by Karen Clarke
Marianne murmured in sympathy. ‘It’s a shame, but understandable after the conversation you’d had,’ she said. ‘You were hardly going to jump up and down and give each other a hug.’
‘She didn’t give me chance to say anything.’ I felt the sting of shock all over again. Pregnant. Emma, who’d never wanted children. ‘She just left.’ Tears pricked. ‘She doesn’t want to speak to me.’
I’d tried to call her straight away, pushing outside the pub, but she’d already gone. She didn’t pick up, texting me instead.
Talk to him, Beth. Think about what you really want. You don’t need saving anymore. Cancel your trip. I love you xx
She’d never said that before. I knew she did, but it wasn’t something we’d ever put into words. It scared me. When I tried her number again it went straight to voicemail.
Marianne touched my arm in a gesture of solidarity. ‘I’m sure she’ll come round in her own time,’ she said. ‘Let her have some space.’
I hadn’t told her the whole story, just that we’d had words about Vic, giving the impression Emma didn’t approve of our relationship. I’d had to say something. After bashing into Marianne the day before and running off without explanation, she’d been waiting for me outside Fernley House, wanting to know what was up. ‘I only spoke to Emma briefly at your party,’ she said, ‘but I thought she was a bit of a troubled soul.’
‘You didn’t say.’ I gave her a sideways look, secretly scoping the perimeter of the car park. It was becoming worryingly normal – checking whether I was being spied on; whether someone was watching my every move. I’d turned down Vic’s offer to drive me to work, but he’d followed me anyway, parking at the end of the road until I waved him off. I hoped Marianne hadn’t seen. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told her what was going on, or about running after Katya the previous day. Maybe I didn’t want Marianne to question whether I was fit to be at work, or get Katya into trouble without knowing why she’d been there. ‘Are you still coming to the pool tomorrow morning?’ I said, keen to change the subject.
‘Of course.’ Marianne gave a quick smile but I had the impression she’d forgotten. Maybe she’d made other plans now her son was back home, but I didn’t push it. I didn’t want to give her an excuse to pull out. Marianne’s presence at the swimming pool on my Saturdays there with Hayley was the only way I could get through them. I supposed I could ask Daisy and her mum to join us, but it was too last minute and they’d probably have other plans.
I wouldn’t ask Vic. It had been our family thing and didn’t feel right yet to include him.
‘Maybe we’ll try the outdoor pool if it’s not too busy,’ Marianne said as we walked into the building, which was blissfully cool after the sun’s glare outside. The heatwave was showing no signs of ending. There’d been drought warnings on the radio this morning.
‘You’d think we’d have enough water stored after all the rain earlier in the year,’ Vic had commented over breakfast, in a determined attempt at making conversation. He’d clearly sensed something was off when he’d picked me up outside the pub, seeming surprised to see me standing there on my own.
I’d imagined saying jokingly, ‘You’ll never believe what Emma thinks …’ Just to see him laugh at how ludicrous it sounded, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. What if he didn’t laugh?
In the end, when he’d said with gentle exasperation, ‘You must have talked about something,’ I told him Emma was pregnant.
‘But that’s great news.’ He’d sounded puzzled. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘She saw you with someone.’ It came out then, without warning. ‘A female.’
If he’d been thrown by the change of topic, he hadn’t shown it. ‘What sort of female?’
‘You were arguing with a woman in the street.’
‘Really?’ He drew in his chin. ‘That doesn’t sound like me.’
I strived to lighten my tone. ‘Emma said it looked heated.’ Glancing at his profile, I saw him thinking, brows drawn down. I decided not to tell him Emma had said the woman was attractive.
‘And this was, when?’
‘Just before my birthday,’ I said. ‘She was shopping, on Broad Street.’ I kept my eyes on his face. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Oh, hang on, of course I do!’ He lifted his hands and brought them down hard on the steering wheel. ‘This woman accused me of stealing her parking space,’ he said. ‘I’d completely forgotten about it. She said she’d been waiting for the previous driver to leave, and I pulled in from the other side of the road without even checking.’ I’d listened for clues in his tone, but he sounded sincere, even slightly bewildered as he recounted the argument. ‘I genuinely hadn’t noticed,’ he said. ‘She was angry, but I wouldn’t say we were arguing. I actually moved my car in the end.’ He grabbed a look at my face. ‘You thought I was having an affair?’
