What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (10 page)

Tom is a kisser. I imagine their tongues colliding and their limbs dragged round each other. I imagine her sitting astride him and him urging her on. I imagine her worshipping at the temple of his cock, endlessly pleasing him, like a paid whore.

I hate her. I hate her for her easy confidence and her selfishness. I hate her for the fact that she has so effortlessly acquired Maybanks. And I hate her for not even knowing who I am. How unimportant I must be to her. How eminently disposable.

‘There are exercises for you to practise and we’ll discuss how you get on with them at the following session.’ She gives me her calm, encouraging smile. A smile that’s meant to relax me, and I’m sure it works with most people because she’s good at her job. I can see that. ‘How does that sound?’

‘Perfect,’ I acknowledge. ‘I think I will really benefit from being honest with you.’

We spend the next thirty minutes discussing ‘exposure therapy’, which in simple terms seems to mean facing my fears. She talks me through exercises that I will need to practise at home. At first I listen with only half an ear but then I realise that what she’s telling me might actually help, so I concentrate properly.

‘If you do the exercises then I expect you will notice the effects quite quickly,’ she says.

‘I’m not the worst case you’ve ever come across then?’ I ask her.

‘No, not even close.’

When she shows me out I pause to admire the rigorously tamed flower border. Verbascum, lupins and mallow no longer tumble against the wall in a rainbow of colours but stand to attention in regimented rows. I distinctly remember planting each flower, down on my hands and knees, dirt caking my palms and clotting under my fingernails. ‘Beautiful flowers,’ I say. ‘Are you the gardener?’

‘I do my best,’ she says, utterly without shame. ‘I always wanted to live in this area. I was brought up further south.’ She points vaguely over her shoulder.

‘Thank you for today,’ I say. ‘See you next week.’

I’m seething as I walk home. And it feels good to seethe. It feels good to seethe, to plot and to hate. Leila Henrikson has it coming. And I feel the justified anger of betrayed women everywhere urging me on to revenge.

I call my solicitor to make an appointment and when I finish the call I breathe deeply, fuelled by anger. My anxiety has been replaced by a vivid sense of purpose. I was wrong to make way so easily. I should have dug in my heels like Chloe said and I’m lucky to be given a second chance. It has taken me a year to get here but now that I’m back on my own doorstep, I’m not going to give in again. Retreating was a reflex – like someone poking you with a stick; first you recoil but then – you grab the stick.

And now, at last, I’m grabbing the stick.

I scroll though my phone and delete the photos of the sockets – all two dozen of them – and then I call my dad. ‘Are you serious about selling up so that we can combine forces?’

‘You bet I am,’ he says.

‘Okay, Dad.’ I smile up at the cloudy sky and use anger to breathe fire into my words. ‘Let’s do it.’

My new client Mary McNeil is in the room when my mobile rings. I have it on silent but the vibration is obvious enough to distract her and I’m annoyed with myself for not switching it off. It rings three more times but each of those times I’m talking and so Mary doesn’t notice. The first meeting with a new client is an important one to gauge what will be the best therapeutic approach; different strokes for different folks – not everyone is suited to Jungian therapy, much as I love it myself. There is a depth and a simplicity to the Jungian model that I find inspiring. I certainly wouldn’t be the person I am today without it.

When Mary leaves I use the five minutes before Alison and Mark arrive to take notes that will trigger my memory next time I see her. I have the sense that she has a lot to say, that she is both anxious and lacking in confidence. She looked worn out and chronically tired, which doesn’t surprise me bearing in mind her OCD, although after her reflective five minutes when she stared out into the garden, I noticed steel in her expression and that bodes well for her recovery. Her description of her symptoms is a typical story and it appears to be the break-up with her husband that has precipitated this anxiety. I don’t sense any underlying issues. She sustained a marriage for almost thirty years, holds down a responsible job and has raised a family. I expect her to do well with CBT provided she is motivated enough to practise the exercises. I look forward to working with her. Clients like Mary provide a welcome balance to my long-term clients who often need therapy for years to untie the knot of childhood patterns. We are all shaped by our early childhood experiences, our biases and behaviours set and then hardened over time. My sense is that Mary’s childhood was a nurturing one. Not everyone is so lucky.

