The Skeleton Cupboard (11 page)

“You need to prepare,” she said finally.

“Easier if I know what I am preparing for.”

More slurping. I wanted to head-butt the phone.

“You didn't know Goldberg and Huxley.”

“So shoot me! Perhaps I was too busy recovering from the abused suicidal child that I had to cope with on my own to be able to switch my head into Goldberg and bloody Huxley.”

“You had time between placements to do some reading from the book list you'd been given.”

“Yeah, but no one to debrief me after the Imogen situation. For God's sake, Chris, I still haven't let her go. I can't stop bloody worrying about her all the time. You weren't there.”

A large swallow, then a sigh. “Do we have abandonment issues here?”

“Sorry?”

“Are you angry with me for not being there for you at the end of your last placement?”

Oh, so she's noticed. Yes, of course I'm angry. But what am I supposed to say?

“Well spotted, Chris. Yeah, I suppose that you could say I am.”

More chomping from the other end of the line.

“I mean, I get that we all have lives and stuff, but it just seems like you disappeared. I was left high and dry, and there was no explanation, no apology, nothing.”

The chomping stopped abruptly.

“You want me to tell you about my personal issues?” Chris's voice was icy in anger—I'd never heard this tone from her before.

“Well, not exactly.”

“You want me to
apologize
to you?”

I raised my eyebrows and nodded to myself. “Well, not apologize exactly, but at least have some kind of conversation to help me feel less…”

“Abandoned?” Chris spat that word out.

“Yeah. Abandoned. You and the university let me down and not only put me in a tough position but potentially endangered Imogen and the other kids I was treating.”

Chris sighed loudly. “So you think there was no discussion about how to manage things, no thinking about what would be best for you while I was away. No talking to senior staff at the adolescent unit?”

“Well, given that I'm not a mind reader, I suppose I wasn't able to guess that.”

“Watch your tone.”

And you bloody watch yours, lady.
I took a breath.

“Sorry.”

I could now hear Chris drinking, her gulps loud and steady. I wanted to kick something.

“I decided that it would be best to let you carry on with as little fuss or interruption as possible. It was clear that you were working well and engaging with all staff, including the analyst, in a productive and sensible way. I believed in your ability to continue, and I didn't want there to be a big song and dance about my temporary absence.”

I was dumbfounded and angry. “Sorry, Chris, can I just get this right? Despite the fact we both work in a profession where we champion open communication and honesty, you are telling me to accept that actually it was all carefully thought through? Just that no one had the decency to include me in the thinking?”

“Yes. That is what I decided. And when you are one day supervising a trainee, you can decide how transparent you want to be when your issues arise during their training.”

I snorted derisively. “If I get that far!”

“Pardon?”

“Well, if I decide I want to stick this out and qualify.”

Chris paused, and when she spoke, her voice was icy. “And of course if I decide to qualify you.”

Now she's
threatening
me? Sod this. I'm done.

“Chris, I want another clinical training supervisor.”

A long pause. “So, you're firing me?”

I said nothing.

“OK. I'll tell the university,” she said.

The phone went dead.

*   *   *

So I fired my supervisor. This was a good thing, but I also felt annoyed that she'd let me do it so easily. And I still needed someone to talk to—all my girls were away from London, doing their own thing. Rosie was off finishing her degree in Scotland, Megan had a research secondment abroad, and Ali had taken a “career-enrichment” break and was backpacking around Southeast Asia with a businesswomen's collective. I needed a new friend.

And then one found me.

“Hi! I'm Henrietta. Practice nurse. Can I help you with the coffee machine?”

“Oh God, yes, please.”

Henrietta turned a gauge and flicked a switch. Soon rich brown coffee was dripping into the pot.

“Ooooh! I love that smell!”

Henrietta, very short and in her mid-twenties, was sweet—and also rather loud.

I introduced myself.

Henrietta giggled. “Hi! And oh my God, I love a clinical psychologist.”

