by JJ Marsh
It was approaching one o’clock. She had to get out before her mother returned. Luz watched the activity in the courtyard and chose her moment. A cleaner threw the last bags of rubbish into his two-seater pickup and wiped his hands on his overalls. Luz broke cover and approached, checking the name on his badge. Raoul.
“Hi, my name is Luz Aguirre. You’ve done a great job.”
His eyes widened and he spoke with a Mexican accent. “You’re welcome. I hope the little boy had a good party.”
“He loved every minute. Raoul, can I ask you where you’re going now?”
The guy’s eyes widened further. “Where I’m going? To the dump and back to the depot in Vitoria. Is there something else you want me to do before I go?”
“Yes, kind of. You see, I ordered a taxi, but it’s late. I need to get into the city fast. Could you take me? I’ll pay you, of course.”
His head retreated into his neck, like a tortoise. “In this van? Señora, it’s dirty and it stinks.”
Luz jumped into the passenger side of the cab. He wasn’t wrong. It was filthy and it stank of rotten oranges.
“Seventy Euro to take me to the city. See that door over there? Behind it is a big suitcase. Can you bring it over here and throw it in the back?”
“Señora ...”
“If you don’t argue and just do it, I’ll make that a hundred. Come on, Raoul, I’ll be sure to tell my father how kind you’ve been.”
Chapter 26
Just hearing the phone ring soothed Beatrice. She sat on the windowsill of her hotel bedroom, staring out at the streets of Vitoria, but visualised James’s office: cream and white upholstery, light wood and James himself, legs crossed, quietly exuding peace.
“James Curran?”
“Beatrice Stubbs, checking in.”
“Beatrice, hello, you’re punctual. Thank you for calling.”
“Thank you for finding the time. I realise we should have discussed ongoing treatment before I left. It just all happened in a bit of a rush. But I am taking my mood stabilisers and feel mostly OK.”
“Good. The medication is essential. Think of it as the scaffolding around your treatment. Whereas the building work within rests on the foundations of CBT. Are you still maintaining your journal? Or mood diary, if you prefer to call it that?”
“Not really. I mean, I’m keeping an eye on the swings, and just avoided a trough, but I’m not recording my emotional state on a daily basis. I’m not really in any sort of routine, you see.”
“I appreciate that. But when you do find yourself with a couple of minutes to spare, such as just before you go to sleep, that would be an ideal opportunity to make a note of your mental outlook. Now, two things you’ve said already raise questions in my mind, but first, can we return to the points I asked you to consider yesterday?”
“Yes. I have thought about them.” No matter how much effort she put into James’s exercises, Beatrice always felt as if she were back at college, busking a tutorial on a subject she had but skimmed. “You asked the aim of this sabbatical. It wasn’t my choice, to be truthful. Hamilton refused my resignation and this was his idea of a compromise. Three months away, then if I still wanted to resign, he would accept it. So in a nutshell, the aim is to find out if I really want to retire.”
“If you’re not sure if you want to retire, why did you resign?”
“Because I don’t feel up to the job. I have endangered other officers and civilians, either through omission or incompetence, so shouldn’t be in the position of Detective Inspector.”
James remained silent for several seconds, prompting Beatrice to second-guess him.
“So your next question will be ‘Why are you getting involved in another investigation when you don’t feel competent?’ Well, that wasn’t actually by choice either. A friend of a friend needed some help, so I sort of rolled up my sleeves and pitched in.”
“Interesting. So the situation in which you find yourself is not of your choosing. You are powerless, at the mercy of stronger wills. Forgive me if I find that image difficult to reconcile with the Beatrice Stubbs I know as my client.”
In the seconds that elapsed before Beatrice composed a reply, she recognised a pattern so familiar she almost bored herself. A flare of anger at James’s disrespectful tone. Infuriation at his lack of faith in her. A moment of considering a different therapist. Acknowledgement that he only ever treated her with less respect when she did likewise. Acceptance of a failed smokescreen. She was dissembling, refusing to face reality and James knew it.
“As for Matthew and Hamilton, the former joined me last night. He and Adrian have come to lend their wine expertise. And Hamilton would sack me if he knew. He’s already told me not to interfere.”
“Do I need to help you unpack the implications of this, or can we move on?”
“Let’s move on. Fourth question. What was it again?”
“No, I’d prefer you to elaborate on two phrases you used at the beginning of this call: ‘mostly OK’, and ‘avoided a trough’. Are they connected?”
“I suppose. I’ve spotted some features of rapid cycling – giddy bouts of elation, followed by over-sensitivity, an urge to recall maudlin memories, increased sexual attraction, and a tendency to extrapolate. You know, seeing one incident as reflective of what is rotten with the whole world.”
“So the avoidance of a trough took what form exactly?”
“Umm … calling you. Seeing Matthew. An awareness of other kinds of coping strategies. I feel much more grounded. Back on track sort of thing.”