I lock away Mary’s notes and then I check my phone. I’ve already guessed the calls will be from David so I’m not surprised when I see that the four missed calls are indeed from him. Twice he’s left messages but I don’t listen to them and I don’t call him back either. This is a pattern I’m familiar with because David has been behaving this way for years. I hear nothing from him for months on end and then he spends a week or two contacting me every day, expecting me to drop everything and devote all my time to him.

I switch off my phone and prepare for Alison and Mark. They have been attending as a couple for three months. After years of trying for a baby they have given up on IVF and are deciding whether or not to adopt. They are working hard to move forward and the fifty minutes is often punctuated with anger and tears from Alison and a stiff resilience from Mark.

I know it’s going to be an intense session when Alison begins by saying, ‘I don’t feel like I know Mark any more. In fact, I wonder whether I’ve ever known him. I think I’ve always imagined that Mark is a better person than he actually is.’ She sits back on the sofa after she says this, her expression defiant. Mark is at the other end of the sofa, his arms folded against her as she stares along at him. ‘Nothing?’ she says. ‘You have nothing to say to that?’ Mark still doesn’t respond and Alison turns challenging eyes towards me. With couples therapy I have to resist taking on the role of referee, so I don’t say anything either. Alison closes her eyes and rests her head back. I watch her shoulders drop and her limbs relax on the sofa as if she’s falling asleep.

A minute passes before Mark says to me, ‘Sorry about that. We’ve had a difficult week. Alison works hard; she’s tired. And when she’s tired she gets angry—’

‘Apologising for me now?’ Alison’s eyes snap open. ‘Like I’m some badly behaved teenager!’

He shakes his head, in a pretence of tolerance. ‘You’re always so dramatic.’

‘I wonder why that is?’ she says.

‘It’s important not to speak in anger.’

‘Like you, you mean?’ She snorts with laughter. ‘You’re the angriest person I know. You just hide it well.’

This is an astute observation and I hope that Mark will address it but he doesn’t.

‘I love you, Alison,’ he says. ‘And I want us to adopt a baby.’

Alison’s head drops onto her knees and her body shakes. At first I think she’s crying but when she sits up straight again, I see she’s laughing.

‘I have to tell you, Leila,’ she says. ‘That once upon a time Mark loved me because I was dynamic and hardworking. Now he finds me tired and angry. Yesterday he accused me of lying when I said I enjoyed my job. I do enjoy my job. I complain about it sometimes, but doesn’t everyone?’ She throws out her arms, her expression questioning. ‘He told me he knows when I’m not being truthful because I have a certain look on my face. He’s constantly defining the way I am and if I tell him otherwise he doesn’t believe me.’

She looks to Mark for a response but he has tuned out. He is quietly smiling to himself as if he’s remembering something amusing.

‘This is him all over,’ Alison says. ‘He presses my buttons and then just drifts off as if it’s got nothing to do with him.’ She stands up and walks behind the sofa. ‘I’m married to a man who says he loves me but his love feels like control.’ She pulls at the collar of her blouse. ‘It strangles me.’ She walks backwards and forwards several times, then sits down again. ‘So what do you think I should do, Leila?’

I wait a few seconds before I reply in case Mark wants to add anything. My personal feeling is that their relationship has run its course. They seem to be forever torturing one another with accusations and counter-accusations. If I was her, I’d have cut and run some time ago. But I’m the last person to question the ties that bind us so I keep my opinion to myself. ‘Alison, you know I can’t tell you what to do,’ I say. ‘Therapy is a safe space to explore loss, to recognise behaviour patterns and to resist the urge to blame each other.’ I pause long enough to take a slow breath. ‘All I can do is help you both to articulate your feelings so that you can come to the decision that’s right for you, as individuals and as a couple.’

This falls on deaf ears and Mark says to me, ‘All I want is for Alison to be happy.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Alison throws her head back and adds sharply, ‘Shut up about me and talk about yourself!’

There follows thirty-five minutes of wrangling and I do my best to steer them away from reproach and towards reflection. It’s subtle work but it’s a process I’m skilled at. Towards the end of the fifty minutes they are almost listening to each other – and then the session ends.

