In Too Deep (23 page)

‘He’s still saying I encouraged him,’ she confessed, pouting. ‘Reckons I owe him something. That man can’t take no for an answer. While you were away, he kept . . . well, you know.’ She rolled her eyes again, as if it was as much of an annoyance as having chewing gum on her shoe. But then Steph’s not married, doesn’t have children.

But I understood what she meant. He couldn’t take no for an answer. And I also realised that the control burning at Adrian’s core was what fuelled his existence. I’d been stupid to think I was special or different, having fallen through a crack in my normally intact boundaries. It was the heat he gave off that had made me feel reckless, tumbling into a magical and strange place. With him, my regular life had seemed mundane, as if I was casting off an old skin – a skin bruised and scarred by the loss of my son. I’d wanted an escape – though only from myself – but had instead become trapped.

I’d felt wretched, disgusting and beyond reproach. By
the time I’d realised, Adrian had masterfully turned it into a game of control, and it was too late to undo. I’d been an easy and weak target.

While I’d been off work, he’d wasted no time broadcasting lies about me. According to Steph, his smear campaign was subtle yet comprehensive, and he clearly hadn’t appreciated my prolonged absence. I wasn’t there to play his games. The looks I got from colleagues, their avoidance, the change of attitude to my work, made me uncomfortable to the core. Or was I imagining it?

I had a new status in life, after all. On top of everything else, no one seemed to know who or what I was any more – a widow . . . someone’s ex . . . an abandoned wife? I didn’t even know myself.

One thing was certain, though. I was a woman alone.

‘The McManus deal is looking solid,’ Adrian said, swinging round to us once the customer had left. ‘I’m off tomorrow, but I want you to keep me informed.’

He was addressing me, though it should have been Steph as I had nothing to do with that property, and I wasn’t working the next day either. My return was being phased in – one day on, one day off. I felt his eyes boring into my face, yet I couldn’t bring myself to square up to him.

‘No problem,’ I said, fixed on my monitor, entering details of a new property.

‘Sorry, Gina. I didn’t quite hear you.’ Adrian’s voice was loud and resonant, vibrating down his throat, his shoulders, his arms and on to my desk, where he was
leaning his hands. He peered over the top of my screen. I could feel the bursts of his clean breath.

‘I said that’s fine.’

My gaze shot up to his, wanting to show him I didn’t care. Nothing could have prepared me for the cold and empty stare I got in return. His eyes were filled with darkness, his expression firing out a message so explicit I felt sick. Yet he did all of that without moving a muscle. To anyone else, his face would have appeared blank. To me it was a warning.

Then he smiled. A huge, inappropriate grin.

My own lips quivered as I returned it, making me want to scratch off my own mouth. I’d not long applied lipstick, which he no doubt thought was for his benefit. Adrian walked away, laughing.

Immediately after, I went into the loo and cried, recreating the scenario in front of the mirror to see what I’d have looked like to him. It was comical and pathetic.

My head fell forward on to the glass as the tears flowed, dropping into the basin. I reached into my bag and pulled out the lipstick. The colour didn’t even suit me, but I’d wanted to do something to make myself feel one inch more like the old me. The person I had lost the same day I lost my husband.

I sniffed back the tears and with a shaking hand I wrote
Rick
on the mirror in lipstick. Then someone knocked on the door.

‘Are you OK, Gina?’ Steph knocked again.

I rubbed the glass with a paper towel, making orange-red streaks across my face. Bloody slashes on my skin.

The street was a well-lit Georgian terrace, with most of the properties being professional offices. Jennifer Croft-Bailey’s suite was much grander than Paula’s office, and in a more upmarket part of town, where I knew the rent would be higher. We’d let several places around there recently. Jennifer had a polished brass plaque outside her door stating her name and qualifications, with shiny black iron railings flanking the stone steps. The door was large and painted pillar-box red, and I stood staring at it for a good five minutes. No one went in or came out.

The window to the left of the entrance was shrouded by a voile curtain so I couldn’t see in, but there was a light on inside. I crossed back over the road and lurked by a trimmed hedge, feeling less conspicuous there while I imagined Rick tramping along the street, head bowed in case anyone saw him going into a psychotherapist’s office.

