by A J Waines
‘I thought you’d want to know, that’s all.’ Her voice was clipped, sharp.
I softened. ‘I know this is stirring things up for you, but our contract doesn’t involve you ringing me outside our session times. I thought you understood that.’
‘I did. I do, but I’m all on edge about it. I want to know what really happened. Did someone go back for it? Did it float into the cove on its own? Did a complete stranger find it? It had a special Xenara case. They’re really expensive and they’re supposed to protect a violin under extreme circumstances. Do you—?’
‘We can’t go into this now,’ I said firmly. ‘Why don’t you write down your questions and we’ll talk about it all on Thursday? I really have to go now.’
I dropped the receiver back into its stand as though it was on fire, before she could utter another word.
After charging across London for my emotional meeting with Miranda, I’d spent the afternoon fighting the Christmas crowds trying to find suitable gifts for Mum and Dad and I was wrecked. I’d been winding down for an early night, but now I was fully alert. And angry. How dare Rosie think she could call me whenever she felt ‘on edge’?
I’m not the Samaritans…
I went into the bedroom and stood blankly in the middle of the carpet. Rosie’s call had jolted me straight back to last Christmas. That other call. I’d thought at the time that I’d handled it well; I’d been firm, but kind.
Little did I know.
I’d made a vow then that I’d never get involved in that kind of situation again, but here I was, getting sucked in. I stared at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror, my hand over my mouth, looking like I’d woken up to find myself sleepwalking in the middle of a busy road at midnight.
I could picture the book on Joanne’s bedside table, smell her perfume left suspended in the air. I shivered and wandered over to my bed in a daze.
No. Rosie was different.
Completely different.
Chapter 14
Sam
Dr Minette Heron was an inspirational psychologist I’d heard speak many times before. She was one of the warmest people I’d ever come across, with a surprisingly raunchy sense of humour. I did my best to get to all her London lectures and we’d often squeeze in lunch if neither of us had to rush off somewhere.
Cutting it fine, I bolted out of St Luke’s before lunch and hailed a cab to get me to King’s Hospital near Brixton. For once, I was delighted that the driver was a maniac, weaving around buses, dodging a red light and even mounting the pavement at one point to keep us moving. I arrived with two minutes to spare.
Minette had a penchant for the colour orange and sure enough, she lit up the stage, her jacket, scarf and shoes in a blinding shade of tangerine.
In her presentation that day, she was making the case for matching the right style of therapy to each individual, especially in cases of low self-image. Her arguments were always fascinating and I liked the way she included recorded extracts of sessions. Most of these came from the psychotherapy teams she supervised, though of course she used pseudonyms to preserve patient anonymity.
She was getting towards the end of her presentation and I was finally starting to flag, when she introduced a recording of a patient she called ‘Kitty’.
‘I won’t go into Kitty’s history,’ she said, ‘but suffice to say she’d had years of rejection to cope with. A childhood bereft of love. In her mid-thirties, and after a string of therapists, she believed she was being respected and heard for the first time in her life. This was a person-centred, client-led approach and Kitty felt in control.’
Minette stopped and scanned the faces in the hall. ‘But some therapists didn’t work so well for her – those using more analytical or cognitive approaches, for example. She felt they were replicating authority figures from her past who had instructed her, questioned her, made demands on her. For Kitty, acceptance in a relationship was crucial.’
I jotted down a few notes. My NHS role required a cognitive approach, and with all the CBT forms we now had to complete, straying into other methods held less appeal. Minette’s words were a reminder, however, that the patient’s needs should come first. She was right.
A hand went up in the auditorium. ‘Are you suggesting we should contact patients’ previous therapists to find out which approach worked best? That could take months…’
‘No, I’m not proposing that,’ came Minette’s response. ‘I’m advocating a couple of simple questions at the start of your first session – you’ll find these on the handout; page three.’ She glanced down at her notes. ‘It saves time. It gets results. It saves money.’ She gestured towards the chief executive of the NHS commissioning board, sitting at the front. ‘Anyway, enough of me, let’s hear what Kitty had to say.’
The recording had barely started before my pen slipped from my hand. I knew that chirpy voice. She was telling her therapist months ago that she was so pleased she’d found someone who seemed to truly understand her.
‘You really seem to get me,’ came the voice. ‘It’s such a relief. I’ve never had that before.’
I felt a spine-tingling chill of déjà-vu. Almost the exact same words were written in the card Rosie had sent me: I feel you’re someone who truly understands. I’ve never had that before.
The recording went on, but I didn’t hear any more after that; my head was filled with questions that drowned out any outside noise. Who was Rosie’s psychotherapist? How long had they been working together? How had she coped with Rosie’s emotional neediness?
I missed the end of the talk altogether and suddenly everyone around me was getting up to leave. I got to my feet and swayed, staring blankly ahead as the auditorium broke into geometric patterns. I started to walk down the steps and the next moment, everything in my path turned orange. I was face to face with Minette and she was smiling, waiting for me to say something.
My mouth felt like it was full of glue.
‘Hey – are you okay, Sam?’ she said.
