‘What wasn’t an accident, Tom?’ It’s more direct than I usually am, but my mind is elsewhere.
He covers his face, scratching his nails down skin that already looks tormented by lack of sleep, by worry, by alcohol and weed and whatever else he uses to numb the pain.
‘I’m going to quit uni,’ he says. ‘It’s not for people like me.’
‘People like you?’ My phone vibrates again, buzzing against my ankle. I close my eyes for a second.
‘Yeah, people like—’
‘Would you just excuse me a moment, Tom? There’s something I need to check.’ He stares at me as I reach down to my bag, unaware that I’m blowing apart everything I’ve ever held dear about my job, breaching my code of ethics. ‘Sorry,’ I say, sitting up again. ‘I’m expecting a message.’ Which effectively shows him that whoever I’m waiting to hear from is more important than him. I check the screen.
Two texts.
From him.
It’s all the therapy I need.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lorna
‘See you next week, then, Tom,’ I say at the reception desk as Sandy books him in. Joe is bent double beside her, delving through the filing cabinet.
‘Thanks,’ Tom says, gripping his fingers, agitated. ‘And don’t worry about checking your phone again next session either, miss. I don’t mind.’ He gives me a little smile.
‘Oh, I… um…’ I freeze, not knowing what to say. Sandy’s eyes are suddenly on me and I sense that Joe’s certainly are. He’s standing up now, hands on hips, listening. ‘There’s no need to call me miss, Tom. Lorna is fine.’ I smile, hoping that’s deflection enough, but I know it won’t be. It will have been an exploding can of red paint for Joe.
‘Thanks, Lorna. Thanks again for today,’ Tom says, sounding an ounce lighter than when he came in. He has no idea what he’s just done.
His mother is hovering nearby, frowning, walking off beside him, mumbling something under her breath… Checking her phone? I don’t pay good money for that…
Once they’re gone, I turn to go back to my office, head down. I don’t have any clients for the next half-hour.
‘Lorna, a word please,’ Joe says, stopping me in my tracks. When I look round, he’s holding the door to the staffroom wide open. I nod, expressionless, catching Sandy’s raised eyebrows and almost sympathetic smile.
‘OK, Lorn,’ Joe says once we’re inside and he’s closed the door. ‘What was all that about?’ There’s no one else in there – just the smell of stale coffee that was made several hours ago now burning on the machine. Joe flicks it off, folding his arms and facing me, leaning against the counter. I stand, guiltily, in the middle of the room, my arms dangling by my sides.
‘God, I’m sorry, Joe.’ I hang my head, thinking quickly. ‘It’s not how it sounds,’ I say, knowing it’s exactly how it sounds. Probably worse. ‘Freya’s not well. Not well at all, actually. I dropped her at the school gates this morning and she was coughing and felt really poorly. I thought she was going to throw up. I shouldn’t have left her. During Tom’s session, I heard my phone buzzing in my bag and figured it was probably the school calling to tell me to fetch her.’ I make the most apologetic expression I can, while my guts twist in knots.
‘You answered your phone in a session?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ I add quickly. ‘I didn’t answer it. I… I just checked to see who it was. Tom said he didn’t mind.’
‘You gave him a choice?’
‘Not exactly, but—’
‘And was it Freya’s school calling?’ I’ve never seen Joe’s face so stony.
‘Yes, yes, it was.’ I look down, fiddling with my fingers, hating the lie. ‘It was Freya’s school.’
Joe sighs. ‘I don’t need to tell you what’s wrong with this, Lorna. But it makes me concerned for you. Your adherence to basic ethics recently, well, it’s making me wonder what else is going on with you.’ He waits, allowing me to speak. But I don’t. ‘Do you not have arrangements in place for assisting with childcare issues while you’re working?’
‘Not really,’ I say quietly, wishing my mother was up to the job. But she’s so preoccupied with Dad. ‘There’s the childminder, but she’s not well either,’ I lie. ‘And Mark would have been busy with patients.’
