In The Garden Of Stones (18 page)

“
Shanks' pony or the bus for me from now on,” she says, back
home and pouring herself a restorative glass of red wine. “Best all
round.” She takes a deep quaff. “Think of the number of lives I’ve
just saved with that one decision.”

The
bottle of wine is soon emptied, however she is well into her second
before she begins to relax.

Tomorrow
she will start the job search again, but for now, she has a glass
to finish.

Snuggled
down under her quilt, she is warm and drowsy, with Mr Pickles
curled up at her feet and Colin perched on the end of her
bed.

“
Two visits in one day. Can’t stay away, eh?”

“
Thought I’d give it another go in case the first time was a
fluke.” He gives her a wicked wink. “And I thought I might catch
you in the nip.”

“
In your dreams.”

“
So how did it go?”

Her
voice is slightly slurred, the wine having a comfortably
anaesthetising effect. “Let’s say there were swings and there were
roundabouts. I really needed for you to give me some more words of
comfort and encouragement. Did you not feel me calling out for
you?”

“
Can’t say I did. Sorry.”

“
No matter.” She lets rip a jaw cracking yawn. “Urgh…I’m
knackered.”

“
Knackered…or blootered?”

“
A bit of both I think,” she says. “To be honest, I feel
like a piece of chewed string that’s been through the
mangle.”

Colin
laughs. “Then ye get yersel’ a guid night’s sleep and ye can tell
me all about it tomorrow.” He plants a brief kiss to her forehead.
“Sweet dreams, Gracie.”

“
You too. Night sweetie.”

She puts
off the lamp and closes her eyes. Helped along by the wine she soon
falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Chapter 19

Acting
independently of her sleeping body, her hand has already reached
out and grabbed the phone trilling and vibrating on the bedside
table, and her thumb has already pressed the answer
button.

“
It’s too early Colin. I’m still sleeping,” she mumbles, not
quite fully conscious.

“
Grace?”

Not
Colin! She sits bolt upright in bed, wide awake now.

“
Mal?”

Did he
hear her mistake him for Colin?

“
Did you forget your appointment...again?”

Apparently not.

“
Is that today? What time is it?”

“
Gone noon. Where are you?”

She rubs
her eyes, last night’s red wine still pulsing behind
them.

“
Noon? It can’t be,” she says. “That means I’ve been asleep
for … God, fifteen hours!”

“
You’re still in bed? Are you sick?”

“
No. I - I had a trying day yesterday. I got very stressed
and upset and needed to sleep it off.”

It
sounds better than admitting she has a hangover.

“
What time was my appointment?”

“
Eleven.”

She
swings her legs out of bed. “I’m so sorry, Mal. Can I come in
now?”

“
No. I’m going for lunch and then I’m booked for the rest of
the afternoon.”

Silence.

“
I’m worried about you, Grace.”

“
There’s no need. I’m fine.”

“
I thought we were going to work together on this therapy.
Make it a real success.”

“
We are!”

“
We can’t if you don’t keep your appointments. How can I
know whether it’s working or not–”

“
It is!”

“–
if I don’t see you and we don’t talk about it? You know how
important communication is?”

“
I said I was sorry. I was asleep. I couldn’t help it. Make
me another appointment and I’ll be there. I promise.”

“
No. This time, I’m going to make an appointment you can’t
wriggle out of. I’m going to come to you.”

“
Since when do psychiatrists … sorry, psychologists, make
house calls?”

“
Since that psychotherapist has a case that is too special
to let it fall by the wayside. I have your address. I’ll be there
at six o’clock. I’ll bring food. We’ll eat and we’ll talk. Chinese
okay.”

It
wasn’t a question, it was an order. Even the food choice has been
made for her. She has no option but to agree.

“
Six o’clock then.”

The line
goes dead.

Grace
opens the door to the length of its chain, peers through the gap. A
very wet Mal Pettit holds up a white plastic carrier bag. “I come
bearing gifts.”

“
Better come in then.”

She
releases the chain and lets him in and he follows her through to
the kitchen area, coat shedding water all the way.

“
Bucketing down out there,” he says, placing the bag on the
worktop and running a hand through his damp hair, making it stand
up in random spikes. “Got sweet and sour. You get some plates while
I get out of this wet stuff.”

They
divide the contents of the foil containers between two plates,
portions of chicken and rice, uranium orange sauce, napalm hot, all
wreathed in a cloud of fragrant steam that makes Grace’s mouth
water.

She
pours two glasses of white wine and she and her therapist settle on
the sofa to eat.

“
Nice place you’ve got here,” Mal says, looking around.
“Although smaller than I expected.”

“
I think estate agent speak is compact and bijou, but it
suits us, doesn’t it Pickles?”

The fat
grey cat, perched on top of the bookcase, regards them with emerald
eyes and mews his agreement.

“
So how has this week been?” Mal asks.

“
Good. Busy.” Grace stabs at a piece of chicken. “I had a
driving lesson and a job interview.”

“
Really? How did they go?”

“
The driving lesson was torture, enough to terrify the bark
off the trees. I was shaking so much I couldn’t change gear. The
instructor did most of the work for me. I won’t be doing that again
any time soon. Road users and pedestrians are safe.”

“
And the job interview?”

She
sweeps up a forkful of rice. “I was offered the job–”

“
Brilliant–!”

“
But then I lost it.”

“
Not so brilliant.”

