I decide to walk home rather than take the bus. I need the air, the time alone, space to think. Instead of sticking to the main roads, I go the longer way, through the park. The park where Andrew and I shared our first kiss last year. If I look hard enough, I convince myself, I might still see the sparks in the air.
I break down as soon as I get inside the gates, sitting on a bench in the shadows as it all comes pouring out. I can’t hold it in any longer. Tears stream down my face as my body convulses, making me double up. It’s the first time I’ve properly cried since Joe told me what happened. ‘Please, please don’t be dead… Oh, God… I… I can’t stand it…’ I wish I’d just had a chance to end things properly, not have it happen like this. It’s all gone so wrong.
I blow my nose again, folding the tissue over and over. Then my phone pings an alert, making me whip it out of my pocket. Double Take. I haven’t deleted the app yet.
When I see the name, it makes me want to throw up.
Andy_jag: Meet me. Saturday morning. I insist.
My knuckles are white from gripping my phone, and my heart thumps wildly. My fear knows no bounds.
‘Think, Lorna, think,’ I whisper, glancing around nervously. It’s dark and deserted in the park, and I could even convince myself that I’m being watched. I should never have come this way home. Then, out of the shadows, a couple walking their dog come past, nodding at me but looking away quickly when they see the state I’m in.
Who are you? I stare at my phone.
I type out a reply. I have to find out who it is and what they know.
Abbi74: OK. Bishop’s Park 9 a.m. Saturday, at the corner entrance.
I’ll watch from a distance, wait to see who turns up. And I’ll wear my trainers for a speedy escape if necessary. My breathing is heavy as I get up and carry on walking through the park, briskly now to get out of the shadows. Several times, I stop and turn around, thinking I hear someone behind me, but there’s no one there. Just the deserted park. Then something that new client, Nikki, said comes to mind, making me walk even faster.
Have you ever done something so bad that it actually felt good?
I hum to myself as I walk on, which somehow makes me feel not quite so scared. It reminds me of when I was a kid – how I’d sing to myself when I was frightened and alone. All those times I was locked outside in the back garden for hours on end, sometimes late into the night. Singing helped it not seem so bad then too.
I stumble and trip, throwing out my arms as I go down, the impact of the fall jolting up my arms and into my shoulders.
‘Ow, God…’
Stunned, I drag myself up, more shocked by the resurrected memory than by tripping over. My right knee is bruised and painful as I walk on, limping, my jeans and hands covered in dirt.
Locked out, I think, trying to remember, to work out why. It’s almost as though it happened to someone else, but I’m convinced it was me. Hammering on the back door… wailing for someone to let me in… I didn’t understand why, didn’t question it. I was a good girl – oh God how I tried to be one of those – always doing as I was told. I’d just wanted my mum, but she was never there when it happened. I felt so alone.
And then the fragments of memory are gone, as though they never existed at all.
‘Lorna, what happened to you?’ Mark asks. He’s at the front door the second I come in, taking me by the shoulders, looking me up and down. ‘I was worried sick. I was expecting you back ages ago, so I called Charlotte and she told me when you left. I was just about to come out and look for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘I decided to walk.’ I stare at the floor, slipping my coat off my shoulders. ‘The long way.’
‘And this?’ he says, pointing to my filthy jeans.
‘I tripped.’
‘Your face?’ Mark says, tilting up my chin. ‘You’ve been crying.’
‘I’m OK,’ I say, swerving his touch and heading to the kitchen. I pull open the fridge and grab a bottle of wine. I can’t think of any other way to get through this.
‘Should you be doing that?’ Mark asks, coming up beside me, touching my stomach. ‘You know…’
‘Mark, for fuck’s sake, I’m not pregnant, OK?’ I snatch a glass from the cupboard, knocking the cap off the bottle and pouring it right up to the rim. ‘OK?’
He stands there, staring at me, his face blank, his eyes heavy. I’m hardly able to look at him as I glug it down, nearly finishing it in one go.