‘Just like you’re busy with clients,’ he adds, raising his eyebrows. ‘Look, sorry to sound like I’m telling you off, Lorna, but you know the score. What you did was…’ he trails off, shaking his head, knowing he doesn’t need to tell me.
‘I know. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘I’ll have to note this on your file, Lorna. You know I have no choice, especially after the other day, with you contacting a client directly. If there are any complaints, we’ll need to have a record of everything. I’m sorry but what you did is wholly unacceptable.’ He hates doing this to me, I know he does. ‘Your client just now… was he the one you brought to supervision at the end of last week?’ He looks to the ceiling, thinking for a second. ‘Tom, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s Tom.’
‘The client you believe to be vulnerable?’
I nod, hanging my head in shame again. Tom managed to talk to me about the abuse today, about his humiliation, his hatred of himself. He brought it up just before the session ended, just before my phone buzzed in my hand yet again.
‘How’s he doing?’ Joe asks.
‘We had a doorknob moment,’ I say, relieved to be off the subject of my wrongdoing.
‘OK-aay,’ Joe says thoughtfully. ‘And how did you manage it?’
‘Like I would any other client,’ I say. ‘I told him it was interesting that he was only mentioning this at the end of our session, just as I was showing him out.’
Joe nods.
‘I checked that he was safe to leave, where his thoughts were going, if he felt able to save it until next week, how his mood seemed after the revelation but…’
‘But you’d figured you’d broken enough boundaries already to break another one by running over time?’
‘I wouldn’t have run over anyway, Joe. That’s unfair.’ But I’m in no position to defend myself.
‘And what exactly was his doorknob moment, Lorna?’ Joe’s tone is frosty, quite unlike the colleague I’ve come to know these last ten months.
‘He told me that he was abused by his father every Sunday night since he was eight years old. His mother knew from the start.’
‘Christ,’ Joe says, unfolding his arms and taking hold of the chair in front of him, leaning forward. He shakes his head slowly, his breath out heavy and prolonged. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing, Lorna?’
I close the door of my office and lean back against it, screwing up my eyes, still able to hear Tom’s words as he was about to leave the session – a session where I’d given very little of myself to a vulnerable young man. I’d kept hold of my phone as more messages came in from him. I didn’t read them, but seeing the alerts was distraction enough.
‘He made me touch him,’ Tom had whispered, his face burning scarlet from shame. He told me that it had gone on for years, that the only person who knew was his mother because she’d caught them. ‘She blamed me,’ he said, matter-of-factly, at the door. ‘Said I must never speak of it, that she was washing her hands of me.’ He made a hand-washing gesture then, before heading for the door. Clients often drop bombshells just as the session ends.
I glance at my watch, swiping my bag from under my chair and dumping it on my desk. I whip out my phone, as if it’s to blame for what’s happened, and see that there are some new alerts from the Double Take app – people viewing me, liking me, wanting to meet me, messaging me. I should just delete the stupid thing now, I think, my finger hovering over it. But something stops me, and I open it up, going to my inbox.
Another slew of messages awaits – some just saying ‘hi’ and others cutting straight to what it is they want to do to poor Abbi74. I shudder on her behalf. All she wants is
for him to reply. But he hasn’t, and he hasn’t even read my message yet.
Then I read the text messages he sent me during the session with Tom, bracing myself as I open them. I’m only a blink away from two career-finishing complaints.
I miss you, Andrew says.
Please meet me
I will keep coming to see you until you agree
Don’t give up on me
My thumbs hover over the keys as I tap out three different replies – No, I can’t… Please don’t contact me again… It’s over, Andrew – but I delete each one. Then I type When? and quickly hit send.
‘I’m just popping to the deli. Want anything?’ Getting on Sandy’s good side can only be to my benefit right now.
She takes off her glasses, leaning forward on her elbows. Another look sweeps across her face but I’m not sure what it is. ‘Are you OK, Lorna?’ she says. ‘Sorry if I’m wrong, but… but you seem out of sorts. I’m worried about you.’
