The Therapist

by B. A. Paris

  “I’m thinking of cutting mine,” I say.

  Tamsin frowns. “Why? It’s so lovely and long.”

  “It’s falling out. After my parents and sister died, I lost it in clumps. It was horrible, I found it really distressing. And now it’s happening again.”

  “Is that why you’ve been wearing your hair up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it when you wash your hair that you lose it?” Eve asks. “Because I can recommend a really good shampoo.”

  “No, not really. I mean, I don’t notice it coming away in the shower, or even when I comb it through after—at least no more than usual. But I keep finding it all over the house, especially in the kitchen, which is just about the worst place, because it can get in the food. It won’t be so noticeable if my hair is shorter. Anyway, short hair must be so much easier to maintain.”

  “Don’t you believe it. This—” Eve points to her hair, “takes a ton of gel and a lot of patience to achieve.”

  I turn to Tamsin. “Eve said you used to be a model. Is that when you met Connor?”

  “Yes. We met at a party during London Fashion Week. I wasn’t at all interested in him, he was too brash for me, so when he asked what I was looking for in a man, I told him I wanted someone who would take me to the theater, listen to classical music with me and spend hours reading books by my side. I felt safe saying that; it was a polite brush-off because I didn’t think he’d be interested in any of those things. But he told me I was in luck and a couple of days later, he sent me a ticket for The Tempest. I really wanted to see The Tempest, so I went along. Then came the concerts and the weekends away, where we would spend rainy afternoons curled up with a book. He suited me so perfectly that there was nothing to stop me falling in love with him.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I should have told him that I wasn’t looking for a man, then he’d have left me alone.”

  “But it’s lovely that you both enjoy the same things,” I say, surprised at the vehemence of her last remark.

  She shakes her head. “We don’t. As soon as we were married, the trips to the theater, the classical concerts, the books—all that came to an end. If there’s something I want to see, he tells me to go with a friend.” She gives a little laugh. “It’s hard to realize that the man you married never really existed at all.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say quietly, thinking of Leo. “Not that Leo and I are married.”

  “Didn’t you want to get married?” Eve asks.

  “It never really came up. Leo doesn’t believe in marriage anyway. He says he’s never known a happy one.”

  “Me and Will are happy,” she protests.

  “Oh, shut up,” Tamsin and I say simultaneously, and the three of us burst out laughing.

  * * *

  Eve and I walk back across the square together, then go our separate ways. In the study, I sit at my desk. I’m meant to start working but I can’t stop thinking about what Tamsin said, that Nina once told her that Oliver would sometimes go and sit in the square when he came home from work. I wish I knew if she had told the police, I wish I’d been able to hear her answer to Eve’s question. But she must have told them, it would have been criminal not to. And then I remember what she said about Connor having an affair with Nina. Did Tamsin keep back information that might have helped Oliver’s case, to protect Connor? Except I can’t be sure she did say that he’d had an affair with Nina.

  Then there was Eve’s comment about the gap in the fence between our houses. Was she insinuating that Will would have been able to come and go between theirs and Nina’s without being detected? And why had Tamsin said that everyone is capable of murder if they feel threatened? Did someone know that Connor, or Will, was having an affair with Nina and threatened to tell? Did Tamsin, or Eve feel threatened because they thought their husband might leave them for Nina? Connor, Will, Tamsin, Eve—they could all have had a motive for killing Nina.

  Suddenly ashamed at how easily I’m able to consider that one of our neighbors, all of whom have been perfectly lovely to me, is capable of murder, I lay my head on my desk with a groan. I don’t even know Connor or Tim very well, my fault for not going to Maria’s last Friday. I think for a moment, then lift my head from the desk and reach for my cell phone.

  “I don’t suppose you and Will are free for supper tomorrow evening?” I ask Eve.

  “We are,” she says, sounding pleased. “Is Leo coming back, then?”

  “No, it’ll just be me. That is all right, isn’t it?”

  “Of course!”

  “I’m going to invite Tamsin and Connor, and Tim and Maria too. And maybe Paul and Cara,” I add, remembering that it was Paul who told Leo about Nina helping her neighbors. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a great idea. Are you sure it won’t be too much?”

  “No, it’ll be fine. I’ll make something easy, like a curry.”

  “And Will and I will bring tiramisu, another of his grandmother’s recipes!”

  “Great, thank you.”

  Maria and Tim are free, Cara and Paul aren’t, and Tamsin needs to see with Connor. She calls me back to confirm that Connor hadn’t planned anything for the two of them.

  “I preferred to check, in case he’d bought tickets for the theater as a surprise for me,” she jokes.

  “Perfect,” I say, laughing. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  In the middle of the night, I sense someone there. It’s only Nina, I remind myself, before fear can take hold.

  “I think your murderer’s is still out there,” I tell her. “And I’m going to find him.” But in my mind, it isn’t Nina Maxwell’s face I see, it’s my sister’s.

  I remember this when I wake up and a terrible uncertainty consumes me. Who am I doing this for? Is it because my sister never got what I considered justice for her death that I’m determined it won’t be the same for Nina Maxwell? I’m not even sure what it is that I’m doing. How can I justify secretly helping to look into a miscarriage of justice when there might not even have been a miscarriage of justice?