I’d tried to laugh it off. ‘Not an affair. I thought … maybe it was your sister.’
‘Fran?’ He sounded astonished. ‘She lives in Ontario.’
‘I know, I know.’ I’d leaned my head against the car window and closed my eyes, suddenly weary. ‘I don’t know what I thought.’
‘One thing you don’t have to worry about is whether I have eyes for anyone but you.’ He’d been teasing, but serious too. ‘I know Emma thinks she’s looking out for you, but you know she’d prefer to see you back with Matt.’
His words had chased away any lingering doubts. Emma was trying to put Vic in a bad light because she really didn’t approve of our relationship. She’d have been the same with anyone. It probably wasn’t even personal.
‘I’m sorry.’ I’d rested a hand on his thigh, and once Pam had been dispatched with Baxter, who had to be coaxed from Hayley’s room with a biscuit, we went to bed and made love. Afterwards, slipping towards sleep, listening to him breathing peacefully, I wondered why I mistrusted everyone so easily.
*
I had a group session, the final one before my trip to Cornwall, and I didn’t have time to think about anything else. The dynamic in the room was different to my one-to-one client sessions. Ten women, aged between thirty and seventy with different anxiety disorders, required careful handling. Luckily, they’d got to know each other well over the past few months, and friendship bonds had formed. It was clear they looked forward to coming each week and were responding well to the sense of safety and inclusivity. My goal was to empower them to discover their inner artist and, more importantly, to see themselves as valuable members of society. It felt good to see it working. The course culminated each year with a trip to an art gallery and everyone appeared to be looking forward to it.
Every week, I set a task and talked to each of the women as they worked. Sometimes, they didn’t want to talk. The emotional release of drawing or painting was enough. Today, after a discussion about the weather and a rundown of their progress since our last session, they were quickly absorbed in creating a superhero self-portrait, using whichever method they chose – charcoal, crayon, paint or a face collage on a mask. Soft music played in the background from the old CD player I’d used for years. It helped create the right atmosphere, and encouraged the flow of inspiration. Only once, with a previous group, had I been asked to turn it off. ‘Gets on my tits, that classical shit,’ the woman had said. ‘Haven’t you got any Eminem?’
As I went around the room, murmuring encouragement and offering advice, an idea floated into my head.
Checking I wasn’t needed for a moment, I crossed to my desk, found a pen and a sheet of paper and wrote: Meet me in the park opposite the fountain at 1.30 p.m. No tricks. We can talk.
‘I’m just popping to the loo, be back in a minute,’ I said, hardly raising my voice, knowing they’d absorb what I’d said without really noticing.
I never normally left a class, even to go to the toilet, without letting someone know, but I’d be back in less than two minutes.
I rushed outside, folding the sheet of paper in half, and slid it beneath
the wipers on my car. Two could play at this game. If someone was keeping tabs on me, they’d find it.
I hurried back inside, glancing at my watch. Eleven o’clock. Plenty of time for whoever was out there to get my message. It was a long shot but worth it. Fear shuts down instinct and short-circuits the brain. Fear attracts what you fear the most. I’d had enough of being scared. I needed to look my enemy in the eye.
*
The rest of the morning crawled by. The group was unusually subdued, which I put down to the heat. The windows were open, but the air coming in was soupy, stirred by a humming electric fan in the corner. I quietly sent Vic a text.
I’m going for lunch with Marianne. No need to come back, I’ll see you at home at 2 xx
He’d said he might swing by the hospital this morning, and I didn’t want him rushing back to follow me home. It was starting to feel a tiny bit claustrophobic.
For a while, the only other sounds were the insistent buzz of a bee against the backdrop of music, and an occasionally expelled sigh of frustration. Finally, there was a collective burst of laughter as the group shared their superhero selves, comparing notes, and we discussed how they felt about what they’d created.
