‘He… he first came for an assessment on Monday the twelfth of March,’ I say, glancing at his file to check, nodding when I saw the date. ‘And he booked in under another name. David Carter,’ I said, wanting to bring this up before they did.
The officers stared at me for a moment before making notes. They looked to Joe, who gave them a shrug. ‘It happens sometimes,’ he said, backing me up. ‘Clients can be nervous or even ashamed about coming for therapy. They don’t necessarily want to reveal their real names. And we understand that need for privacy. As long as contact details are accurate, in case a safety issue arises, we don’t have a problem with this.’
‘And when did you get to know his real name?’ the male officer asked, looking at me.
I glanced at Joe, who gave me the tiniest of nods. I had no idea what it meant, whether I should tell the truth – which Joe doesn’t know anyway – or not.
‘I realised quite soon that he’d come under an alias,’ I said after a pause, figuring that was at least the truth. ‘Maybe it was because of his job. I understand that he was getting fairly well known as an artist.’ Then Andrew’s nude paintings were on my mind again, those skilful brushstrokes depicting other women’s bodies. It made me want to scream.
‘It only became clear to Sandy, our receptionist, that there was a different name involved when she called Mr Taylor’s landline after he was late for his appointment last Tuesday,’ Joe added. Neither of us has actually answered the officer’s question.
‘My notes show the name he’d used to book in,’ I add, covering myself.
‘So, the twelfth of March this year was the first time you’d ever met Andrew Taylor?’ the officer went on, seeming more concerned with dates than his name.
‘Yes,’ I said, digging my nails into my palms.
‘And how did he seem? How was his mood?’
I looked at Joe again, who gave me an encouraging nod. ‘Well, not very open to talking to begin with. As if he was struggling with the idea of admitting he needed help. Even though he’d obviously decided he did, for some reason.’
‘And what did you believe that reason was?’ the female officer asked.
I pause, unsure what to say. ‘I think… um… I think he came regarding relationship issues,’ I said, knowing it wasn’t far from the truth.
‘And did he mention any other therapy he may have received in the past?’
My mouth went dry then. ‘No, I don’t think he did.’
‘OK,’ the male officer said, flashing his notebook at his colleague, exchanging nods. ‘So he didn’t mention anything about the Medway Clinic?’
I couldn’t help that my cheeks flushed then, that it felt as though the ground had shifted beneath my chair. ‘No,’ I said, flicking my eyes to the ceiling. ‘No, I can’t recall that he did.’ I pretended to skim down his notes then, though my eyes wouldn’t take anything in. I wasn’t thinking straight, unsure if it was tears or fear blurring my vision. I folded my hands in my lap, trying to stop them shaking.
‘OK. It’s just that from his bank details, and then following up with the practice manager there, we know Mr Taylor had a number of sessions at the Medway Clinic last year.’
‘Oh. OK,’ I said, shrugging, trying not to sound too surprised. ‘He may have done. It’s not unusual for a client to switch therapists.’
Joe gives a confirmatory nod. ‘Happens occasionally,’ he said, backing me up. But then he touched his chin, frowning slightly, rubbing his fingers through his short beard as though something rang a bell.
‘Fair enough,’ the female PC said. ‘So you didn’t know that he’d been a client at the Medway?’
‘No. No, I didn’t,’ I said, wishing I could backtrack, untangle the lie.
‘And if you had a client come back to you a year or so later, would you be likely to remember them?’ the male officer asked.
‘Oh for sure,’ Joe said, chipping in before I got a chance. ‘You may not remember every specific detail, but in this job it’s all about the relationship. Any decent therapist would remember a client they’d worked with only a year ago. Don’t you agree, Lorna?’
‘Oh, well, yes. I suppose. Maybe.’ I fiddled with my hair then, not knowing what to do with myself.
‘Perhaps you can explain then, Lorna,’ the male officer went on. ‘Why you haven’t remembered that Andrew Taylor – aka David Carter – was a client of yours for a few months last year at the Medway Clinic? That was your previous place of employment, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh…’ I replied, my mouth feeling completely frozen. ‘Yes, maybe… I mean, yes, it was but I’m not sure if I recall him.’ I looked to Joe for support, but he was also staring at me, eyebrows raised, his arms folded, eagerly awaiting my explanation. ‘I can’t say that my memory is infallible.’ I forced my mouth into a pathetic smile that didn’t get reciprocated.
An hour after they’ve gone, after I’ve been over and over everything a thousand times, I buzz through to Sandy, requesting that she cancel all my clients. I feel sick to the core, ill, wiped out as if a virus has swept through me, destroying my ability to function. I just need a day or two off, some time to recover, time to hide away. I know, under the circumstances, Joe will understand. He’ll have to. I send him a quick email explaining I don’t feel well. I’ve got to get out.
Then I phone Mark, but there’s no reply on his mobile so I call the dental surgery.
‘Oh hello, Lorna,’ the receptionist says. I’ve known her for years. ‘I’ll put you through to his office, hang on a moment.’ I wait as the on-hold music plays. ‘Sorry, but there’s no reply from his room. I think I saw Mandy go in there not long ago. They’re probably busy. Can I get him to call you when he’s free?’
‘Sure,’ I say, thanking her and hanging up.
I’m heading home. Not well. See you this eve I text to Mark instead, adding a couple of kisses.
Then I message Annie, asking if she can fetch Freya from the childminder on her way home from work later, if she can go back to hers for a play date with Lilly. She replies almost immediately, telling me no problem, that Lilly will be excited.
