What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (16 page)

‘So this is the wrong time for me to be asking you to lend me money.’ I lean back onto his chest. ‘I’ll apply for a loan …’

‘Give me a couple of days,’ he says. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

I turn in his arms and kiss him on the lips. The kiss lights a fire inside us both and we have enough time for quick, hot sex on the sofa before I see him out the door and into the taxi. Mary McNeil has already arrived and I’m about to let her in when my mobile starts ringing. It’s David. I ask Mary to wait a second and go back through the front door.

‘David.’

‘We need to meet,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘Say yes.’ His voice shakes.

‘David.’

‘Say yes.’

Choice is often an illusion and I know that avoiding a meeting is not an option. He’s already proved that he can find me and I don’t want him bumping into Tom on the front path. ‘Friday?’

‘Okay.’ He names a time and a place.

‘I’ll see you then.’ I leave my mobile in the kitchen and open the door to Mary McNeil. I feel tense and tight-lipped but Mary is like a breath of fresh air. She has done well with her exposure therapy and is already noticing a reduction in her anxiety. Then we address her negative thought patterns. She talks frankly about her relationship with her husband and it becomes obvious to her that she is better off without him. She has feelings of anger towards the woman he left her for and I expect these feelings will need to be worked through, but we agree to leave that work for next week.

The fifty minutes with Mary pass quickly and before long Alison and Mark are in the room. Alison begins by telling me about an adoption party they attended over the weekend. The ‘party’ is for prospective parents to meet hard-to-place children, those who have been rejected on paper. ‘It’s the last chance for many of the children who then go on to long-term fostering,’ Alison says. ‘We were given a profile booklet to look through and we saw a couple of little girls we really liked.’

She stops talking and turns to Mark. He doesn’t look back at her but continues staring ahead.

‘Mark?’ I say. ‘Is there anything you would like to add?’

He shrugs. ‘I have mixed feelings.’

‘I knew it!’ Alison says.

‘Not about the adoption.’ He gives her a scathing look. ‘About those parties. It feels wrong.’

Alison sits back, folding her arms. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Silence.

‘Why do you say that, Alison?’ I ask.

‘I know him. I know how he thinks.’ There follows twenty minutes of argument. Alison brings up everything she can think of – the fact that Mark once cheated on her, that he doesn’t earn as much as her and that he drinks too much. ‘A bottle of wine a night.’ She points an accusing finger. ‘
That
makes you an alcoholic. And do I complain? Do I throw it in your face?’

‘You’re doing it now!’

‘I’m not doing it now. I’m giving you an example of your faults so that you’ll stop focusing on mine!’

The endless friction between the two of them begins to cramp my spine and I move around in my seat, my eyes flicking towards the clock on the wall.

‘You wanted to come here!’ Mark says.

‘To make you see how selfish you are!’ She goes on to cite more evidence – they always watch the programmes he likes on TV, they never eat pasta because he doesn’t like it, he wants to go to the theatre so they go; she wants to go clubbing but they never go. I keep my mouth firmly shut, hoping she will burn herself out and we can spend the rest of the session in quiet reflection. No such luck.

‘I don’t understand why we have to keep talking about this stuff!’ Mark shouts and both Alison and I jump. ‘I just want to know whether we should adopt a baby, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Enough!’ I yell, banging my fists on the arms of the chair. ‘When are you two going to realise that no two people see things exactly the same way? When are you going to give each other space to express feelings without judgement?’ They both stare at me, stunned. ‘And neither of you are willing to listen or to compromise. It has to stop!’

‘The adoption?’ Alison murmurs, wide-eyed.

‘Do you believe you’re ready to become parents?’ I say. ‘Honestly? Look at yourselves! Imagine a child in between you, listening to this, being pulled one way and then the other depending on your moods.’ I pause to allow my temper to wane. I take several deep breaths, while Alison and Mark sit before me with their mouths open. ‘You need to reflect.’ My voice is quieter now but I know I’m hanging on by a thread. ‘You need to decide whether you want to stay together and, God alone knows, you need to put some hard work into being a couple before you even consider becoming a family.’

I stand up and open the door. ‘The session is over,’ I say, and they scuttle off down the path, meek as mice. When they reach the end of the driveway they both look back, questioning. I’m standing with my arms crossed and my face reflecting everything I feel about the way they behave – self-indulgent, craven and cowardly complaining. I have no time for it. Not today. Alison grabs Mark’s hand and they disappear along the pavement as if they’re being pursued.