‘Well, whatever, you still shouldn’t be drinking like that, especially as I know you’ll have had wine at Charl—’
‘Mark, will you leave it? I’m not four years old. You’ll be fucking checking if I’ve cleaned my teeth before bed next.’
‘OK, fine,’ he says, hands up in surrender as he backs off, a hurt look on his face.
‘Shit, Mark, I’m so sorry. Truly… I… I…’
He stops in the doorway, staring at me, shaking his head before turning to leave.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Lorna
‘I’m so glad to see you much brighter, Lorna,’ Joe says at the start of our Friday supervision session, handing me a coffee as I sit down opposite.
I smile. It physically hurts to act like this, but I do it anyway. Fake it till you make it, Cath once said. Never before has it seemed more appropriate.
‘Did you arrange personal therapy yet?’ he asks.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, sipping my drink. ‘Yes, I did.’
I can tell by the look on his face he’s not convinced, but it wouldn’t be in the nature of person-centred therapy to question me, to make me feel guilty or irresponsible. That’s my job, and I’m doing fine at it.
‘And how are things at home, with Freya?’
‘Yep, all fine there too,’ I say, deciding not to tell him that Freya’s wet the bed the last couple of nights. She’s not done that since she was potty trained. ‘It was just a blip,’ I add, forcing a smile. I can hardly tell him that I think some of her upset has been caused by my change of mood and behaviour, that I’m threatening the very fabric of her security by not being the mother she knows and needs.
‘OK,’ he says slowly. ‘So let’s get onto Tom. You saw him this week?’
‘Yes, I did,’ I say, relaxing into more comfortable ground talking about clients. ‘We discussed his mother’s complaint, of course. It would have been weird not to bring it up. He didn’t seem bothered at all, said it was her wanting to complain all along. That she’s always been controlling, minimises his worries, doesn’t listen to him, treats him like a kid.’
Joe nods, listening.
‘Anyway, the upshot is he’s moved out of his parents’ place and into a friend’s flat until he can secure university accommodation. He’s decided not to quit his degree and has seen his tutors. There’s a plan in place. It’s early days with his therapy still, but he’s making progress.’
‘How did his parents take the news about him moving out?’
‘You can imagine,’ I say. ‘Of course, they’re blaming me.’
Joe nods.
‘He’s opened up a lot more about his past.’
Joe makes a sad face, closes his eyes a moment because he knows what’s coming.
‘It started way back. His father in his room every Sunday night, climbing into bed with him. The mother knew, Tom said, but she did nothing. Turned a blind eye because of what would happen if she interfered.’
‘So her way of dealing with her lack of control of the situation was to… well, be strictly in control of other things. Like Tom.’
I nod, referring back to my notes. ‘Tom’s alluded to characteristics that suggest psychopathy and narcissism in the father. To quite an extreme. He and his mother have lived in an abusive situation for many years – psychological as well as physical. They were so manipulated they were unaware of what was happening. We’re just scratching the surface yet. Anyway, I talked to Tom about the ISVA service, how they can help him legally. With their suppor
t, he wants to go ahead and report his father. Said he’s kept all these secrets too long.’
‘OK,’ Joe says, nodding in approval. ‘Has he been referred on already?’
‘All done.’ I nod, taking a breath. ‘But you know what? Tom had no idea any of this was wrong, that it wasn’t normal. He just thought it was the way his life was always going to be. For ages, the only person he felt he could blame was himself.’
And, for the rest of the session, I’m fighting back the tears.
* * *
After our meeting, I go back to my office to write up some notes, prepare for my next client. But I can’t focus. Not after what Joe told me just as I was leaving the room, a stack of files clutched to my chest. It stopped me in my tracks.
‘Oh, and Lorna,’ he’d said. ‘The police are coming on Monday at ten, so if you can make sure Andrew’s file is up to date and ready for inspection that would be great.’
‘Of course,’ I’d said, trying to stay calm.
‘I’ll be with you when they interview you, so no need to look so worried.’