  Then a letter arrives, pushed through the door by the postman. It’s so unusual to get a handwritten letter that I spend some time studying the envelope, trying to guess who it’s from. I don’t recognize the writing; it’s slightly shaky, so maybe it’s from someone elderly. Lorna comes to mind but when I open it, and unfold the single sheet of paper inside, I understand straightway.

  Dear Alice,

  I wanted to write and thank you personally for accepting to listen to what he had to say regarding Oliver and Nina. I know you may not be able to help, or even wish to help. But I want you to know how grateful I am for your willingness to consider that Oliver might not be guilty, when those who knew him well were so quick to condemn him.

  Please forgive me for not writing more, and for my appalling handwriting, I know that Thomas has explained my situation and that you will understand.

  I sincerely hope we will get to meet each other one day.

  With warmest wishes,

  Helen

  For a moment I wonder how Helen got my address, then remember that her brother had lived here. I feel horribly emotional as I slide the letter back in its envelope, the doubts I had about helping Thomas fading as quickly as they came. It’s not as if I’m going to tell him my theories about Connor or Will, or anyone else. I’ll only tell him what people have said, and leave him to draw his own conclusions. If Oliver didn’t kill Nina, and someone else is murdered, I’d never forgive myself for being too afraid of upsetting people to do the right thing.

  * * *

  I already have most of what I need for supper this evening, because I went shopping in Stoke Newington last night. But I forgot the coriander, so I shrug on a jacket and head to the local shops.

  I cross the square quickly, waving to Tim and his boys as I pass the play area. A chill wind I hadn’t reckoned with drags tendrils of hair from my clip, and I button my jacket to the neck
, wishing I’d worn something warmer. I’m soon at the greengrocer’s, where I add a huge bunch of deep purple grapes, and some pears, apples and oranges to the coriander I need. And as I have grapes, I buy a couple of creamy cheeses at the delicatessen next door. There’s a flower stall a little further along and on impulse, I buy a bunch of pale pink roses for Lorna. I’ll take them round later; maybe I’ll be able to catch her on her own.

  Feeling the need for a coffee, I cross over to a café I’ve been to before. As I get nearer, I see Tamsin sitting in the window, a steaming mug in front of her. I start to move away but, suddenly aware of my eyes on her, she lifts her head. I smile awkwardly and raise my hand in a wave, as if I’m just passing by. But, jumping up, she pushes through tables and comes to the door.

  “Do you have time for a coffee?” she calls over the noise of the traffic.

  “Why not?” I say, glad that she’s asked.

  I love this café, with its vibrant hum of conversation interspersed by the hiss of the coffee machine, the clatter of crockery, the ting! of cutlery on plates. It’s warm and crowded, but not so crowded that we can hear what the people at the next table are saying. The air is heavy with the scent of coffee and freshly baked cakes.

  “You’ve been busy,” Tamsin remarks as she takes my bags from me and pushes them under the scrubbed wooden table. “Is it for tonight?”

  “Some of it is.”

  She nods approvingly at the roses. “I like a girl who buys herself flowers. If I didn’t buy myself some, I’d never get any.”

  “They’re not for me, they’re for Lorna. She looked a bit down the last time I saw her.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  She lifts her bag onto her lap, pushes her cell phone, red leather gloves and white bobble hat into it, making room on the table, then takes out her purse.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Oh—thank you. Your hot chocolate looks delicious so I’ll have the same, please.”

  She’s back a few minutes later with a mug in one hand, and two plates precariously gripped in the other, each bearing a slice of cake. One is definitely chocolate but the other I’m not sure about. Coffee, maybe?

  “And walnut,” Tamsin says when I ask. “You choose.”

  “Gosh, thank you, I wasn’t expecting cake. They both look amazing—why don’t we do half-and-half?”

  “Perfect!” There’s something almost childish about her delight as she cuts each cake down the middle.

  “Are we celebrating?” I ask. “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

  “No, but it feels like it.”

  “Has something happened?”

  She takes her time answering. “Connor and I had a long talk last night about something that’s been bothering me for a while, and well, it wasn’t what I thought it was. So now I’m feeling kind of good about everything.”

  “That’s great,” I say casually. But I’m on high alert after what I overheard yesterday. “It’s always good to get things out in the open, otherwise misunderstandings can build up.”

  She nods slowly. “I’m glad I’ve seen you because I feel guilty about bad-mouthing him yesterday, when you came over for coffee, especially as you’ll be seeing him tonight. He’s not all bad—he’s a brilliant father—but we’re very different people, something I didn’t realize at first.”

  “I guess we all try to fit the ideal of the person we want to impress,” I say, thinking back to what she said about Connor pretending, when they first met, to enjoy the same things as her.

  “That’s exactly what he said. He said he fell madly in love with me and tried to be the perfect man for me. He couldn’t keep it up, that’s all.” She picks up her fork and breaks off a piece of the chocolate cake. “It’s not just that, though,” she says, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I’ve always suspected that he had an affair with Nina but I never dared ask him because I was afraid of what he would say, of what I might find out. Now, I wish I’d asked him ages ago and saved myself a lot of anguish.” She lifts her fork the rest of the way. “This is delicious. Try it.”