“
Well, not lost it exactly, more threw it away.” She sips at
the wine. “The woman interviewing was a real witch and the
environment was a dead hell. I pitied the poor buggers who were
already working there, silent obedient drones, and I thought I
could never work in a place like that. I would curl up and die. Of
course, I couldn’t leave it alone and I - I told her what I
thought.”

“
Oh dear.”

“
So I was hired and fired, or more accurately resigned, all
within the space of five minutes.”

Mal
scrapes rice into the sweet and sour sauce, mixing them together
until everything is a uniform fiery orange, whilst Grace tops up
both their glasses from the rapidly emptying bottle.

“
And how do you feel about what happened?” says
Mal.

“
Pretty good actually. I felt this surge of self confidence
rush through me, sparking me to stand up for myself. It was great.”
She raises her glass in a toast to herself. “I couldn’t wait to
tell Colin. He thought–”

Mal is
watching her intently now, his forkful of rice hovering between his
plate and his mouth. “Go on. Tell me. What did Colin
think?”

Grace
takes a sip of her wine. “Nothing. It was a slip of the
tongue.”

They
finish the rest of their meal in silence. When they are done, Mal
lays his knife and fork on his plate and rubs his stomach. “I could
go that again,” he says. “Really hit the spot.”

Grace
has hold of the wine bottle. “Top up?”

Mal puts
his hand over the glass. “No thanks. I’m driving.”

“
All the more for me, then.” She pours the remainder into
her glass, jiggling the bottle to get out every last drop. “It’s
nice to have a glass of wine to complement the food,” she says.
“And a couple in an evening can put a warm and fuzzy glow around an
otherwise stressful day, don’t you think? What?”

Mal
shrugs. “I never said a word, although the fact that you feel the
need to justify your intake of alcohol without being asked does
raise some interesting questions.”

“
What are you now, a recruitment officer for AA? I’m
perfectly aware of how much I drink. And before you jump in and
remind me that the first symptom of being an alcoholic is denial, I
know, okay.” She takes a scoof from the glass.

Mal
wipes his mouth with his napkin, overlaying the Chinese takeaway’s
logo with a faint orange smear, screws it up and drops it onto his
plate.

“
So bring me up to date on how you think your therapy is
going,” he says, getting to the real reason for his
visit.

“
What do you want to know?”

“
How about you tell me a bit more about the persona you
created as your confidante now you’ve had chance to get to know him
a bit better.”

“
Colin? Like I said before, I didn’t create him. At least
not in the way you think.” Pause. “He’s nice, a sweet man despite
having a whole lot of problems of his own to work
through.”

“
What sort of problems?”

“
He’s a deeply troubled individual, a casualty of war,
shattered like an old vase, both physically and
mentally.”

“
Ah. The 'friend' with PTSD?”

“
Yes.”

“
And the discussions you have with him, they take place how
often?”

“
Pretty much every day.”

“
And whose problems get the biggest airing, his or
yours?”

“
Either or. Sometimes both. Whoever has the greatest need at
the time. Usually though we just enjoy each other’s company,
indulge in normal every day chit chat, time passing trivia among
friends, nothing too deep or intrusive. Whatever we feel most
comfortable with.”

Grace
gathers up the plates and takes them to the sink. Mal joins her,
adding their empty wine glasses to the dirty crockery before
leaning with his back against the worktop so that they can continue
talking as she does the washing up.

“
Ever had a falling out with this…Colin?” he says. “A
disagreement? A difference of opinion?”

“
Oh yes. We’ve had a couple of right old ding
dongs.”

“
Any violence?”

“
No. There’s been shouting and swearing on a few occasions,
frank exchanges of views, a few tears, some sulking…but then comes
the making up and the hugging. We always try to end on a positive
note. Don’t always manage it, but we try, at least I do, because
that’s what you told me I should do. Which reminds me, I’d like to
keep the book on PTSD a little longer if that’s okay. It’s
fascinating reading.”

“
Only if you tell me again how you think helping
him
come to terms
with
his
problems is contributing to
your
recovery.”

“
Because that’s what group therapy is all about isn’t it?”
she says. “Working together for mutual benefit? Why should the fact
that our particular group numbers only two, three if you want to
count yourself, make it any less effective? If it only does one of
us good, makes one of us happier, more at ease with themselves,
easier in their mind, I’d say that’s a job well done, wouldn’t
you?”

Mal
takes up a tea towel and wipes a plate with it, nodding pensively.
“I can’t argue with any of that. And you think it’s
working?”

“
Don’t you?”

“
Actually, if the changes I see in you are anything to go
by, I’d have to say yes.”

Grace
wipes her nose, leaving a trail of soap bubbles across her cheek.
“How do you mean?”

Mal
takes up the next plate and wipes it with the towel. “When you
first came to me, you were… a mouse,” he says. “Shy, inhibited,
introverted, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, thought everything and
anything was your fault. Now… you seem less edgy, more confident,
more in control. You’ve dealt with new issues head on instead of
deliberately avoiding them. You’ve stood up to challenges and
voiced your own opinion. There are some physical changes too.
You’ve lost some of the puffiness in your face. You are standing up
straighter, dressing nicely, letting your prettiness shine rather
than trying to make yourself invisible.”

She
stares at him. “Prettiness? You sure you only had the one glass of
wine?”

He
smiles at her. “Learn to take a compliment will you. You are
pretty… even with soap suds on your face.”

“
I will admit, I do feel better, more positive,” she says,
brushing the bubbles away. “And it’s all thanks to you–”