him, so he�
��d left after a few sessions.
“I saw your daughter sing,” he went on. “She’s a talented lass, isn’t she?”
“Thank you. Yes, she is.” I was about to tell him that before today I’d had no idea that Nella could sing a note, but for some reason I thought better of it.
“So what are you doing these days?” I asked instead.
“I’m an A&R man. In a manner of speaking.” He gave a wry grin. “I’m setting up a new community music project. Council grant. We’re looking for youngsters who might like to use our studio. Twenty-four track, state of the art. Completely free of charge.” He fished in the pocket of his jeans, produced a slightly battered card, and handed it to me.
I glanced down at the card. It was garishly colored and bore the legend SAFE TRAX in a rather dated graffiti-style script that Nella, I felt sure, would dismiss as “lame.” Underneath were his name and a contact number.
“Thanks.” I put the card in my bag. “Well, good to see you again.”
“And you. Take care.”
I got into the car, nodded at him through the window, and moved off. As I drove through the gates I saw him turn to watch me, and then walk slowly back toward the school.
That evening, as a treat for Nella, I made the children’s favorite supper: hamburgers and chips. We ate it sitting in front of the television. The hamburgers were actually venison—less saturated fat—but I’d never told them that; the buns were whole wheat; and I’d made the chips myself, in the hope that they’d be slightly healthier than the bought variety. I also put a small salad of lettuce, tomato, and watercress on each of their plates, though I knew Rose wouldn’t eat any of hers. But even if she didn’t, at least I could console myself that I’d done my best. As Merle Haggard, Bob’s favorite country singer, put it—Mama Tried.
After we’d finished supper and cleared away, Rose went into the kitchen to practice her clarinet, while Nella went upstairs to do her homework. After a few minutes, I knew, loud music would begin to emanate from her room, interspersed with quiet spells, when she’d be on her mobile. I’d recently decided not to intervene any more—after all, she was sixteen now—so, instead, I went into Bob’s study and switched on the computer. Then I walked over to the door, shut it firmly, and returned.
I typed a name into the search engine: Curtain Call Casting. I hesitated for a split second, wondering whether I should really be doing as my new client had asked, and then clicked onto the site. I scrolled down a list, found his name, and then clicked onto his page.
At the top of the page was a publicity shot. The lighting was dark and moody, and Gwydion was standing face-on to the camera, wearing a tight white T-shirt and black joggers, worn low on the hips so as to reveal not only the waistband of his designer boxer shorts, but also a glimpse of muscular stomach beneath. His hair was tousled and his eyes were half closed, as if he’d just gotten out of bed.
Beside the shot was a column headed “Quick details.” I glanced down at it and read off his vital statistics, or whatever they’re called if you’re a male actor. Playing age: 25. Height: 6 feet 1 inch. Weight: 13 stone 2 ounces. Hair color: brown. Eye color: hazel—no, they weren’t, they were green. Build: medium. And that was it.
Underneath the publicity shot was a list of his acting roles. Apart from his role in The War of the Dragon Kings, and two cameos in films I’d never heard of, most of his appearances to date seemed to be in obscure Welsh television shows, including the redoubtable Down in the Valley. There were also credits for radio and TV commercials. I scrolled down further. As yet, there seemed to be no mention of the forthcoming part in the period drama.
Music began to thump from Nella’s room upstairs. I decided to ignore it.
Underneath the vital-statistics column was a link to another site, so I clicked on it. It turned out to be an Internet movie database, giving more details on The War of the Dragon Kings, along with another shot of Gwydion, this time dressed in little more than a loincloth. The film was an adaptation of one of the stories from the Mabinogion and, judging by the paucity of reviews, not a particularly successful one. I scrolled down to a message board at the bottom of the page, to look at the recent posts discussing his role in the film. Sadly, there was no mention of his acting skills. Instead, the first message, from a person called shelleewellee, posed the question, “Isn’t Gwydion a total dish?” to which there was resounding affirmation from all and sundry, in no uncertain terms. The only comment that could possibly have been construed as an endorsement of his acting was from someone called gigigirl: “that guy is well fit, what a grate film, the end was so sad I was reeching for a box of tishoes. . . .”