Thankfully, the waiting room is empty. ‘No, I’m fine,’ I say, leaning over the counter. I give her my best smile. ‘Why?’
‘Woman’s intuition,’ she says. ‘You don’t sit here five days a week and not pick up on things.’
‘Well…’
‘Someone’s been hanging around, you know,’ she says, raising her eyebrows.
‘Oh?’ My heart pounds.
‘Outside. Late in the afternoon, mainly.’
‘You should have been a detective,’ I say, forcing a laugh that comes out as a croak. He’s been waiting for me again.
She pauses, raising her eyebrows even higher. ‘I’d love a chicken and avocado bagel, please,’ she adds, reaching into her bag for her purse. ‘An orange juice too.’ She hands me a ten-pound note.
‘Sure,’ I say, about to leave. But I stop, my coat half on, turning to face her again. ‘What did he look like?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
Sandy looks surprised but also satisfied, as if she’s the keeper of all secrets. ‘Oh, it wasn’t a man,’ she says, before turning to answer the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lorna
‘Why did Nana go funny?’ Freya asks later that evening, smashing a fish finger up with her fork. Some peas and chips shoot onto the floor. It was all I had in the freezer. Jack is eating at a mate’s house and Mark said we may as well order in a Chinese later, which suits me. I can’t face cooking. Plus, there’s nothing much in the fridge.
‘That’s an odd question,’ I reply, sitting down next to her. Mark gives me a look. ‘What do you mean by funny, sweetheart?’
‘You know,’ she says, kicking the chair leg over and over. ‘Mental. Weird in the head.’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say about your nana, Frey,’ Mark says, flipping the top off a beer. He pinches a chip off her plate.
‘Nana’s had some troubles,’ I tell her, not knowing what else to say. It’s never seemed the right time to explain. Besides, Mark and I decided she’s still too young to know.
Freya pulls a face, thinking about this. ‘Jack said she’s not all there,’ she says, tapping the side of her head before diving under the table to pick up her dropped food. ‘He says she’s a nutter.’
Mark shoots me a look – a look that says You’re the therapist, you deal with it.
‘That’s not really the right way to describe someone with mental health issues, Freya,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a bit rude, OK?’
She shrugs, playing with her food again. ‘So are you going to become a nutter too?’ she asks. ‘And then will I? Jack told me “like mother, like daughter” and I don’t like it. I’m scared.’ She squirts a load more ketchup on her chips, looking at me with big eyes. ‘I don’t want to be mental.’
I pull her in for a hug, giving Mark a quick look. His son started this, but I daren’t say anything. ‘No, darling,’ I say, kissing her head, wondering if this has anything to do with her reluctance to go to school lately, her strange mood. ‘Nana’s been through some tough times,’ I tell her, hoping that will suffice. ‘And sometimes it makes her act a bit… well, funny.’
Freya nods, forking up some peas. Only a couple make it into her mouth. ‘Is it because of Granddad?’
I give a little nod, deciding to leave it at that. She doesn’t need to know about my father, what happened. Explaining would mean admitting that I’m not sure either – not great for a therapist. So I fetch her dessert from the fridge instead.
‘What was all that about, do you think?’ Mark says after Freya’s gone upstairs. I said she could have half an hour watching cartoons on the iPad before her bath. Another night without listening to her read. And a far cry from the usual tightly scheduled evenings of piano practice and schoolwork. I promised her we’d catch up with it all soon. Mark wraps his arms around me, one hand making contact with my phone in my back pocket just as it vibrates. ‘Something’s upset her,’ he says.
Yes, your son, I want to say, but bite my tongue. ‘It was bound to come up at some point, seeing Dad like that all the time. She knows it’s not normal. And to be honest…’ I hesitate, not wanting to cause an argument. ‘It sounds as if she and Jack have been discussing it.’
‘I’ll have a word with him,’ Mark says. I love him for that, for caring, for trying to join us all up. It makes me feel one ounce more like a mother to his son.
