Rowan

by Tilly Delane

  And now he is doing it again.

  Only this time, he’s not alone.

  As soon as he’s wrapped me in his hug, another presence enters the room, and a second later, Grace slips in behind me and slings her arms around my waist, so her hand lands on Silas’ hip.

  I still barely know this woman who has made Silas so incredibly happy, but together they cocoon me for a long time, Silas rhythmically sweeping his thumb back and forth over the base of my skull.

  It’s intense and the need to crack a joke builds up inside of me, despite my despair.

  “She’s broken me,” I start deadpan, through the tears. “Your woman is wearing silk and I can feel her tits on my back and you both smell like you’ve already fucked each other’s brains out tonight, but there is nothing doing here. Raven has broken me.”

  It’s supposed to push them away, but instead they hug me even tighter.

  “She clearly hasn’t broken your death wish, though,” Silas responds as he pulls me closer.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t mention his girlfriend’s boobs if you know what's good for you,” Grace chips in, withdrawing a bit and slapping me playfully on the shoulder. “You creeped me out the first time I met you, we’ve come a long way in a short time, don’t ruin it,” she adds more seriously then snuggles back up to me and reaches over to rest her hand on Silas’ hip again, before she asks softly, “What happened? I liked her. She was fun.”

  “She wasn’t just fun. She was perfect,” I say.

  And then I tell them about the woman who broke a heart I didn’t even know was up for the breaking and about the dead guy called Simon, while they keep cuddling me all the way into the small hours.

  “Hmm,” Grace mutters when I’m finally done. “Poor guy and all, but I don’t believe this is really about his death or her feeling guilty. Can’t be the first time she lost a patient. I’ve met a lot of nurses in my life. Too many. They’re tough cookies. Sounds to me more like she has some serious intimacy issues. I watched her watch you when we came to visit. Most of the time, when you weren’t looking, she looked totally freaked. Like she had no idea what to do with all those feelings for you. I bet you got too close. I swear, if that Simon guy hadn’t died, she’d have found a different reason to push you away.”

  They hug me again, and eventually they leave.

  But I don’t feel alone any longer.

  Raven

  The last, and first ever, time I had a house entirely to myself as an adult was a year ago, when I arrived in the UK and started setting up The Village for its first intake of clients.

  It was the strangest sensation. After forever having people around me, it felt super exciting ─ and naughty. Back then, I’d walk around the whole cottage semi-naked at night, listening to The Atomic Aces on the speaker and singing along at the top of my lungs. I guess other people do that kind of thing when they first get their own apartment. I had to get to twenty-seven and three quarters to get a tiny taste of it.

  And now?

  Now the taste of sole occupant is bitter.

  I don’t want to be here on my own any longer. It’s been six nights of wandering around an empty cottage. I could have moved in with Christine, who offered me a side of her bed as soon as she heard that all my rats had left the sinking ship. Or I could have taken the empty guest room in Matilda’s house.

  But it didn’t feel right.

  Not even after the Denyers, Rothman and even Lewin took turns to come and tell me that anyone would understand if I didn’t want to sleep here for the time being. Lewin, who hides a heart of gold behind her scalpel-like mind, even offered me a room in her cottage.

  But I said no.

  It would have felt like defeat.

  Like I am deserting.

  I’m not deserting.

  I’m standing my ground.

  I’m a professional.

  I will stay here until it’s time to go to Heathrow and get on my flight back home.

  Period.

  Until then, I don’t really know what to do with myself any longer. Everything is in order now. Christine could take over at the drop of a hat and it would be a breeze for her.

  A year ago, there was a boatload of things on my to-do list.

  Recruiting nurses, conferring with the Denyers over a blueprint for therapy schedules, checking all cottages were appropriately furnished and that everything was in working order. Writing the guest handbook, setting up the deal with The Windchimes and organizing grocery suppliers. And the gazillion other things that I’ve forgotten I did by now.

  In a way, The Village is my baby. Even if I didn’t once stray from the company concept, it’s got my stamp all over it. It’s my final masterpiece for Halosan, my graduation from the company. Wherever they will send me for my last few months, after John’s ankle has healed, it will just be a holding pen until I leave completely.

  I should leave Purbeck behind with a sense of pride but, really, all I feel is broken.

  Rowan broke me.

  I wish he hadn’t left.

  I wish he’d given me another day or two to process.

  I would have come around, I think.

  But I’m too proud ─ too scared ─ to call him.

  After Rowan was gone, I retrieved the piece of paper he left on my bed, went to the sink in the bathroom and held a lighter to it. But I chickened out and doused the flames under the faucet before the digits could catch fire. Then I saved them to my cell. My actual, real cell, not the phone Halosan gave me for my stay.