By the time we’d cleared up and everyone had wished me a happy holiday and trickled out, it was gone one o’clock. I quickly wrote up my notes on the session, then grabbed my things. There was no time to see whether Marianne was about, or tell her where I was going. I pulled out my phone and fired off a brief message. Going for a walk in the park. Need some air. See you 9.30 tomorrow? X
I left the building, eyes on my car, and saw at once that the piece of paper had gone. Rushing over, I double-checked it hadn’t somehow blown away and was lying on the ground, but the air was still, the gravelled area clear of litter.
I pressed a hand to my chest and felt my heart beating as fast as a frightened animal’s. I felt an instinct to duck, as though in a sniper’s eyeline as I half-ran to the edge of the park behind Fernley House, darting between two beech trees onto the stretch of grass that led to the fountain.
The park was busy with people with sleeves rolled up, faces tilted to the sun, and tourists taking selfies, keen to get the distant view of Oxford’s spires into their shot. A group of pigeons meandered lazily around, scavenging for crumbs, and a drift of guitar music made me think of Matt.
Only one bench was free and I quickly sat down, claiming the space beside me by plonking my bag there. My eyes darted around. There was a toddler leaning into the fountain, holding his hands under the trickle of water. His mum was sitting on the side, scrolling through her phone, and I resisted the urge to get up and pull the boy away. At least he was comfortable around water. I didn’t even like stepping in puddles.
I glanced at my watch: 1.25 p.m. Enough time for someone to have watched me arrive, alone. I stupidly thought about setting my phone to record, but worried it might look as if I was trying to call someone.
Aware I was probably being watched, I made an effort to sit still but I was too hot, the sun beating down on my shoulders. I removed my overshirt and stuffed it in my bag then folded my hands in my lap.
The brightness was hurting my eyes. I pulled out my sunglasses and slipped them on, then took them off in case I didn’t look like me. My nerves felt stretched. I couldn’t regulate my breathing and my hands were shaking. I hadn’t felt this frightened for a long time.
After my accident, when we’d returned from Cornwall, the world had seemed too big, the city of Oxford too vast. Nearly drowning had made me timid and I hadn’t wanted to go further than the park at the end of our road, but my parents and grandparents had worked hard on helping me overcome my fear. Now, it felt as though it had never gone away, as if London and art college had never happened, and I was back to being that timid girl again.
When someone sat a few inches away, it took a few seconds to register. I turned as the figure inched closer, my hand closing over my keys in my bag, feeling the hot plastic of the alarm.
‘You’re not going to pull a gun, are you?’
‘Katya!’ It sounded strangled as I turned to look at her. ‘What are you doing here?’
She held up the piece of paper I’d left on my car, her smile enigmatic. ‘I got your message,’ she said. Her hair was piled in a precarious topknot, tendrils drifting down around her face. ‘I suppose I owe you an explanation.’
I tried to rein in my scattered thoughts. ‘You took the note?’ Katya? She was the one who’d sent me the texts then hacked into my phone to delete them? It was Katya who’d left the parcel on my doorstep, been in my house and turned on the bath taps, scratched my painting, left the leaflet on my car? Was she somehow connected to the man who’d drowned? She was too young to be his daughter. His granddaughter?
‘Katya, why?’ I didn’t do a good job of concealing my fright and confusion. ‘Please, just talk to me.’
Her pale eyes were tensed against the glare of sunlight. ‘I know I shouldn’t have run away yesterday,’ she said, reaching up to tighten the knot of her messy bun. She was wearing a pink vest top under a pair of white dungarees, and sparkly sandals that made her seem much younger. I thought about the scars on the insides of her thighs and knew I had to tread carefully. ‘You weren’t meant to see me.’ Her shoulders drooped. ‘I should have been at college.’
‘Why were you there?’ Maybe we could work backwards from her leaving the leaflet, to sending the texts on my birthday.
‘I was watching out for you.’ A sweet smile lit up her face and I remembered how quickly her mood could switch. My hand tightened around my keys. ‘I know it sounds a bit weird, but I’m worried about you.’