Was he ashamed? I wondered. Is that why he hadn’t told me he’d sought help? I couldn’t imagine what problems he’d taken to his sessions with Jennifer.

Naturally, I wondered if I’d been included in Rick’s outpourings, if he’d grumbled and complained about me, telling Jennifer how I wasn’t the wife I used to be, how he suspected me of having an affair with a man at my work, that he’d caught us in an embrace, even though I’d told him time and time again that there was nothing going on, that it was him I loved.

That it wasn’t what it seemed. That Adrian had entangled me in a net that I’d swum right into. And he didn’t want to let me out.

Or perhaps Rick was simply unhappy. A curtain of depression brought about by . . . by nothing. It happened to people – chemical imbalances, genetic predisposition, simply being alive, and I wondered if any of Rick’s family had endured similar. But that was impossible to know, seeing as I had no contact with them.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I might find out. Either police resources hadn’t stretched to pursuing the lead, or they’d discovered nothing. I’d had to take matters into my own hands. Whatever it revealed, I could pass on to PC Lane. Part of me hoped that it would be nothing, while part of me wanted to be consumed with whatever pain Rick had shared. It would add to my self-punishment.

There was movement behind the window. The curtains closed, then the light went off.

Was Jennifer leaving? It was the end of the day, after all. If I wanted to speak to her, I would have to act now.

It had started to drizzle so I pulled up the hood of my coat, hugging it around me. My bag kept slipping off my shoulder, and even though my heels weren’t high, I went sideways on my ankle as I half ran across the road.

I reached out for the brass knocker, imagining Rick doing the same. I closed my eyes as I banged it down – three resonant clunks – trying to feel a connection with Rick.

But the knocker was cold in my hand.

‘Hello, may I help you?’

A woman stood in the doorway. I opened my eyes. She was beautiful. Almost too beautiful, the consequences of which were painful to consider.

‘I . . . are you Jennifer?’

‘Yes,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I’m just leaving though.’ She pulled on a dark wool coat over a slim-fitting cashmere dress. Long brown leather boots rose up to her knees, making her seem taller than she really was. Or perhaps it was because I was standing on the step below her.

‘Could I have a quick word? It’s about one of your patients. Clients.’ I didn’t know what to call him. ‘It’s about my husband, actually.’ I tried to smile but nothing happened. The air was cold around me.

‘I can’t discuss clients, I’m afraid.’ She flicked off the lights behind her and picked up a large leather satchel off a side table. She had keys in her hand. She was about to leave.

‘Please don’t go,’ I blurted out. ‘It’s a matter of . . . well, a matter of life and death. Literally.’ It was at this moment I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake by coming – locked in with the thought that perhaps he’d not been seeing her on a professional basis at all.

‘Is your husband in immediate danger?’ she asked, taking me more seriously. She backtracked and put the lights on again. ‘Come in out of the wet.’

I couldn’t fault her manners or professionalism. ‘No. Yes. The thing is, I don’t actually know.’

‘It would help if you did,’ she said.

‘If you’ll just listen to me for a moment, maybe you can give me some answers. I went to the police, but I don’t think they’ve followed up. Have they?’ I clutch my head, giving her a moment, but she doesn’t answer. ‘I’ve been in shock – am
still
in shock – and when I found your name, discovered that he’d been seeing you, I . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s been no sign of him since last November, not one bloody skin cell, so it’s out of desperation that I’m here and . . .’

Jennifer was thoughtful. ‘You’re Richard Forrester’s wife, aren’t you?’ she said, knocking me sideways.

I nodded frantically. She knew something. My heart was beating so fast I thought it was working loose inside my chest.

‘Is he here? Tell me!’ I begged. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. That wasn’t fair. I’m just desperate. You can’t imagine how it’s been. I just want answers. Clues, anything to help me find him.’

‘Come and sit down a moment.’

Jennifer took me through to the room I’d seen with the light on. It turned out to be a waiting room. ‘I read the story in the newspaper and, to be honest, was half expecting the police to contact me, but there’s been nothing yet. I was also in half a mind whether to contact them, though client confidentiality got the better of me. I wasn’t certain if Rick had finally told you about our sessions. But obviously he had.’ She gave me a pitying look.