‘Yeah…sorry. I wanted to say it…your lecture…very enlightening, as usual. Really useful, interesting.’ Most people had drifted into the corridor by now.
‘Thanks – I’m glad it came across as more than just a cost-cutting exercise.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘I’d love to chat, but I’ve got a flipping board meeting.’ She gathered her papers against her chest. ‘We must do lunch again soon.’
‘Yes…sure.’
I must have looked gormless, barely able to string two words together.
‘Just one question before you go,’ I managed. ‘The woman Kitty was working with – who is she? I’m not sure if you said.’
Her face clouded over. ‘Erica Mandale, a dear friend of mine. Over at Guy’s.’ She shook her head. ‘Died suddenly earlier this year. Such a shock.’
Chapter 15
Sam
I had no time to dwell on Rosie and her previous therapist; I had to use the return journey to St Luke’s to bolt down a sandwich and prepare for my remaining patients. At the end of the day, I was about to lock my consulting room when I heard hurried footsteps coming up behind me in the corridor.
‘Sam…sorry, Dr Willerby…’ It was Rosie, out of breath. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you. I’m so sorry to bother you here, but I’ve just been for a lung check-up and—’ A paramedic swung around the corner with an ambulance trolley and we were forced to back against the wall before she finished. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I need a form for work – to prove I attended the sessions we had here.’
Standard procedure. Form D1.11. I told her to wait in the corridor and went round to the main office.
It took longer than I’d expected to get my hands on the right form and when I returned, Rosie wasn’t there. I turned full circle and went back into my office only to find she’d made herself at home in my room, sitting in my chair, swinging it from side to side.
‘Great,’ she said, smiling as I came in. She had no idea that she was overstepping the mar
k. Rosie didn’t seem to grasp established social protocol.
I hesitated, torn about what to say. ‘Rosie, I asked you to wait outside. This room is private.’
‘Oh,’ she said, getting up, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. ‘Oh, well…see you Thursday at your place,’ she added merrily as she left.
As Rosie disappeared down the corridor, Debbie, who managed several units on my floor, appeared at the door.
‘You’ve made someone happy,’ she said. ‘Are you handing out special pills or is it just your innate charm?’
Debbie was tiny in size, but big on warmth and generosity. We’d been best buddies ever since I joined St Luke’s over eight years ago. She was the one person at work who could be counted on to offer two rare comforts: a sympathetic ear and decent biscuits.
‘You finished now?’ she asked, tapping the face of her watch.
‘Totally finished,’ I said, my shoulders sagging.
She beckoned me with a curled finger. ‘My office, Willerby. Now. Tea and Hobnobs.’
I followed her like a new puppy.
‘Doing anything exciting tonight?’ she asked, handing me my steaming tea in a mug decorated with the words, I may be short, but I’m in charge.
‘Er. One word. No,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I’ve got a spin class on the way home.’
‘And how many eligible guys in the class?’
‘Um. One word, again,’ I replied with a giggle. ‘Zero.’
She’d been nagging me for weeks about ditching spinning and taking up Spanish or boxing instead. ‘You need an activity with more men in it, Sam,’ she sighed.
I waved her words away. ‘I want a relationship that “unfolds naturally”, you know, where I just turn a corner in the supermarket or bump into someone gorgeous at a friend’s wedding.’
‘Well, good luck with that one,’ she said and we both laughed.
I’d tried online dating, but only because Debbie and Hannah had goaded me into it; I’d been half-hearted from the start and hadn’t bothered responding to the ‘likes’ I’d got.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Relationships are overrated.’ I thought of Con as I said it, feeling something of a fraud, because I still found myself wishing we’d had another chance.
Debbie, on the other hand, had every right to be cynical about things that were meant to ‘unfold naturally’. She and her husband had been on IVF treatments for months and she was starting to give up hope. Numerous times after work we’d stopped off for a drink on the way home and she’d dissolved into tears. Every time, she apologised.
‘Oh, Sam, here I go again,’ she’d blubbed only last week. ‘As if you don’t have enough of people’s problems at work…’
That’s one drawback about working in my profession; friends always assume you’re inwardly cringing the moment they start talking about themselves. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I’d said, pulling her close. ‘You must never think that. This is a huge deal, Deb. I can’t bear that you’re suffering and there’s nothing I can do to help.’
‘But you do help. You let me drivel on,’ she’d said, crushing a tissue into a tight ball. ‘I’d go mad if I didn’t have you.’
Miranda had told me she was going to Eastbourne for the day, so I took the opportunity to head over to the Arts Project. I was looking for the couple Miranda had said hi to in the café the other day: Sponge and Kora.
I found Kora wiping up mugs in the kitchen.
‘I’m Miranda’s sister,’ I said, as I picked up the tea towel she’d dropped.
‘Oh – she’s not here today.’
‘I know. It’s you I came to speak to actually, and Sponge if he’s around.’
‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’
‘Sort of. Psychologist.’
She grimaced. ‘Even worse,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell Sponge. He doesn’t like shrinks. He’s in the back yard. Someone smashed a pile of bottles over the wall, last night.’
She waited. I wasn’t sure where to start. ‘Miranda seems to be doing well with her paintings.’
