Ruth feels her stomach clench.
‘So he was trying to discredit me? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘It wasn’t him that was trying to discredit you. The posts didn’t come from Dominic.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Someone else had access to his computer, and used a different password.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Who?’
‘Does the name Courtney Weaver mean anything to you?’
‘Courtney Weaver?’ Courtney? Courtney? ‘I feel sick,’ says Ruth. ‘Courtney Weaver is Bella’s babysitter.’
51
Ruth
September 2005
‘On the questionnaire you’ve ticked that sometimes you think you’d be better off dead?’ The inflection in the young man’s voice makes it sound like a question but Ruth says nothing. She closes her eyes and tries to process his words. She has no image to distract her. Only black nothingness. A white noise in the background, probably the air conditioning. Perspiration trickles down her back. Can he detect her anxiety, through the scent of fresh linen which wafts across the consulting room?
A disembodied voice talks again. ‘Is that something that has ever crossed your mind? Have you ever thought about killing yourself?’
She shifts awkwardly in her seat, trying to unstick the seat of her trousers from the upholstered leather. Opening her eyes a pair of polished shoes, Church’s by the look of them, comes into view. Not a single scuff on the toecaps, the brown leather so shiny that the burnished brass lamps are reflected in them. She lifts her head and meets his gaze. His dress sense belies his age. The glint of a gold cuff-link, the cavalry twill. He’s probably no more than three or four years older than her, but he’s no stranger to a trouser press.
‘What do you think? Of course I fucking have.’
He presses his lips into a thin line, and she follows his eyes as they drop downwards to her arms. She pulls at the cuffs of her sleeves, tucking in a stray corner of gauze.
‘I didn’t do any of the things I’m accused of, you know.’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything Miss Coop- Dr. Cooper. I think you know why you’re here. The Local Authority has asked for a psychiatric report as part of your assessment to be Bella’s guardian.’
Bella’s guardian. It feels strange to hear that. ‘Well that’s easy then,’ says Ruth, eyeing him with some suspicion. ‘All I have to do is tell the truth and it will be obvious that this is all a complete waste of time.’
‘Hopefully not a waste of time.’ The young man smiles. ‘Of course I expect you to be honest with me, Dr. Cooper.’ He leans forward. ‘That way we can work together to secure the best possible outcome.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, call me Ruth, please. We’re fellow professionals after all.’
There’s a pause and Ruth hears the beeping of a pedestrian crossing from the street below.
‘Very well then, Ruth. Do you mind if we go back to my question? You say that you have thought about killing yourself. What methods have you considered?’
The question makes her snort. ‘Look if I’d been serious don’t you think I’d have done it by now?’
‘What about others? Have you thought about or harmed other people?’
‘Primum non nocere. Recognise that? You should. Do no harm. It’s part of the Hippocratic Oath. I’m a doctor. I help people, I don’t harm them.’ It’s tempting to add a profanity it’s such a stupid question but she refrains. He’s supposed to be on her side, after all. She takes a deep breath and her eyes partner his for a second.
‘Except I could quite cheerfully throttle an ex-boyfriend if I met him now.’
‘Dominic?’
His response catches her off-guard. She had meant Mark. Strange how she still can’t let go of his image.
‘No. Mark. I met him in Australia. We were serious for nearly a year until I found out he’d been lying to me. Thought we had a future together but it turned out he had other plans. With his wife and children.’
‘Is that why you came back to the UK?’
‘I guess so. Perhaps if I’d stayed there I wouldn’t have been in the mess I find myself in now.’
The young man rocks back in his chair. ‘What about Dominic? How do you feel about him?’
Ruth looks beyond her questioner to the name card on his desk. Niall Freeman, Consultant Psychiatrist. That is the only information she has about him. No photos gracing the desk, no sporting trophies on the shelves, an absence of framed certificates on the walls. No clues. He’s not giving anything away. Everything about this room looks temporary. Yet his face is familiar. She closes her eyes and tries to compute why. A cough interrupts her train of thought and she studies the face of the man sitting opposite her. Where has she seen him before?
‘Ruth?’
‘How do I feel about Dominic?’
He nods.
‘Sad. Mostly sad. I feel sorry for him and for poor little Bella.’ She bites her lip and looks at her feet. ‘But conflicted. I thought I loved him. He didn’t love me.’
Niall remains impassive.
‘All my friends say that I always see the best in everyone but no-one is born evil. I strongly believe that. Dominic was dealt a very bad card. He told me about his troubled upbringing, his horrific childhood accident. It left him in chronic pain for the rest of his life.’ She looks up and gives a weak smile. ‘Maybe I’m just gullible. Naïve. It transpires he was probably trying to poison me.’ She wants to add that she thinks he was harming both Bella and her. And there’s the abusive posts from Courtney too. Should she tell him about them? What would that achieve? It would make her seem paranoid. No, she mustn’t prejudice her case. After all, hadn’t Niall said he was acting in her own best interests?
Niall doesn’t say anything but reaches inside his tweed jacket to extract a white handkerchief. In the process she catches a glimpse of his red braces with their owl motif. And then it happens again. That feeling. Why does he seem familiar?