  And there they sit.

  Under ROB.

  Now I taunt myself by looking at his number every night. It’s what I was doing when he called me Friday evening.

  I’m not sure whether I think if I stare at them long enough, he’ll ring me again.

  It’s been six nights.

  I moved back into my own room, under the roof, on day three. I never washed the sheets when I fled our floor, so they still smell of him. But each night, the scent gets fainter.

  I miss him so hard.

  And I have no idea what to do with that feeling. I’ve never missed anyone like this in my life. I’ve never missed anyone, period. And I never startled the way I do now every time the house phone rings. Always hoping it is him again. But it hasn’t been.

  He called me that once and that was all.

  I don’t blame him.

  I did wish him a nice life.

  I’m a fucking idiot.

  My thoughts are interrupted by an unfamiliar, soft knock on the cottage door and then somebody lets themselves in. My heartbeat goes through the roof in the irrational hope it may be him, returning to me. It does that every time somebody comes to visit with me now.

  Usually, it’s Christine. Sometimes Alan comes over to check on me. A couple of times, Rothman has suddenly appeared in the house. The asshole never knocks.

  Today, however, it’s Ed Denyer in his full cardiganed glory.

  The only difference between him and his wife Judy is that he’s got less hair, the thicker glasses and that his gray cardigans are cable knit with a shawl collar while hers are flat knit with a v-neck.

  They are the strangest people to work with because they present this impenetrable unit of total blankness. It makes them great group therapists, though. They never let their own issues cloud their facilitation.

  The fact that they are usually always together makes the appearance of Ed on his own in the hallway extra disconcerting.

  “Ravenna,” he says.

  And I can’t help wondering, for the millionth time in my life, why people do that. Use your name as a greeting. As if they think they need to remind you of who you are. I always want to say ‘well shit, so I am’ but, of course, I don’t.

  Instead, I remind him of who he is. Because that’s the correct response.

  “Ed.” I pause. “Where is Judy?”

  “Taking the group session on her own, so I can talk to you.”

  “Okay,” I answer hesitantly.

&
nbsp; I wasn’t really aware the morning had progressed into therapy hours already. I’ve been losing track of time lately without anyone to shepherd about.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask, turning my back to return to the kitchen from where I came. “Do you want a tea or a coffee?”

  If in doubt, offer tea.

  “A cup of tea would be nice,” he answers politely. “Milk, one sugar, please.”

  He follows me, and while I make him his tea, we have a polite chat about the weather. We come to the conclusion that it’s still hot as hell outside but maybe not inner hell any longer. And apparently never too hot for the Denyers to wear their cardigans. Sometimes I wonder whether they employed Lewin based on a shared appreciation for all things woollen.

  I hand Ed his tea and take my half finished, cold coffee.

  “Shall we go sit down?” I suggest and indicate the dining room. “I’m guessing you didn’t leave Judy to do the group session on her own so we could discuss the weather.”

  “Quite,” Ed responds.

  And then there is silence until we have changed rooms and are sitting perpendicular to one another at the dining room table. I’m at the head, Ed at the long side. Because this is my house and he is polite enough to respect that. The same way he’s polite enough to knock. I wonder, not for the first time in the last year, why a man like Ed hired a dick like Rothman.

  “So, why are you here?” I ask.

  “The police rang this morning. They have the coroner’s report. They are satisfied that Simon died of natural causes. The tox screen came back negative.”

  I didn’t really doubt that it would, but I still feel relieved at Ed’s words. Dead is dead, and I will carry on feeling guilty about my response time that night, but if they’d found drugs in Simon’s system, I don’t think I’d ever have been able to forgive myself for not paying enough attention on my patch.

  “That was quick,” I state, and Ed nods.

  “Yeah, ten days is quite a speedy turnaround, I agree. But I think there wasn’t really any doubt as such. So, the police have given us permission to unseal the room now. I have spoken to Simon’s wife and offered to pack up his things for her, but she insisted on coming here at the weekend and doing it herself. Says she needs to do it. That’s a very healthy attitude, in my opinion. She’s a wise woman. But I was wondering if you want to be here to greet her, or if you’d prefer Judy or me or Frank to do it.”

  I frown at that. Even if it comes from a benevolent place, the suggestion is insulting.

  “No. Absolutely not. Thank you, truly, but it’s still my house and that’s my duty.”

  Ed smiles at that. A warm, fatherly smile.

  “That’s what I told Frank you’d say when he suggested I’d offer his help.”