“Beatrice, I apologise in advance for what I am about to ask. But I believe I would be negligent in not doing so. I would like you to take five minutes to think. I will stay on the line, but I don’t want you to speak until I tell you the five minutes are up. During those five minutes, you are going to think back to the months leading up to your attempted suicide. I want you to tell me the patterns you and I uncovered together, how one state of mind can give way to another and the impact those months had on you. Please be honest.”
Before he’d finished speaking, the domino-effect began. Her heart rate increased, self-pity provoked tears, fear invoked resentment and her mind flailed around for a means of escape. She switched the phone to speaker, placed it on the table and put her hands over her eyes, blocking out images of what came afterwards and focusing on what went before. The circles, the cycles. Bad days, bad weeks, followed by a determination to help herself. New starts, excessive optimism, inappropriate behaviour. Three steps forward, four back. And the gradual comprehension that it would never get better. She could never evade this black demon permanently. She would fight this battle for the rest of her life unless she withdrew from the fray. The clarity and the horror of that moment emptied her of all emotion and her practical side took over. Make it painless, with as little mess as possible, organise the paperwork and get it over with.
James’s voice came from the mobile. “That’s five minutes. Beatrice, I know that was a deeply unpleasant exercise and I am sorry for the pain I caused. When revisiting those months, what did you observe?”
Beatrice blew her nose and picked up the phone. “Patterns. I keep thinking I can fix it myself. I keep thinking I will get better and be able to manage on my own again. But I never really managed. Not always when I was hyper and definitely not when I was depressed.”
“Can we take that one step further? When you’re in a cycle, regardless of direction, how would you assess your decision-making capabilities?”
“You’re talking present tense, James.”
“And you’re talking past. Are these patterns obsolete or something we still need to address?”
Beatrice stared at the palm of her hand. Lines she’d been born with, scars she’d added.
“No, not obsolete. I recognise paranoia and a certain amount of displacement activity.”
“So we come to question four. Is your current choice of activity furthering the aim of your sabbatical, or are you seek
ing any opportunity to evade serious thought?”
“Why would I call you if I was trying to avoid thinking? Every single time we speak, I end up crying. I’m doing my best, but it bloody hurts, James. You bloody hurt. I know this is good for me and it is working, I suppose, but it’s not easy.”
“Beatrice, I think we can consider a milestone passed. Normally when you rail against the painful nature of therapy, you cite your age as a reason for sympathy. This time, you have taken responsibility. A story, if you have time. A child born with a malformed right foot. The big toe was missing and therefore so was his balance. Nevertheless, the child learnt to walk, even run, after a fashion. But he expended so much effort, compensating for that missing digit. Medicine advanced and surgeons were able to fit him with a prosthetic toe. Once he got used to it, he could do twice as much with half the energy. It didn’t take him long to adapt, as he was only nine. You have a few years on him, but I’d like to think of what you and I do together as an artificial, but not uncomfortable, improvement to your life. Perhaps we can re-imagine Cognitive Behavioural Therapy as Curran’s Big Toe.”
Still sniffing, Beatrice expelled an involuntary laugh. “Do you use that line on all your clients?”
“No, because none is so determined to repel my assistance as you. Now, could we look at some exercises for you to try and arrange a follow-up session as soon as convenient?”
James. Inextricably linked with tears and tissues. Maybe he was right. It was simply a question of balance.
Chapter 27
By the time Ana found a parking spot in the shadow of the Good Shepherd Cathedral, Beatrice was feeling guilty. Absorbed in dissecting her own behaviour, the usual reaction to a conversation with James, she’d made barely any conversation with Ana on the journey. But her companion seemed similarly introspective.
They made directly for the seafront and wandered the wide promenade. Both gazed at the spread of sand and sea as the bay curved away. To her left rose a hill, covered in greenery, and to her right another, featuring some impressive architecture. Natural sentinels protecting the harbour. On the beach, dogs hared after one another, chased balls, splashed in the surf and barked. At the base of the sea wall, two bare-chested men worked on a sand-sculpture, their shirts spread out to catch coins from above.
“What do you say to a snack and something to drink first?” Beatrice asked her transformed companion.
Ana’s hair was pulled into a tight bun and her face heavily made-up. She wore a dove-grey trouser suit with flat brogues. Her earrings were silver studs. She checked her watch, still radiating unease and tension.
“You’ve got plenty of time, so go ahead. I’ll give it a miss. I’m going to take the scenic route to the meeting, just in case.”
“You don’t still think we’re being followed? I thought you were convinced we were clear?”
“I am convinced. Those how-to-shake-a-tail tricks were very useful. Specially as I’m not even sure it was a tail. But you can’t be too careful. Now listen, I don’t think this guy’s likely to give me more than an hour of his time, so I might come and lurk in the background while you talk to the Lopez woman. I won’t join you, just be there to keep an eye.” She opened her briefcase and withdrew a pair of black-rimmed glasses. In a second, her soft, luminous beauty developed an incisive edge, a metallic precision which could both intimidate and impress.
“I didn’t know you wore specs,” commented Beatrice.
“I don’t. They’re just glass. I used them a fair bit when I was younger, in an attempt to make people take me seriously. I thought glasses and DMs gave me an attitude.”