‘It’s probably nothing. Just the pair of them chatting away like they do.’ And it’s true – they’ve always been close, despite the age difference. With Jack almost taking on the role of uncle rather than brother, and Freya using every opportunity to exploit that – mainly for sweets and treats, late nights and extra pizza.
Like mother, like daughter… I think, shuddering at what Jack has been saying to her, wondering if he’s actually right.
‘Thanks, love,’ I say. Then my phone buzzes again.
‘You going to check that or what?’ He pats my bum.
‘It’ll just be Cath,’ I say. ‘It can wait. What are we going to order, then?’
‘A shitload from Waitrose, I reckon, judging by this,’ he says, going over to the fridge and pulling the door open. The shelves are mostly empty. ‘Don’t you usually do the shopping tonight?’
Another casualty of my broken routine. ‘Sorry, I’ll get my laptop and do an order for tomorrow.’
I dash up the two flights of stairs and return, breathless, with my computer, opening it up at the kitchen table. Mark’s already on the phone to the Happy Dragon. He knows what I always have – the same he always orders for me. ‘The least likely to pile on the pounds,’ he once told me, poking my thigh playfully. I know he’s right. ‘And extra prawn crackers too,’ he adds for himself. I know how much he loves them.
I open a Google tab in my browser and, as usual, a list of recently visited links appears in the middle of the screen below the main logo – shortcut icons revealing my history.
Mark stands behind me, taking hold of my shoulders, pressing his fingers deep into my muscles. ‘Make sure you get some of those little chicken skewer things,’ he says, pressing harder as I react to his touch.
‘Mmm, sure will,’ I say, melting into his hands. ‘Any other requests?’
My eyes flick about, looking for the supermarket link – it’s usually there on my home screen… There’s Facebook, my favourite clothes website, the BBC, the electricity company… and then I see it.
The pink and yellow Double Take logo.
My mouth drops open, my finger skidding uselessly around the trackpad as I try to get rid of it, trying to find the x to make it go away. To my horror, I accidentally click on the link and the login screen appears in front of me. Abbi’s username is already displayed from last time, ready for me to enter the password.
I make a little noise, shaking as I get rid of it. I turn to look up at Mark.
‘No, just get the usual stuff,’ he says, smiling, bending down so his mouth is on the back of my neck, trailing his lips across my skin. ‘You’re so tense,’ he whispers in my ear
. ‘Your shoulders are like rock.’
My hands are trembling, my heart thumping, the sick feeling rising up inside me. I have no idea if he saw it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lorna
The house is quiet. We’ve eaten the Chinese – or rather I picked at mine – and Freya went to bed an hour ago. Jack is home and upstairs catching up with his studies, while Mark has gone out for a pint with Ed. He promised he wouldn’t be long, promised he’d rub my back properly when he returned. I hated myself for telling him not to rush, to take his time chatting with Ed about a trip they’re planning to Berlin in a couple of months to see their favourite band. I still haven’t finished the online shopping.
Instead, I’ve been sitting rigid at the kitchen table, my head bent down on folded arms, heavy sighs escaping my lungs. I can feel myself falling.
Finally, unable to resist any longer, I grab my phone. The sight of the notifications sets my mind alight. A fix.
I attended a lecture recently about the psychological effects of text messages, social media likes and comments on our brains – how the more we get, the more we want, never feeling satisfied, constantly seeking validation and attention. It provides a dopamine hit. In fact, it’s the anticipation that’s actually the addictive part. That’s what I tell myself, anyway – that it’s my brain chemistry’s fault, just how I’m made. That I can’t help it.
‘Andrew,’ I whisper. It doesn’t say Andrew on my screen, of course, because his contact is stored in my phone as Andrea – that one letter change making it somehow safe, acceptable. Three messages… three bites of desire. I open them up.
I need to see you.
Thursday morning.
Shots at 10 a.m. Please…
Please, he says, as if it will change my mind, as if he’s begging. Or worse, insisting. He’s capable of doing that, of forcing my hand in just a few unspoken words, a thinly veiled threat. Even just a look.
Tell Me A Secret Page 13