“Well, not quite a qualified one yet.”

“Oh well, you'll do!”

Henrietta, still giggling, handed me a cup of coffee. I took it gratefully.

“And I love practice nurses!”

“OK. I will make you coffee for the next six months. Relax!”

What an absolute sweetheart.

We laughed and shook hands warmly. Our friendship was sealed.

Henrietta was a star in the rather run-down, drab, overpopulated firmament of a GP surgery. As she showed me around, I began to feel more at home. The GPs were all reasonably pleasant and welcoming; the reception staff was tough and uncommunicative, apart from Mrs. Chatterjee.

“Mrs. C,” said Henrietta, “this is Dr. T.”

The lenses in Mrs. Chatterjee's glasses made her eyes look huge in her small face. We shook hands.

“Actually not ‘Dr.' T yet. Not for a while.”

“You should meet my son! He is a proper doctor.”

“Gosh. Well done him,” I said. “And you.”

“I will introduce you sometime.”

“OK, Mrs. C. I'll look forward to that.” I gently extricated myself, walked into my office and shut the door. With everything else ahead on this placement, I really didn't need an arranged marriage.

*   *   *

Martin and Elise came back for another session. My heart sank, but I tried to be upbeat.

“How are things?”

They looked at me blankly.

You are a bloody idiot. How can things be? Nothing has happened.

“Sorry. Actually, I know there hasn't been any progress because last session was only a ‘getting to know you' session.” I took a sip of water. “How did you feel after our last session?”

Elise looked at Martin. “You tell her.”

Silence in the room.

Elise tried again. “Tell her.”

I was confused. “What?” I looked at Martin. “What do you want to tell me?”

He stared at me blankly.

Elise sighed. “He thinks you are too young.”

Shit
.

“Martin, I can only understand this if you explain to me.”

Elise burst into tears.

Martin stood up and suddenly found his voice. “How can you help us? This is really bloody awful. You are barely trained and really … come on … what do you know?”

Elise was sniffing into a tissue.

“Well, Martin, I know sensate focus therapy and that's what we could work on together.”

Now I was wishing I hadn't fired Chris. I could have used her help right about now.

He looked blank.

“It's an evidenced-based approach to managing sexual dysfunction.”

Martin spluttered. “Evidence-based?” He shook his head and looked at Elise. “This is bullshit! It's smoke and bloody mirrors. You're not even a proper doctor, for God's sake.”

“No. I am not a medic. I am training to be a clinical psychologist.”

“And what the hell is that?”

I explained, trying to keep my voice even. “Clinical psychology approaches difficulties from a humanistic perspective. We help people to make positive changes in their lives by using an eclectic range of psychological therapies. The sensate focus approach works from the idea that anxiety that underpins sex is challenged using a step-by-step—”

“Christ. I can't deal with this.” Martin rubbed his face. “With
you
. In fact, you know what you are?”

I didn't answer.

Elise sat up. “Martin, please.”

Martin pushed his face toward mine. “I think you are a fraud.” Martin rubbed his sweaty bald head.

I took a breath; I could understand his point. “OK. Fair enough, Martin.”

Martin looked surprised.

“I mean, if you don't feel comfortable with me and the fact that I am still training, then I probably won't be able to help you.”

Martin looked at his fiancée triumphantly. “There you go.”

Elise buried her face in her tissue and wept.

Martin looked at me, eyes flashing, as he gathered his coat and bag. “Well, that seems to be that, then. Sorry to waste your time. Come on, dear.”

Elise didn't move.

“Elise, I said that we are going.”

She stayed still.

“Elise? Are you listening to me?”

Elise looked up and wiped her face, which was smeared with makeup; she had wet-mascara panda eyes. “I'm not leaving.”

“Yes, we are.”

Elise stared straight at her fiancée. “No, we're not.”

Martin looked shocked. “I said that we are.”