‘Yes – she’s selling at a steady rate. It’s a good spot for us here.’
‘You paint too?’
‘Mixed media – sculpture mostly. I’ll show you.’
She led me through to a studio that was out of bounds to the public. The strong smell of glue made my eyes water. A handful of people were working; one using his fingers to pummel clay, another bending a long coil of wire into a shape that looked like a bicycle frame.
She showed me a row of shiny limes and lemons made of melted wax on copper mesh. ‘These are nearly finished. I’ve sold two “still lifes” in the last month.’
‘Wow, they’re good enough to eat,’ I said, in genuine awe.
‘Everyone says that,’ she laughed, looking pleased. She leant against the bench waiting for me to explain the real reason I’d turned up.
I caught her cagey stare and cleared my throat. ‘I wanted to ask how Miranda was getting on. How she’s been lately.’
She folded her arms. ‘Checking up on her.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. She doesn’t tell me much at all these days. I want to make sure she’s okay.’
She looked me steadily in the eye. ‘To be honest, she seems to have had a new lease of life lately. I’ve known her since she started here and she’s the happiest I’ve seen her.’
‘That’s…good.’
‘She’s had a real surge in her painting. She’s been trying new techniques. Mac, her tutor, is very pleased with her.’
I decided it was best to come clean.
‘This is going to sound like a terrible betrayal, but I found a syringe in Miranda’s flat…she said she uses it for painting…’
Her expression didn’t change. She looked like she was used to prying family members trying to rock the boat.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ she said. ‘Believe it or not, some artists do use clean syringes. It’s not something we do here, with ex-users around, but I know artists in other studios who use them to soften oil paint, especially white.’ She lifted an oily rag to wipe her fingers. ‘For some reason white gets lumpy and dries out quickly and you can easily control the consistency on the palette with a syringe.’
‘Wouldn’t a bottle with a rubber dropper work better?’
‘Oil rots the rubber.’ Kora raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps if you’d looked closer you’d have seen paint on the syringe.’
I nodded with a wince.
‘I’m so paranoid about what Miranda might be up to next that I didn’t stop to look properly.’
She twisted her mouth into an expression of contempt. ‘Miranda’s newfound enthusiasm for life has nothing to do with drugs…’ She hesitated. A brief acknowledgment of confidentiality. ‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’
I gave her a look which said she’d gone too far to backtrack.
‘I might be wrong – but I’m pretty sure she’s got a new man in her life.’
My eyes widened. ‘Someone from here?’
‘I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask her.’ She began walking away. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’
I managed to find both Sponge, Kora’s boyfriend, and Mac, Miranda’s tutor, and both were adamant that Miranda wasn’t using.
‘According to her medical records, she’s never been into drugs,’ said Mac. ‘I thought you’d know that.’
‘I did. I do…it’s just…’ My sentence fizzled out into a sigh.
It made sense. Miranda had started taking medication for schizophrenia when she was twenty and hated it. It was years before her doctors got the dose just right and she’d always loathed taking the stuff. The idea that she’d play around with her dosage or mix her prescribed drugs with any illicit substances was entirely out of character. I should have realised.
I thanked him and came away with a weight lifted from my shoulders. One less thing to worry about. I was intrigued, however, by the new boyfriend. Why hadn’t she told me?
; Chapter 16
Sam
By the time Rosie arrived for her next session, I was feeling a bizarre mixture of confusion and compassion. Rosie had claimed that I was the ‘only person to ever understand her’, but in the recording at the lecture, she’d made exactly the same claim about her previous therapist. Presumably, she made desperate bids to ingratiate herself with anyone who would listen. Maybe she was even more fragile and damaged than I’d thought.
I didn’t want to bombard Rosie with questions about it, but I did want to know how Erica’s death had affected her. It must have been a nasty shock to lose someone she trusted.
But before she sat down, Rosie launched straight in with an update on the crash. She was clearly obsessed with Max’s empty violin case showing up and had been trying to work out what it meant. I’d already assumed that musical instruments and water didn’t mix, but I’d done a little research of my own and discovered that all the joints in a stringed instrument are water soluble, so even busking in the rain is risky. If a violin is immersed in water, the damage can range from discoloration, to the whole instrument coming apart at the seams, beyond repair.
Rosie hitched her seat a few inches closer to mine. ‘Something doesn’t add up,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s about the case.’
‘Go on.’
‘I mentioned when I rang you that Max’s violin case came from a company in Naples called Xenara,’ she explained. ‘They claim to be the best in the business. Typical. Nothing but the finest for wonder-boy.’ She tutted. ‘The company have run tests by sending a violin inside one of their cases into the Gulf of Naples.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Can you believe it? It stayed afloat for hours and because of the waterproof coating, neither the inside of the case nor the violin got wet.’
I raised my eyebrows, taking it in.
‘There’s something else – even more significant. There’s a pull-down lock system on this type of case that makes it watertight. The makers say it’s “almost impossible” for it to be opened accidentally.’ She paused, bit her lip. ‘I’m sure the case was shut properly when we got in the van. Max always made a point of locking it, too, even if he only had a short trip to make. Habit, I suppose.’