‘No, no, I’m not worried,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘I’ve done this kind of thing before.’ And indeed I have – for a couple of clients who took their own lives at my previous clinic, several who were involved in crimes, another who’d gone missing.
But this is different.
I stare at my computer screen, at the cursor blinking, ready for me to type up client notes. I scan down my list of appointments for the rest of the day and see Nikki’s name last. Sandy told me she’d booked her in again after her assessment, but I hadn’t realised it would be so soon. I’ve lost a few clients these last couple of weeks and I’m trying not to think about why they left, but I’m pretty certain it’s because I’ve not been focused, that I’m not giving them my full attention as a therapist.
I drop my head in my hands, thinking about Andy_jag and whether I should go through with our meeting tomorrow morning. It could be dangerous. I’ve gone over our Double Take messages a thousand times, trying to pick them apart, overanalysing every word, trying to figure out who has hacked his account.
Then, right on cue, my phone vibrates, making me jump.
Andy_jag: Don’t be late… is all he says, making a chill run the length of my spine.
* * *
‘Nikki, come in and sit down,’ I say. She looks different this week, as though she’s been taking better care of herself. She’s wearing make-up and her hair is washed; her clothes, perhaps new, suit her better. ‘I wasn’t actually sure you’d be back to see me,’ I add when we’re both settled.
‘No. Me neither.’ Her voice sounds a little terse though, her body mirroring this with tensed-up shoulders. ‘Actually, I had no intention of coming back but…’ She trails off, as if she can’t find the right words.
‘OK, is that because you felt therapy wasn’t for you, or because you might find it too painful opening up?’
‘Neither of those,’ she says, tilting her head.
‘Do you want to tell me why?’
‘Sure. It was because I’d already decided that I wouldn’t like you.’
‘Oh. I see,’ I say. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this from a client. ‘But something changed that?’
‘Kind of,’ she says, sounding embarrassed. ‘It was when you said about me knowing best about myself, that it’s not your job to tell me how I feel. Well, that chimed. Struck a chord.’ She looks pained, as though she doesn’t want to be saying this but can’t help herself.
‘I see,’ I say, letting her continue.
‘My whole life, people have been telling me who I am, how I should act, making me feel a way that suits them, not me. And I don’t like it one bit.’
‘I hear you,’ I say. For some reason, her words cut deep. ‘When you say people…?’
‘It makes me angry now, even though I didn’t realise what was happening at the time. I feel dirty and used, left with a rage burning inside – the kind of fury that could drive a person to, well…. Do you understand?’
I narrow my eyes, watching her every move. ‘Drive a person to what?’ I ask. ‘Kill, maybe?’ I add when she doesn’t reply. I don’t like putting words in her mouth, but I need to pursue this.
She gives a barely noticeable nod.
‘Those are powerful emotions, Nikki. Are you referring to someone close?’
‘You mean, as in a lover?’ She laughs then – a bitter laugh – before turning away.
‘I’m sensing some strong… I don’t know, resentment here, Nikki? Am I right? It’s as though it’s knotted into you.’
‘Oh, you’re good,’ she says, smiling in a twisted way, exposing her white teeth. ‘Resentment, anger, bitterness, hate, frustration… you name it, I’m knotted up with it.’ She takes a moment, thinking. ‘It’s not just resentment and anger, though. It’s regret too. A deep ache that I’ve lost the person I loved most in the world.’
‘OK,’ I say slowly. ‘You mentioned a lover last time…’ I say, hoping she’ll run with it. I’ve had clients talk about rage-venting murder before – it’s not uncommon and almost always hypothetical. But I still have to check it out in case she actually did kill someone, or is planning on it. I don’t need to be in any more hot water with Joe if I don’t flag that something’s going on.
‘Lover… such a nice-sounding word, isn’t it? It makes me think of warmth, caring, closeness, bodies touching, passion, someone who’s got your back. But it’s got a dirty side too, don’t you think?’ She gives an overly knowing giggle.
I swallow, staying focused, kicking the personal trigger into touch.