I close the door behind them and return to my consulting room knowing that I’ve crossed a line. I’ve shocked myself, never mind them. I have never before shouted at clients. No matter what I might have thought, I have always identified with their journey and, in doing so, kept my feelings to myself. I’ve been endlessly patient, relentlessly understanding.

This is a stress reaction. Everyone has a threshold and I have hit mine. And I know what happens next. Black. My head fills with a dense black cloud, like thick smoke, and then … and then.

‘I need help, Maurice,’ I say out loud, to the walls, to the windows and to the cloudy grey sky. ‘Help me. Please.’

If you take something back that’s yours, is it stealing?

I’ve spent the morning sorting through a couple of the boxes in the hallway, and when I tipped out a plastic bag of odds and ends I found the key to Maybanks’ back door. I sat down on the sofa and held the key in my hand contemplating whether or not I should use it. When I left the house a year ago I took most of my belongings with me, but I’d been rushing, because I wanted to be on my way before Tom came home from work, and so I forgot some of my things, the most important of which was the jewellery box from my bedroom. I realised my mistake almost at once and while I knew that I still had the back-door key in one of the boxes, I had never had the courage to even contemplate using it. I thought about asking Chloe or Ben to see whether they could fetch the box for me, but decided it wasn’t fair to involve the children, so I emailed Tom. I emailed him twice. He told me he would drop it off. He didn’t. I emailed him again and he said he’d pass it on to Ben or Chloe to give to me but he never did and I stopped asking.

The black lacquer box was my grandmother’s and when she died she left the box and its contents to me. I’d played with the rings and brooches all through my childhood – it was part of a dressing-up game that I was so fond of – and for months I’d been hoping to get the box returned to me. It’s not about the money or the sentiment, it’s about a sense of continuity, a link with my past and with a woman who loved me.

I’m still holding the key and wrestling with the notion of housebreaking when Chloe pops in for a coffee. ‘I smell baking!’

‘Flapjacks.’ I slip the key into my pocket.

‘Beats the smell that’s normally in here,’ Chloe says. She glances into the kitchen. ‘And still those black numbers on the sockets. The landlord hasn’t been to sort the electricity out either then?’

I switch the kettle on and say, ‘Not yet.’

It’s my opportunity to confess that the numbers have nothing to do with the landlord and that I was the one who used the black marker pen. The words are on the tip of my tongue but before I can say them out loud I chicken out. I try to tell myself that it’s because I’m optimistic that I’m gradually putting all this compulsion and anxiety behind me, but if I can’t be honest with my daughter then the least I can do is be honest with myself: I don’t tell her because, if I do, she won’t let it go. (She has her father to thank for that personality trait.) She’ll ask me to explain what’s been happening, she’ll want to know all the whys and the wherefores, she’ll apply her nurse’s knowledge and then she’ll ask me what I’m doing about it, who I’m seeing. What therapist? What treatment? She’ll probe and she’ll pry until I end up telling her about Leila, and then what will she say?

I know my daughter and I’m sure she’ll tell me to stop. She’ll tell me it’s beneath me and that I’ll only get hurt. She’ll tell me to keep her dad and Leila at arm’s length and use legal means to secure a decent financial settlement. The house should be my focus, that’s what she’ll tell me. Keep your eye on the prize, Mum. Get the house back. That will be your revenge.

‘Where’s Molly?’ I say, over the noise of the kettle boiling.

‘Gymnastics. And Granddad has a plumber coming to fix one of the radiators. All part of getting the house ready to put on the market.’ She hands me a couple of mugs and I add coffee and the boiled water. Chloe adds the milk. ‘Have you heard back from your solicitor?’

I nod. ‘Your dad and I are meeting this Friday.’ I hold out the plate of flapjacks.

‘They look delicious.’ She takes a bite and briefly closes her eyes, savouring the taste. ‘Just what I needed.’ When she’s finished the first one she helps herself to another and says, ‘Mum, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’

‘Yeah?’

She takes a deep breath, her expression concerned. ‘I worry that you and Dad wouldn’t have separated if it hadn’t been for me falling pregnant.’

‘No, darling. Of course not.’ I shake my head, frowning. ‘Dad and I separating had nothing to do with that.’