‘No, no, that’s the thing. He didn’t tell me. I discovered your name by accident.’

Jennifer’s eyes widened briefly, then she gave me a slow nod, processing everything.

‘So why didn’t you chase this up with the police? The courts can order me to release his file and make a statement if they think it’s relevant to their investigations.’

‘I did, though I’m still waiting to hear. And there isn’t really much of an investigation any more. That’s why I came here myself. I was hoping you could tell me something useful, tell me what was on his mind. If Rick walked out on me, I want to know why. If he took his own life, I want to know why.’ My voice was fast and shaking.

‘That’s really not possible, Mrs Forrester. As things stand, I still have a client agreement with your husband and that includes confidentiality. Unless a court orders otherwise, I’m afraid my hands are tied.’

The room started to spin, slowly at first like the beginning of a carousel ride. Nice and gentle. I was shaking my head. Slightly dizzy.

‘Please. I just want to know why he was seeing you.’

Jennifer’s mouth was moving, her small and perfectly straight and white teeth sitting behind her lips. I didn’t hear what she was saying.

‘Was he depressed?’ I asked. ‘Was he suicidal? Did he hate me? What did he say about me? When did he start seeing you? There must have been something. Please tell me something about my husband that will help me. Please.’

I don’t know how I ended up on the floor, but I was on my knees and I was crying.

Jennifer crouched down beside me, touching my shoulder, saying things that didn’t mean anything even though they were kind.

‘Mrs Forrester, please, let me help you. May I call someone for you? You’re very upset and shouldn’t be alone.’

‘Tell me,’ I whispered through tight lips. ‘Tell me something. Anything.’

I put my hands flat against the wall. Tears streamed down my face.

‘Tell me . . .’

I focused on the wall.

The room was spinning faster – the pot plant, the chairs, the water fountain, all streaking into a messy palette.

Let’s get you up, now. I’ll fetch you a drink before you leave . . .

‘You must know something. Tell me what he said to you. Tell me . . .’

Spinning faster. Feeling sick. On the floor. Crying. Fingers clawing. Head throbbing.

‘Just tell me . . .’

There was no breath left in me. I couldn’t see. My legs wouldn’t work.

I was standing. Somehow standing. A hand on my elbow.

Spinning room.

Turning so fast.

A dance. Two women dancing.

‘Please tell me . . .’

Dancing at the door. Hand on elbow. Head throbbing.
Tell me
. . .

‘Will you be OK, Mrs Forrester? Are you sure there’s no one I can call for you?’

Call Rick
.

I looked down the stone steps outside the building. Slick with rain. A chasm. Standing at the top of a volcano. The street was a night-time painting. Firework-bright car lights streaking in the rain. Hooded pedestrians hurrying. Smoky shots of breath. Icy-cold air in my lungs, killing me.

I turned to Jennifer.

‘Please. Please tell me anything you know.’

I grabbed her wrists, stumbling down a step; a step lower than her. I wobbled, staring back up.

Jennifer took a breath and held it. Her eyes turned dark and frightened as she looked above and beyond my head, as if she wasn’t actually addressing me, rather that she was talking to someone else.

‘Rick was torn,’ she said quickly before stepping back inside and shutting the door.

Then she turned the lock.

That night, after I’d banged on the therapist’s door until my fists were bruised and hot, after I’d spotted Jennifer coming out of the rear entrance and called out to her, chasing her through the rain until she scurried away to her car, after I’d dialled her office number a thousand times, choking up her message service, I finally accepted she wasn’t going to speak to me again.

I went over those words until my mouth stung and burned, until my lips were dry and cracked and my tongue cramped against the roof of my mouth. I fitted them into different sentences, all kinds of scenarios, playing with them, changing their meaning, twisting and contorting the syllables and emphasis until, in the end, the words meant absolutely nothing.

Rick was torn
.

It was tattooed on my mind.

In the literal sense, it could have meant he was having a hard time with a decision. Blue shirt or white? Pasta or rice? Overseas holiday or stay in the UK?