‘You probably think I don’t look the type to have a husband or a partner, a regular everyday guy, do you?’ she continues. ‘That someone like me is only ever the other woman?’ She whispers the last part.
‘No, Nikki, I… I…’
She reaches over and pours herself a glass of water, taking three long, slow mouthfuls, her slender throat rippling as she swallows. ‘But don’t forget,’ she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘An illicit lover is usually another woman’s man.’
Chapter Fifty
Nikki
‘So you mean lover, as in an affair?’ Lorna asks. She’s not looking that great today – pale and tired – as if she’s got things on her mind, hasn’t been looking after herself.
‘Affair. There’s another funny word.’
‘Funny?’ she replies, coaxing me to elaborate. She has a knack of drawing me out.
‘I always think it’s a bit of a coy way of putting it. Affair. You know, like we all have affairs: bills to pay, jobs to go to, rent to take care of…’ I can’t help the throaty growl at that last one. ‘But affair… it doesn’t really capture the gut-wrenching betrayal, the misery, the depression, the low self-esteem, the loneliness or, well, the anger. Does it?’
She shakes her head slowly. Hanging on my every word.
‘In fact, I’d say betrayal was a far better word. “Oh, I’m having a betrayal with the window cleaner” or “I left him because he had a betrayal with his secretary”. You get what I’m saying?’
Her eyes are wide and unblinking. ‘I do,’ she says flatly. ‘You… you seem quite passionate about this, Nikki. Almost as though you’ve had personal experience?’
I can’t help the slow nod, my eyes heavy. I never intended on telling her any of this stuff, of course, never thought for one moment that she’d get through to me, reach me in a way no one else ever has. Maybe even help me. ‘Yeah,’ I say, sipping more water. I blow my nose, not crying, but close.
‘I’m really sorry to hear that. Your pain seems very raw.’
‘Thing is,’ I say. ‘It’s not like I’ve got anywhere in life. No fancy job, no big house or expensive car or happy kids or a wonderful marriage. Do you know what I do? I work fifteen hours a week in a burger van. Guess how much I make from that?’
She shakes her head.
‘One hundred and ten pounds a
week. Cash. Sometimes the occasional tip. But who tips for a burger, eh?’ I laugh again. ‘And now you’re wondering how I get by, living in London on that wage, aren’t you? You’re wondering if I have a rich relative supporting me, or if I steal or live rough. And you’re probably wondering how I’m even going to pay your bill.’
‘Well, if it’s to do with your emotional well-being, Nikki, then yes, I’m interested in your finances and how that’s affecting you. But you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want, and I’m sure you’re responsible enough to pay our—’
‘You know everything there is to know about my finances now. Well, nearly everything.’ I lean forward on my elbows, my chin thrust out. ‘Do you want to know where I’ve been living?’ I don’t wait for her to answer. ‘In a rented room in a house. It’s not far from here. Quite a posh area, actually. All bohemian and arty. My room was on the top floor of an old place – tiny, quirky, cold in winter, and often there was no hot water. My landlord lived there too.’
‘I see,’ she says, still hooked on my every word.
‘I bet you’re wondering how I could even afford a cupboard in that neighbourhood on a hundred quid a week, let alone an entire room, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I… no, I wasn’t—’
‘I’ll tell you how, Lorna.’ I say her name slowly, letting it linger on the tip of my tongue. Then I stand up, go over to her desk and pick up a glass paperweight, turning the globe around in my hands. I perch on the edge of the desk. ‘I was a lodger with benefits,’ I whisper, not taking my eyes off her. I put down the paperweight and pick up her designer glasses instead. I see her frown, her mouth twitching to speak, but she says nothing.
‘I had to fuck my landlord, Lorna,’ I say quietly. ‘Fuck him whenever, however and wherever he wanted it. No questions asked. He said “fuck” and I said “how hard?” For that, I got next-to-nothing rent.’ I put her glasses on, tilting my head and cupping my face in my hands. The room goes blurry. ‘What do you think? Do I look like a therapist now? Or a hooker? Or maybe even the other woman?’
Tell Me A Secret Page 24