“Did it work?”
“Sometimes.” She applied plum lipstick, using her phone screen to check her reflection. “But it turns out blokes do make passes at girls with glasses. That’s when the Doctor Martens came in handy. How do I look?”
“Somewhere between a columnist for the Financial Times and Belle du Jour. Either way, quite scary.”
Ana laughed, straightened up and scanned the street. People crossed back and forth to the beach; holidaymakers, old folk, workers taking a break from the office. Children’s laughter carried over the sound of the traffic. Beatrice felt a pull towards the water. Perhaps an ice-cream and a wander along the sand. She had ages yet.
Ana picked up the briefcase. “Right, I’m off. Wish me luck. And I’ll join you at Casa Mimo just after two. You’re sure you know where to go?”
“Lord, you do fuss. Yes. I wrote everything down. The directions, your instructions, the line of questioning we chose and even your recommendations as to what to eat. I’ll be fine. Good luck, be careful and don’t talk to strangers.”
Ana grinned and strode off in the direction of the river. Beatrice crossed the road and spent forty minutes just people-watching. Unfortunately, people-watching, no matter how joyful, tended to put her into a fug. An affliction she couldn’t shake, like being unable to appreciate a film because you can see through the flimsy sets. All these smiling faces, scampering paws, affectionate gestures and abandoned squeals of delight simply reminded Beatrice of how this moment was soon to be nothing more than a memory. One to be recalled, perhaps, beside a hospital bed, in a snowy graveyard or on a therapist’s couch. She got up and headed for the old town.
On arrival at the restaurant, the waiter showed her to a reserved table near the back. It was a relief to sit down. Traipsing around the city streets was illuminating but tough on the feet. Not only that, but as preparation for a pretentious lunch, she had denied herself any kind of pre-lunch snack. In short, she was hot, tired, aching, hungry, and in a foul mood. Now, rather than enjoying her food, she could fully expect to be patronised and belittled by a snotty bloody wine expert. She ordered a glass of Rueda and a bottle of mineral water and hoped the bread basket would accompany her aperitif.
“Ms Stubbs?”
Beatrice looked up with a start. The tall woman standing at her table wore a black dress beneath a leather jacket, sunglasses and her short hair was dyed a shocking pink. She held out a hand. “I’m Isabella Lopez. Nice to meet you.”
Beatrice got to her feet and recovered herself. “Nice to meet you too, Ms Lopez. Please, have a seat.”
The dramatic creature smiled and hooked her handbag over the back of the chair. She sat, eased off her jacket and removed her sunglasses. “What happened to your face? You look more like a cage fighter than a journalist.”
“At my age, that’s actually a compliment. I fell up some stairs and hit my nose.”
Isabella shrugged. “It happens. Are you waiting for long?”
The waiter arrived with the drinks. “Just long enough to order a drink. What would you like?” She remembered she was talking to one of the most famous wine experts in the region. “Or maybe we should decide what to eat first, so as not to queer your palate?”
“Queer my palate?” An enormous smile spread across her face. With a laugh, she reached behind her and pulled a gold-covered notebook from her bag. “I have to write that down. What a fantastic expression!” She looked up at the waiter, still beaming. “Una cerveza, por favor.”
“Beer? Oh, I assumed you’d want wine. I suppose that’s a stereotypical assumption you get all the time?”
“I do want wine. But I’m thirsty and beer is the best solution to that problem. Now, you must call me Isabella and can I call you Beatrice? You see, Beatrice, people do make assumptions about wine writers, but why wouldn’t they? There is probably more bullshit written about wine than any other subject I can think of. Except modern art, perhaps. So it’s no surprise that people expect us to be pretentious, precious snobs. Many of us are. But there are a few, and I include myself in this particular circle, who write about wine because we love the subject. It is a fascinating field which you must already know, as a food writer. Which magazine do you write for?”
Stunned by the torrent of rapid-fire information, it took Beatrice several seconds to remember the persona in which Ana had drilled her. “Contempora
ry Cuisine. We’re independent, offering unbiased advice on quality food and drink all over Europe. We feature a different country each issue, which is why I’m researching Spain. It seemed to make sense to start in San Sebastian, and talk to the experts first.” Her speech sounded rehearsed and unnatural, but Isabella was nodding.
“Of course. Where else? Have you tried any of the Michelin three stars yet? Who have you seen so far? Arzak? Andoni? Berasategui? When did you arrive?”
“Two hours ago.”
That dazzling smile stretched across her face again as she thanked the waiter for her beer. He seemed pleasantly surprised by the reactions to his presence. Isabella took a long draught and smacked her lips.
“So I am the first? Perfect. You could not have made a better start, Beatrice, and you will be glad. I’ll order for us today, and make a list of where else you should go and in which order. We’re going to start with the equivalent of fish and chips. Today, you’ll eat everyday Spanish food. Nothing special. But wait till you see how special it is. Then you will try an asador, visit one of the vineyards, perhaps one of the less famous ... what are you drinking?”