He dabs at his nose then puts the handkerchief away. ‘What about your childhood? Was it happy?’
She adjusts her pose, grateful to change the subject.
‘I’m an only child. Born in Lincolnshire. Went to a convent school. The nuns were quite strict.’
‘Did you do well at school?’
‘Depends what you mean by well. I was Head Girl. Probably because I was in the right place at the right time. Got good grades in my exams, but it didn’t come naturally to me. I had to put in the hours.’
‘And your parents?’
‘Less strict but they wanted the best for me, and were keen for me to pursue an academic career. They were so proud when I got a place to study Medicine. I was the first member of our wider family to go to University, and I went to Leeds. Looking back, going to University probably meant more to them than it did to me. My mother died of breast cancer eleven years ago, then four years later my father died of a stroke. If they were alive today I’d feel I’d let them down.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not serious, are you? Arrested for attempted grievous bodily harm. Unable to cope at work. A major complaint against me. A near miss at work. How much more do you want? I’m a failure. Always have been.’
‘How about a high achiever instead? A perfectionist, maybe?’
Ruth shrugs.
Niall Freeman rests his hands in his lap and twiddles his thumbs. ‘Let me tell you something, Ruth. You’ve heard of Imposter Syndrome haven’t you?’
Ruth wonders where this conversation is going.
‘It’s okay, there’s no need to look alarmed. Strictly speaking it isn’t a syndrome. I prefer to call it “Imposter experience.” It reflects a belief that you are inadequate, incompetent or a failure, when all the evidence suggests that you are highly skilled and successful.’ His fa
ce softens. ‘I was giving a lecture to a group of medics a few weeks ago and I asked for a show of hands as to how many had ever felt like an imposter. I’d say more than seventy percent of those in the room put their hands up, and most of them were women.’ He leans forward. ‘What I’m trying to say to you, Ruth, is that you are not alone. The complaint, the near miss, it goes with your job. You mustn’t be too hard on yourself.’
She knows he’s right. How many people have said this to her before? Val and Mike for a start. Her appraiser. She turns her head towards the window, not wanting to make eye contact. A group of gulls is clustered on the window-sill of the flats opposite, jostling for position on the narrow ledge, and waiting to swoop down on the street for any scraps spilled from the waste bins. Ruth’s eyelids feel heavy again. Last night was another of broken sleep. She longs to go home and lie on her bed. In the far recesses of her mind Niall drones on, and she nods her head at regular intervals just to satisfy him that she’s listening.
Niall’s voice intrudes once more. ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodies.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I saw you looking at the plaque by the window.’
Ruth adjusts her eyeline to the framed quote adjoining the casement. She hadn’t noticed it before.
‘It means “who guards the guards?” A reminder that, as doctors, we need to look after ourselves.’ He glances at the open file on his desk. ‘I want to take you back to Bella, again. How do you feel about parenthood?’
The question disarms her like a punch in the solar plexus. She tries to form words but her tongue is dry. ‘Do you mind if I have a glass of water?’
Niall nods, stands up and walks over to the water dispenser in the corner of the room. He hands her a brimming waxed cup and she tips the ice-cold liquid down her throat. She tosses the empty container into the bin by his desk. ‘I know I would make a good mother, if that’s what you’re asking.’
Niall says nothing.
‘I was pregnant once,’ she says, digging her nails into her palms. She must remain calm, stay in control. ‘In Australia. Got to ten weeks then I had a miscarriage. I couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even at work.’ She can feel her voice wavering but she must press on. ‘As far as work was concerned… I was… I was off for a few days with a tummy upset.’ Her throat constricts as she forces the words out. ‘It’s something I think about a lot,’ she says, unable to stop the well of tears which roll silently down her cheek. She pinches her skin, annoyed that she’s allowed Niall to see her at her most vulnerable.
There’s a clatter of metal and broken glass from the street below, followed by the raucous cries of gulls as a vehicle trundles away. Ruth studies her shoes until a hand bearing a tissue crosses her line of vision.
‘I understand this is not easy for you, Ruth,’ says Niall, offering her a handkerchief.
Blobs of mascara transfer to it like ink spots on blotting paper. How could she be so stupid, breaking down in front of him? She sits in silence, twisting the paper tissue round her fingers.
‘I think we’ve discussed enough for today,’ says Niall, after a protracted pause. ‘There’s been a lot to take in, especially our conversation earlier about your diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder.’ His words make her reel again. Why hadn’t anyone else suggested this diagnosis to her? All those weeks she had spent in the clinic in Scotland. The hospital admission in Australia. No one had ever discussed Borderline Personality Disorder with her before. In a way it had come as some relief to have an explanation for her anxiety, her emotional instability, her episodes of self- harm. It was starting to add up. It also made sense to hear Niall say that her symptoms had been triggered in the wake of recent events. What did he call it? Abandonment sensitivity? But nobody had ever mentioned Borderline Personality Disorder. Nobody. Why?