The music from upstairs got louder. I wondered whether I should go upstairs and intervene after all. But once again I decided not to. It was time Nella learned to do her homework without my supervision, and suffer the consequences at school if she couldn’t discipline herself. Besides, I had work of my own to do.
I began to feel a bit of a fool for having joined, however briefly, the cyber-community of Gwydion’s half-witted schoolgirl (and boy) admirers, but instead of closing the page, I found myself scrolling up to a heading marked “Trivia,” which told me: “Trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA).” At the end of this piece of information was a link marked “More.”
I was about to click on the link when I stopped myself. Although Gwydion had given me permission to google him—in fact almost implied that it was my duty as his new therapist to do so—I felt I’d found out quite enough for the time being. He would need to tell me his own story in his own time, in his own words, and it wasn’t fair to him to jump the gun like this. Or to me, come to that. It would be easier for me to help him, much easier, if I didn’t arm myself with too many preconceptions about him.
The door opened and Bob came in. He’s a big, well-built man, and he’s always a presence, a strong presence, when he enters a room. He still had his coat on, a proper tailored black topcoat, and there were drops of rain sparkling on the shoulders. His curly hair was slightly disheveled, his specs pushed up into it, and there was an enthusiastic, boyish smile on his face. Whenever he came home he brought with him a scent of cold, fresh air; of unknown, far-off cities; of an exciting, eventful life lived outside the confines of our domestic world that made my heart jump. Not this time, though.
He was carrying a black paper bag with silver edging.
He walked over to the desk where I was sitting.
“Here,” he said.
I took the bag and peered at the contents. Inside, nestling in a cocoon of white tissue paper, was a potted gardenia.
“Thanks,” I said. I could smell the scent from the waxy flowers, but I didn’t put my head down to sniff it, as I normally would have done. Instead, I put the bag down on the floor beside my feet.
“You’re back then,” I said.
When he heard the flat tone in my voice, his face fell.
“Yes. No delays, for once.”
To cover his disappointment he gazed absentmindedly over my shoulder at the computer screen. I followed his gaze, wondering how I was going to explain what I was doing. But when I looked back at the screen, I saw that Gwydion’s photo had been replaced by the screen saver, a holiday snap of the family in wetsuits, standing in descending order of height like a ridiculous row of penguins, somewhere on a windy beach in West Wales.
3
Jean, my first client of the day, was being boring. Very boring. It was a trick she pulled from time to time, especially when we’d been getting somewhere in the previous session. She would arrive and, after the most cursory greeting, begin to discuss some minor domestic problem in detail: a blocked drain, a bath plug that didn’t fit, an odd noise coming out of the vacuum cleaner. Today, it was a faulty curtain rail.
“You see, you can’t just mend the broken bit.” She sighed in exasperation. “You’d have to find someone to make a completely new one. It’ll cost a fortune . . .”
I nodded, but not, I hoped, in an enco
uraging way. I’d had enough of the curtain rail. We’d spent the best part of the session on it.
“And then there’s the fitting, of course . . .”
I thought back to the paper I’d read on complicated grief. Complicated grief is when, after more than a year, a person continues to behave as if their loss had only just occurred. I’d been reading it in the hope that I could somehow help Jean move on, but it didn’t seem to be much use.
“I’ve no idea where I’ll be able to find a man to fit it . . .”
My thoughts began to wander. A picture of Gwydion drifted into my mind. He was sitting on a horse, dressed in nothing but a skimpy loincloth, with a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. He was gazing into the distance, his tanned body slick with sweat. There was a smear of earth across his shoulder, as if he’d recently been tumbling in the dirt.
“I’ve looked in the Yellow Pages, but . . .”
He turned his head, his green eyes narrowing when he saw me . . .
“I can’t find the right sort of person. Should it be a draper? A carpenter? . . .”
He pulled the horse round, and slowly rode toward me. I watched his muscles move under his skin as he came closer, until, finally, he bent down, reached out his hand, and . . .
“You’re not listening, are you?”
Jean stopped talking.
It took me a moment to realize I’d been miles away.
“Of course I am.”
I was appalled at myself. What on earth was the matter with me, daydreaming—well, no, fantasizing—in the middle of a session? I’d really have to stop this nonsense and get a grip, I told myself, especially as Gwydion—the real Gwydion, that is—had decided to start therapy with me, and was going to be coming in directly after Jean’s session.
The House on the Cliff Page 2