“I know what you said, Martin. I have fucking ears. And I said that I am not leaving.” She started to weep again. “If you want to, then you must.”

Martin looked furious.

“He does this every time, you know.” The panda eyes were now fixed on me. “You are our fifth therapist.”

“And she's the least fucking qualified.”

“Actually, Martin, I am not qualified at all yet.”

Martin smiled at his fiancée. “See! She's not bloody qualified! She's a fraud.”

I pushed myself up in my chair and took a deep breath. “Martin, what I am qualified to tell you is that if you continue shouting, I will ask you to leave this office. I can completely understand that you feel angry and threatened by this process, but there are kids and elderly people in the waiting room who will be very frightened by the noise they hear coming from this room.”

Martin sat down, blinking. Elise looked stunned.

“I'm sorry,” Martin said to me, beginning to cry. He turned to Elise. “Elise, darling, I am so sorry.”

She took his hand.

Martin looked up at me as I handed him the tissue box. “Thanks. And again … sorry.”

“Martin, it's OK. I understand how deeply difficult this must be for you. For both of you.”

Through his tears, Martin nodded and gave a tiny smile. “I just feel entirely impotent.”

*   *   *

Dr. Jarvis was my temporary supervisor while the university did an internal investigation into the breakdown of my relationship with Chris. I liked Dr. J. He was a leading researcher in memory and a kind elderly man who ate a lot of Garibaldi biscuits.

“So,” said Dr. J, “tell me about your caseload.”

I told him.

“Good. Sounds good.”

“I have a new referral that I'd like to talk through with you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I don't know where to start.”

Dr. J looked sleepy. He raised an eyebrow.

“OK. I have been referred a lady in her sixties called Marion. Her GP seems to think that she is anxious and depressed.”

Dr. J nodded.

“She has had some shocking news and is presenting as highly anxious. Before her GP puts her on meds, he asked me to see her, thinking that perhaps she's in the midst of a psychological trauma that I can help her process.”

“What's the trauma?” asked Dr. J.

“She has just found out who her biological mother is.”

Sweet Dr. J seemed to be struggling to stay awake.

“The irony is that her biological mother lives in the long-stay asylum where I did my last placement—the adolescent unit I worked at is on the same grounds.”

Dr. J's breathing was now slow, soft, and rhythmic; he had fallen asleep. Such a lovely and brilliant man, but it was clear that he was not going to be able to support me. At least Chris could stay awake through our meetings. I wanted her back.

I scribbled Dr. J a note thanking him for his time and quietly left his office. On my way out of the university department, heading back to work to meet my new referral, I put a note into Chris's pigeonhole, feeling embarrassed that I was asking her to take me back and afraid that she wouldn't do it.

*   *   *

Marion sat opposite me in my office with her handbag on her lap. She unbuttoned her coat, but didn't take it off.

“It was Angela, my granddaughter, who found all this out. She's the one who discovered that my biological mother was in a mental hospital.”

“Found out?”

“Angela found out about this woman. She's doing a genetics thing at school.”

“Genealogy?”

“Yes, one of those.” Marion blushed.

I shouldn't have corrected her.

“Sorry—carry on.”

I hated how my lack of confidence occasionally turned me into an arrogant arsehole.

Marion smiled. “I'm not very educated, Doctor. Sorry.”

“And I'm not a doctor. I was rude to interrupt you. I'm sorry.”

Marion smiled. “You don't need to patronize me, Doctor.”

I felt my foot rammed in my mouth.

“Marion, I have all of your mother's information in here.”

“She is not my mother.”

“I'm sorry. I should say your biological mother.”

Marion nodded and I reached for the file.

“Would you like to know?”

Marion nodded. “Thank you, yes.” She took a deep breath. “Perhaps a glass of water as well?”

“Of course.”

We went through the file. The first page was a testimony that June, Marion's biological mother, had dictated to introduce herself; with Marion's permission, I started to read it.