  “So it wasn’t yours or Judy’s idea?”

  “God, no, I didn’t doubt for one second that you’d want to be here for Simon’s wife yourself.”

  I feel mollified, knowing this didn’t come from the Denyers. But the finer nuance doesn’t escape me.

  “So how come you were giving me a choice between Frank, Judy and yourself?”

  His smile turns almost mischievous. Not a look I’ve ever seen on him before, and quite endearing.

  “Because I know full well that you can’t stand Frank. So I wanted to make sure you actually did not want the help and weren’t just refusing it because the offer came from him.”

  I smile broadly at that. My first real smile in days.

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask.

  “Glaringly, my dear, and I can’t say I blame you. Frank’s not a very pleasant man.”

  His admission surprises me.

  “Why did you give him the position if you don’t like him?”

  “We weren’t really given a choice, Ravenna, he was sent to us by one of the other stakeholders.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “What other stakeholders? The Village is Halosan owned,” I state, confused.

  “Mostly, yes. But there are certain tax advantages if a complex like this is co-owned by British registered stakeholders to some small percentage. I can’t remember how much exactly. You could ask Judy. Before she retrained as a counsellor, she was a tax advisor. She can explain it in depth to you if you wish.”

  I make a gesture to let him know I’m not that interested in the details. I’m still intrigued by the Rothman connection, though.

  “So, who are these stakeholders and what’s so special about Rothman?”

  “Absolutely nothing, my dear,” Ed says and draws a deep, exasperated breath. “The other stakeholders are mostly Rothman & Stiles. Rothman as in Rothman’s family.”

  “Rothman & Stiles?” I prompt because I have never heard of them.

  “They are a cosmetics company. Made their name some years ago by coming up with some wonder drug to slow down cell aging. Have you ever heard of RoSt anti-wrinkle cream and supplements?”

  I nod. It rings a bell. It’s stuff which is so far out of the price range I am willing to pay for beauty products that I’ve never paid much attention to it. I don’t hate my frown lines enough to squander a fortune on smoothing them out.

  “Well, RoSt is short for Rothman & Stiles,” Ed carries on. “Frank is the youngest son of their CEO, Celia Rothman. He’s a layabout who was brought up with a silver spoon in his mouth. I’m guessing he didn’t have the aptitude for chemistry and hard sciences that his mother and other siblings have, so they told him to get a humanities degree with a scientific slant instead. Unfortunately for us, he chose psychotherapy.” Ed suddenly stops himself and looks at me, shocked. “Sorry, that was extremely unprofessional of me.”

  I shrug and clink my cup against his.

  “It’s fine, Ed. It’s nice to see behind the Denyer facade,” I reassure him with a coquettish wink. “It won’t go further than these walls. So why do you think he chose counseling?”

  “Ego,” Ed replies without hesitation. “There are two types of therapists in the world. The ones who genuinely want to help people help themselves and the ones who want to feel important. It’s about their importance in their clients’ lives rather than about their clients. Rothman firmly falls into the self-important category.”

  He pauses for a long second and sighs.

  “I feel for the boy, though. He’s the youngest of four and the other three are all women. With degrees in biochemistry, bio engineering and medicine respectively. I’ve never been a very manly man and it’s never bothered me, but I think if I had grown up in that household, I would have felt emasculated, too. No wonder he has an inferiority complex.”

  On that last note, he gets up from his chair, changing the subject abruptly back to the reason of his visit.

  “So, I’ll let Simon’s wife know, you’ll be expecting her call to arrange a time for Friday. Do me a favour, check how the police left the room before she comes. Make it look a little tidy if they left a mess. Lived in but not chaotic, if you catch my drift.”

  I get up, too, and offer him my handshake.

  “Thank you, Ed,” I say as he slips his papery palm into mine, and it occurs to me that maybe Ed’s a lot older than I always thought he was. “In case I forget to say it in the rush of departure, it’s been a pleasure working here with you and Judy. I feel like we should have had this coffee in the beginning rather than at the end.”

  He holds my hand a little longer and searches my eyes.

  “You weren’t ready for friendship a year ago, Ravenna. I don’t know what’s changed, but you are now. It makes me both happy to know that and sad that you are not staying, so we can get to know you better. Keep in touch. Don’t be a stranger. Don’t go back to the States and disappear on us. You helped build this, stay part in some small way. Christine will be happier knowing that you still have her back, even if you are thousands of miles away. For all her Northern bravado, she’s terrified she’s going to mess up. Maybe the two of you could have dinner with Judy and me before you leave? Th
ink about it. I’ll see myself out, I’m sure you’ve got things to be getting on with.”