‘But Dad was so angry back then and you took my side. I know you stuck up for me; I heard you arguing.’ She screws up her face. ‘You argued a lot, Mum.’

‘We did argue a lot but a mother should take her child’s side – and so, for that matter, should a father.’

‘Yes, but he blamed you for me falling pregnant.’

‘It was almost seven years ago, Chloe.’

‘Yes, but sometimes these things are a slow burn, aren’t they? And when we were growing up, Dad was busy all the time and he expected a lot of you. You were the one who had to look after me and Ben. Keep the house quiet. Make sure everything ran smoothly. He did nothing that I can remember. So when I screwed up my chances of university you were blamed for it.’

‘You went to university!’

‘Later. Yeah. But you know what I’m saying, Mum.’ She pierces me with determined eyes. ‘You do, don’t you?’

‘Your dad did struggle with family dynamics,’ I admit. ‘Especially when he had a big case on, but we also had some great family times, didn’t we?’

‘With you and Grannie and Granddad. But not with Dad, not very often anyway.’

‘That’s harsh, Chloe. I remember lots of happy times with Dad.’

‘Maybe, Mum. But you know I have a point?’

If anyone can say it like it is, it’s Chloe and I shrug my acceptance before adding, ‘It’s not just about family, Chloe. I’m not convinced your dad even wants to be half of a couple.’ Although when I think of the expression on his face when he was saying goodbye to Leila then perhaps that’s no longer true.

‘I just think that me falling pregnant was the final straw for him.’ Her eyes are filling up. ‘I’ve always felt guilty about it.’

‘Chloe! Enough! Believe me, our marriage breakdown has got nothing to do with you or Ben.’ I take hold of her upper arms and gently shake her. ‘You are not the reason Dad and I separated. He wasn’t getting the sort of devotion he wanted from me, and you know what? I wasn’t getting much from him either but I had learned to live without attention. He needs an attentive wife; I don’t need an attentive husband.’ I can’t help but smile. ‘Although it is very nice when a man shows some interest.’

‘What do you mean?’ Chloe says.

‘Well … I’ve made a new friend.’ She lets out a scream and hugs me. ‘Don’t get carried away,’ I say, holding up my hand. ‘He’s not interested in me like that but he’s kind and he’s a good listener.’

‘I did think you were looking happier right enough!’ She hugs me again. ‘Happier than I’ve seen you in a while.’

‘I am,’ I admit, although it’s more about seeing a way to get back at Tom and Leila than it is about Francis. ‘As I say, it’s not anything really. He’s younger than me and he’s very attractive and everything.’

‘Mum, you’re attractive!’ Chloe says. ‘And how much younger? A few years doesn’t matter!’

‘More than a few. And really.’ I give her my serious face. ‘There’s nothing romantic between us but I feel like he’s becoming a good friend to me. We seem to be on the same wavelength.’

She asks me his name and I tell her it’s Francis and that I met him through a teacher at school. None of the family know that I was mugged and that I ended up going to group therapy and it feels too late to bring that up now. And even as I’m telling her about Francis I wonder whether it’s all smacking of desperate middle-aged woman reading more into it than she should. He’s popped in twice – twice! – and already I’ve turned him into a good friend. But I have to trust my intuition and my intuition is telling me that we are on the same wavelength and we could be significant to one another. Where Tom is now a closed door, with Francis I feel a sense of beginning.

But before I can concentrate on moving on, I need to be finished with Leila and Tom, and when Chloe leaves to collect Molly from gymnastics club I take Maybanks’ back-door key from my pocket and bury it in my sock drawer. I might use it or I might not. God knows I hate the woman but housebreaking is a whole other level, isn’t it? I’ll wait and see how my next therapy session goes. That will be the decider. We are set to discuss my feelings towards the other woman. The other woman? That’ll be you then, Leila.

That’ll be you.

Thursday dawns and I set off for my meeting with Tom and the solicitors. I feel anxious (and that involves me checking and rechecking) because I suppose there’s a chance that Leila will be there with Tom. And what will I say if she is? Mary McNeil will be unmasked. I will have to brazen it out. I’m past caring about what Tom and Leila think of me, but I expect Hamish would find my behaviour odd and that might knock my credibility in his eyes. But more to the point, I want to reveal my identity when I choose, not at a moment that’s sprung upon me.