‘You may think it odd that you’ve been given a name, at this late stage, for your collective symptoms,’ says Niall, as if reading her mind, ‘but I think it will help you. It means we can target your treatment effectively. I’m going to recommend something called MBT. Not CBT.’ He deliberates over his abbreviations, seemingly apportioning capital letters to them to give them greater importance. ‘Mentalisation-based therapy,’ he continues. ‘It will give you greater insight into relationship difficulties. Help you trust again.’ He reaches across his desk and hands her a slim booklet. ‘I’m going to give you this to read at your leisure. It explains some of the mood patterns and symptoms we’ve been talking about.’ He hesitates. ‘And one more thing.’ He slides open a drawer full of little brown bottles. ‘I suggest you start taking these anti-depressants. One at night to start with. Should improve your sleep, if nothing more.’
‘Can I ask you something, Dr. Freeman? And may I call you Niall?’
‘Sure.’
‘You believe I’m innocent, don’t you? I need to know whose side you are on. Dominic’s inquest revealed he was taking prescription-only medication that wasn’t his. Gabapentin. Codeine. Those prescriptions for codeine were forged. Looking back I think I may have unwittingly given him medical information that he used to bluff his way with the authorities.’
Niall smiles. The kind of smile that indicates that time is up. That the meter has run out.
‘Ruth, as I said earlier I’m not accusing you of anything. I am your advocate. I have your best interests at heart. You must trust me. Please.’
Trust? Trust? How can she be sure? She’s heard that too many times before.
‘I still have so many questions.’
‘We can have another chat next week, you know.’
‘The Coroner recorded Dominic’s death as accidental. A post mortem report was read out at the inquest. But surely there was something missing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A psychological autopsy. It’s not for me to tell you your job but, as well as providing the Family Court with a psychiatric report on me, shouldn’t Dominic’s psychiatric history be looked into?’
Niall stands up. ‘The Family Court will be taking all relevant evidence into account.’
Reluctantly Ruth extends her hand, taking the little plastic bottle from him. She looks at the label, then back at Niall.
‘There’s only seven tablets here. That’s not going to be enough.’
‘Same time, same place next week,’ he says, proffering his hand. ‘I want to monitor your progress.’
However, as she gets to her feet and looks into his eyes, there’s an unspoken understanding between them that’s not the only reason for the paucity of pills.
‘See you then,’ she says, and without a backward glance she opens the door onto the corridor, descends the wide, marble staircase and walks out onto the street.
52
Ruth
September 2005
Ruth unravels the wire paper clip until it resembles a spindly question mark. She gouges the end of it into the base of her thumb, twisting it until shiny beads of blood bubble to the surface. Her hand hovers over the paper, the words blurring through her tears.
Why?
Why did you do that?
Why did you leave me?
Hadn’t Niall told her to write down her thoughts?
‘It can be cathartic,’ he said, as he handed her the booklet. ‘Articulating the written word. Instead of the spoken. A form of release perhaps.’
He was right. She smears blood over the page, obliterating the questions. Tilly watches her with unblinking eyes, her tail wrapped round the chair leg.
‘What’s your secret, Tilly? Whenever I walk out that door you never know when I’m coming back. Yet still you love me unconditionally.’
Ruth reaches down to lift the cat who dodges her grasp, startled by the sound of the phone. Ruth glances at the screen. Varsha. She hesitates. Two options.
‘Ruth?’
‘Hi, Varsha.’ She lifts h
er thumb to her mouth and presses on the puncture site.
‘How are you?
‘Fine.’ A pause. Is Varsha waiting for her to qualify that single word with more mundane pleasantries? A robin alights on the windowsill, then flies off as Ruth turns her head.
‘Good. I need to give you an update. Her Honour Judge Howe has given her permission for you to be present at the hearing next Wednesday. This is progress. Thought we might pencil in an appointment for you to see me on Monday. We can go through the formalities of court procedure.’
A trill of anxiety catches Ruth’s breath. Recognition from the authorities that she’s a key player. That’s got to be a good sign. ‘Okay. Yes.’ Her voice wavers. ‘I’d be grateful. I need to know what to expect.’
‘Well, I can’t predict an outcome you know that.’ The words are clipped, direct, incisive.
Ruth’s tongue moves over her lips, which taste of rust.
‘Ruth?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ She switches to loudspeaker and props the phone against a sauce bottle.
‘Okay, good. How about next Monday three thirty, in my office?’
‘Sure.’
‘Cafcass has almost finished its information gathering. In-’
‘Cafcass?’ The acronym swirls in Ruth’s head. She tries to process it but it doesn’t make sense.
‘Yes, remember? The Children and Family Court Advisory and Support Service. You recall the interview you did with my colleague last time? She explained it to you. It’s all part of the fact-finding exercise, as instructed by the Judge.’ There’s a hint of impatience in the terse voice.
‘Yeah, yeah, sorry. You’ll have to excuse me, I’m feeling a bit tired.’
‘Well, in addition to your report they’ve got accounts from Mrs. Zuckerman, Bella’s grandmother, and the consultant paediatrician Shaba Elmahdy. Plus there’s a new development.’
Love Until It Hurts Page 24