‘Same time next week?’ Mark says.

‘Of course,’ I reply.

As they leave the room Alison’s hand tentatively reaches for Mark’s and I hear them discuss what they’re going to eat for dinner that evening. I close the door behind them and immediately listen to David’s two messages. ‘We really need to talk, Leila.’ Pause. ‘Call me.’ Followed five minutes later by, ‘I’m going out for a walk. Meet me in the Botanic Gardens?’

The message was left over an hour ago so I call him to check he’ll still be there. We arrange to meet in the cafe and I drink a glass of water and then head off. It’s only a five-minute journey in the car so I’m there in no time.

‘It’s looking beautiful out there,’ I say, finding him at a table by the far wall. ‘Especially the wildflower garden.’ He is dressed in a suit and his hair is tidy, his beard trimmed. ‘You look very smart.’

‘I went for an interview today.’

‘Oh? You didn’t tell me you were looking for a job.’

‘John Lewis. It seemed to go well.’

‘I thought you were only staying in Edinburgh for another couple of weeks?’

‘I changed my mind.’

My heart is able to do strange things where David is concerned, it’s able to sink and soar at the same time. Sink because of the trouble he could cause me and soar because he’s my brother and despite all our differences I love him.

‘You’re doing a lot of that these days, changing your mind.’ I stand up. ‘I’m gasping for a cuppa.’

‘It’s waitress service.’

‘I’ll just go to the loo quickly, then. If the waitress arrives, order for me.’

The loo is downstairs and I head off almost at a run. I feel chilled, as if I’ve just passed through one of those industrial freezers. I examine my face in the mirror; my lips have lost all their colour and I look panic-stricken. I stare into the black of my eyes and see myself reflected back at me, my grown-up self not my teenage self. The teenage Leila Mae would have known how to deal with this. She was resourceful.

‘Stop it!’ I whisper to my reflection. ‘You’re overreacting.’

He’s cornering me, is the thought that comes back to me.

‘He’s not,’ I whisper. ‘David has never been your adversary and he never will be.’

David will bring Gareth back into our lives. The fallout from that will destroy me.

I shiver and step away from the mirror. My peace of mind relies on me moving forward, always moving forward, never dwelling, never standing still.

When I went through therapy I had the decency not to inflict myself on David. I worked through the wreckage of our childhood with Maurice my therapist and no one else. David needs to do the same. He needs to leave me out of his process. I take my make-up out of my bag and add colour to my cheeks and lips, then return to the table determined to be strong with him.

‘I’ve ordered us tea and cake,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t sure whether you wanted anything to eat.’

‘I’ll have a small slice.’ I take a deep breath and smile at him. ‘So where are you living?’

‘A shared flat in Gorgie.’

‘Is it nice?’

‘Not especially. But it’ll do for now.’

‘It’s all happening so fast, David! I only saw you a couple of days ago.’

‘I was hoping that if I stick around we could see more of one another.’

‘Okay.’

‘Perhaps I could even meet Tom.’

‘Perhaps.’

The waitress brings our order and we both sit back while she places everything on the table. We hold eye contact throughout but it doesn’t help me to feel less anxious because I’ve never been able to work out what David is thinking. His feelings, on the other hand, are written all through his body language – tension concentrates in his fingers, they move constantly as he shreds a napkin and arranges the pieces in a pile next to his left hand – but his plans? His intentions? His thoughts? They remain impenetrable.

‘So how’s Tom?’

‘He’s good.’

‘Is he married like all your other men?’

‘He’s getting divorced.’

‘He left his wife for you?’

‘His marriage was already over bar the actual separation.’

‘And is he good with Alex?’

‘Of course. He’s a parent himself. He has two children of his own – Chloe and Ben. And a granddaughter called Molly.’ I pour our tea and push both pieces of cake towards David. ‘I’ll just have the small end of the fruit cake.’ I scoop some into my mouth and watch as he takes a forkful of Victoria sponge.

‘I’ve never kept a relationship going beyond three months,’ he says.

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sighs. ‘Maybe because I’m unlovable.’

‘Nobody’s unlovable, David. But sometimes we might push people away. We don’t mean to but we do.’