It wasn’t what I’d expected her to say. Determined to sound calm, I said, ‘Did you put that leaflet on my car?’
Her brow creased. ‘What leaflet?’
‘About swimming lessons at the leisure centre.’
‘Why would I do that?’ She looked scared suddenly. ‘You’re frightened of water.’
I felt something sag inside. I should never have told her that. It had been months ago, not long after she came to me. I was trying to get her to talk about why she hadn’t been sleeping and suggested she paint something that represented her worst fear, so we could change the narrative.
‘What’s yours?’ she’d said, her face blurry with tiredness.
‘Water,’ I replied. ‘Drowning.’ I spoke from the heart, not thinking. ‘That’s why I paint the sea. At least, I used to. I’ve stopped now.’
‘Because you’re not scared anymore?’
I’d wanted to say yes, but couldn’t. ‘Tell me yours.’
‘Not knowing who I am,’ she’d said, tears spilling down her cheeks.
It had been a breakthrough and things became easier after that, my revelation forgotten. Or, so I’d thought.
‘Why are you worried about me?’ She gave me an anxious look. ‘Katya?’ I felt a prickle of damp heat in my armpits. ‘Have you been in my house?’
Alarm leapt over her face. ‘Of course not.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Why are you saying that?’
‘I thought …’ Oh God, this was going terribly. ‘It’s OK.’ Letting go of my keys, I scrambled a tissue out of my bag as she started to weep. ‘Katya, tell me what’s going on.’ I rested a hand on her knee. Touching clients wasn’t encouraged, but it was hard to watch someone cry and not offer some comfort, whatever else might be going on.
She quickly composed herself, dragging the tissue across her cheeks, which were pink and blotchy. ‘What’s wrong with looking out for people you care about?’
‘Nothing, Katya, but it shouldn’t distract you from going to college. You’ve such a promising future and—’
‘I don’t want you to go away.’
‘Sorry?’ The vehemence in her voice was startling.
‘When people go away, they don’t come back.’
I remembered Marianne saying Katya had reacted badly to the news that her birth mother had died. Was this about her
seeing me as a mother figure after all, and nothing to do with what had happened in the past?
‘That’s not always true, Katya.’
She looked at me, eyes glassy with tears. ‘What if you don’t?’
Water, filling my lungs, choking, burning, pulling me down, sinking, sinking …
‘Beth?’ Her voice had risen an octave; a child’s cry for reassurance.
I turned, took both her hands in mine. They were hot, like Hayley’s. I gripped them tightly, past caring that I was crossing boundaries. ‘I’m coming back, Katya.’ I wasn’t sure whether it was a warning, a promise, or reassurance to myself. ‘You can count on it.’
Chapter 19
I arrived home to find Vic coming in from the back garden, his face wreathed with worry.
‘I was starting to wonder where you were,’ he said, pulling me into a bear hug and kissing my hair. ‘I’d rather drive you around until we know you’re safe.’
‘I’m fine.’ I ducked out of his embrace feeling hot and flustered. ‘Honestly, Vic, you could have stayed at the hospital. I’ve got my alarm with me.’
‘I couldn’t concentrate.’ He followed me into the kitchen. I was starving, but could hardly make something to eat when I’d supposedly had lunch with Marianne. I grabbed a yoghurt from the fridge. ‘I thought you’d eaten,’ he said.
‘I’m still hungry, OK?’ I couldn’t tell him about my encounter with Katya, or my theory that she was possibly behind the threats. I needed to be sure, and I wasn’t. She hadn’t sounded like someone who wanted to harm me, but something was clearly wrong. She needed help and I had to go through the appropriate channels. I couldn’t discuss it with Vic. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ I said, putting the yoghurt back. It wasn’t a lie. I felt as if a giant hand was squeezing my skull.
‘Again?’ Vic’s voice leapt into concern. ‘I suppose it’s not surprising, with everything that’s going on. You know how stress gets to you.’
He was referring to the reason I’d turned up in his consulting room in the first place, when it turned out my symptoms weren’t the brain tumour I’d feared. Maybe he’d have found another way into your life, if you hadn’t wound up at the hospital that day.