  “So he didn’t have an affair with Nina?” I ask, attacking my cake.

  “No. But he wanted to.”

  “Oh.” I put my fork down. “How do you feel about that?”

  “Surprisingly fine, because it’s cleared up something that’s been eating away at me for a long time.” She turns her plate and makes a start on the coffee cake. “A few months before she died, Nina began distancing herself from me,” she says, telling me what I already know from Eve. “I thought I’d annoyed her by asking her to refer me to her therapist. She had been helping me sift through my emotions—as a friend, not a therapist—and I felt that I needed the professional help she couldn’t give me. I was worried she’d taken offense, especially when she never came back with a name.”

  “I had therapy after my sister and parents died and I don’t know if I’d have made it through without it. But—Nina saw a therapist?”

  “Yes, a lot of therapists do. Some because they feel they need it, some because they believe the experience of being in therapy makes them a better therapist. I think for Nina it was a mixture of both.” She stabs at her cake. “Anyway, the reason she no longer wanted to see me was nothing to do with her being annoyed with me, but because of Connor. He used to take his whiskies over for her to taste and I was fine about it, I hate whiskey so I was glad he had someone who shared his passion. But one night, he tried to kiss her. She pushed him away but the trouble with Connor is that he can’t take no for an answer. When he insisted, she threatened to tell me. He begged her not to and, in the end, she agreed not to say anything. But she did a complete character assassination on him, said she despised him for even thinking he could cheat on me.”

  “And he took it? The character assassination?”

  She looks at me appraisingly. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if maybe he was angry with her for what she said, and killed her.”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking that at all,” I say, my cheeks hot, and not just because I’m worried about someone overhearing our conversation, despite the distance between the tables. It’s the way she said it so matter-of-factly that shocked me. Also, I can’t ignore the possibility—because Lorna’s words are never far from my mind—that this is another conversation that has been staged. “I was thinking that you’re amazing for not minding that he kissed Nina.”

  She pushes her empty plate to one side and sits back in her chair. “I do mind, of course I do. But the relief of knowing that Nina only dropped me because she felt awkward around me somehow means more than knowing that Connor kissed her.” She fixes me with her green eyes. “Can you understand that, Alice?”

  I nod slowly. I can, because Leo lying to me, and about me, has affected me just as much, if not more, than the thought of Nina being murdered in our bedroom.

  “And Connor told you all this?” I try not to sound skeptical.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s great that you’ve worked it out between you,” I say.

  She nods happily. “We’ve agreed to start over, put it all behind us.” She looks at my slice of coffee cake. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

  I laugh and push my plate toward her. “Go ahead,” I tell her. “I need to get going, anyway.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Leo calls me when I’m on my way home but by the time I’ve shifted my bags into one hand, tucked the flowers under my arm, and taken my cell phone from my pocket, his call has gone through to voicemail. I listen to his message and feel relieved when he says that Ginny and Mark have invited him for the weekend, because I’ve been feeling guilty about him being alone. My phone rings again and I smile when I see that it’s Ginny.

  I put my bags between my feet while I talk to her. “Yes, I know, Leo is spending the weekend with you,” I say, because I know she’ll feel that she has to tell me.

  “That is all right, isn’t it?” she asks anxious
ly. “Mark said we should invite him.”

  “Yes, of course, it’s lovely of you.”

  “I don’t want you to think we’re taking sides.”

  “I don’t. You said I could stay with you, remember?”

  “What about you, are you doing anything nice?”

  “I’m having Eve, Tamsin, Maria and their partners over for dinner. I’m doing a curry, nothing major.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “I have to go, I’m on the way back from the shops and it’s freezing. Let’s catch up after the weekend.”

  “Definitely! I’ll call you on Monday.”

  I start walking again, my mind going over my conversation with Tamsin. I can understand her relief now that she knows Connor didn’t have an affair with Nina, because it must have been terrible to have that hanging over her. But if she didn’t tell the police about Oliver’s habit of going to sit in the square to protect Connor, shouldn’t she be wracked with guilt? She didn’t seem to be, so maybe she did tell the police and they dismissed it. Or it’s as I thought, and both conversations—the one I overheard yesterday and the one I had just now with Tamsin—have been fabricated for my benefit.

  As I cut across the square to the house, I happen to look up, and see the blur of a face at the study window. My heart plummets. Leo must have come to get something before going to Ginny and Mark’s. I wish he’d mentioned in his voicemail that he was coming to the house. If he had, I’d have gone for another coffee so that I wouldn’t have to see him. I don’t want him putting pressure on me to let him come home.

  I put my shopping down in the hall, expecting him to appear at the top of the stairs.

  “Leo!” I call. There’s no answer so I go upstairs and push open the door to his study. It’s empty. I check the guest room, because it’s at the front of the house and maybe I got the wrong window, calling for him as I go. I stop in the doorway of our bedroom. It seems empty but there’s something in the air—the scent of his aftershave maybe—that tells me he was here. The bathroom door is ajar. I head toward it nervously.