I pull on my coat, grabbing my bag and keys, dashing out of reception before I get collared by Sandy, giving her a quick wave as I pass. Thankfully, there are several people in the waiting area and she’s on the phone so I’m able to leave without fuss.
I step out into the bright spring sunshine and head for my car. The only place I want to be right now is home – even though I know I left it in a terrible mess this morning. I just want to hide away for a while. Curl up and die.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Nikki
I go up the front path, unlocking the door of number seventy-four, letting myself inside as if I own the place. Bold as brass. They should have been more careful, leaving that key under the flowerpot.
‘Oh,’ I say, going into the kitchen, staring around. Last time I came in, it was clean and tidy, the washing-up done, the surfaces wiped. But today it looks as though they left in a hurry – breakfast things everywhere, last night’s cooking utensils and plates on the draining board. The rubbish bin is overflowing and there’s a stale smell in the air.
I wander through into the living room – all dark greys with chunky, expensive furniture, bright ornamental pieces splashed around for contrast. It’s not my taste. I straighten a large framed photograph on the wall – one of those posed family shots with each of them in a white cotton shirt, jeans and bare feet, their brilliant smiles flashing. The beautiful family. The perfect family. A family to be envied. When you look from the outside.
But from within, the cracks are plentiful.
I pick up a couple of colourful velvet cushions strewn on the floor, plumping them up and placing them back on the sofa. I close a couple of women’s fitness magazines, putting them on the wooden chest that serves as a table, and collect the couple of wine glasses that have been left there. I take them through to the kitchen.
‘You’re letting things g
o, Lorna,’ I say, pulling on bright yellow rubber gloves and running a bowl of hot soapy water. Meantime, I load the dishwasher and tidy away all the packets and other things left out. When I’ve washed up, wiped down the surfaces and taken out the rubbish, I open the kitchen windows for some fresh air. I light a couple of scented candles too. It really stinks in here.
‘Right,’ I say, grabbing my coat and bag, heading upstairs. ‘Lets’ see what we’ve got up here.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Lorna
I pull up outside our house, easily finding a parking space in the middle of the day. I turn off the engine and sit staring at the place for a while – the freshly pointed brickwork, the bright red front door, the two bay trees. I remember when Mark first brought me back here, a while after we’d actually first met. He usually came over to my flat, saying it was more convenient. I was delighted to finally see where he lived. Despite everything going on, I manage a small smile at the memory. I’d followed him around the place, looking at everything as he showed me each room, learning more about him, hoping to get a glimpse of the man I was falling in love with. They were heady days. By that point, he’d won me over entirely.
The sun is warm on my back as I get out of the car, go up the front path and unlock the front door. I go inside, knowing almost immediately that something is wrong – although it’s not the kind of wrong that bothers me. In fact, it’s a relieved kind of wrong, a sort of reprieve as I realise I didn’t leave the kitchen in quite as much mess as I’d thought. In fact, it’s in no mess at all. It’s gleaming. I was expecting to come back to a load of dirty plates when all I want to do is crawl into bed, hide from the world, but that’s far from the truth. I take off my coat, draping it over the kitchen chair, slowly staring around.
‘No,’ I whisper, shaking my head. ‘No, this isn’t right.’ I think back to this morning. Mark definitely left before me, calling out that he wouldn’t be home until about ten tonight because of a late clinic, and then he was going straight on to squash and something to eat with his mates. I was relieved, I remember, because it meant I wouldn’t have to rush this morning to clear up the house, that I could do it later before he got home. I didn’t want him to know I’d left it in a mess.
But now, all the washing-up is done, and the windows are open – both sashes pulled up, the spring breeze gently airing the room. And the candles are lit – the white jasmine-scented ones Annie gave me. Plus, someone’s taken the rubbish out and put a load of washing on. It’s still churning in the machine.
I swallow as the sound of blood whooshes in my ears.
Then there’s a noise. From upstairs?
The hairs on my arms stand on end, a shiver running down my spine.
‘Mark?’ I call out from the hall. ‘You up there, love?’
My stomach lurches at the thought of him being annoyed by how I’d left things this morning. No reply. Nothing except the sound of running water.
I put my foot on the first step, realising that it’s the bath taps I can hear as I go further up. Mark rarely takes baths, preferring to shower, and I know for a fact Jack has gone on a field trip to a science museum with college. Freya is at school and, besides, she’d never come home alone.
‘Hello?’ I call out, reaching the landing. The air feels steamy, perfumed like my new bath foam. I glance into mine and Mark’s bedroom – the bed is made, which I didn’t get a chance to do earlier either. A couple of my dresses are laid out on the bed.
There’s a coat and a bag I don’t recognise draped over my dressing table stool.
Christ… someone’s been in my house. Someone is still in my house.
I reach in my pocket for my phone but it’s not there. That’s when I remember I left it in the car, plugged in to charge on the way home.
Shit.
I’m about to venture into the bathroom, my heart thumping, but the door suddenly swings open. There’s a naked woman standing there.
I scream, jumping backwards.
She doesn’t move or say anything.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I say over and over. I raise my hands defensively, yelling obscenities at her. ‘What the hell are you doing here? What the fuck… You shouldn’t be here! Get some clothes on! What the hell…?’
Nikki stands there calmly, her short hair tucked behind her ears and her arms down by her sides, making no attempt to cover her breasts or anywhere else. She stands with her feet a little way apart, showing no embarrassment or guilt. In fact, there’s no emotion or expression on her face whatsoever.
‘What are you doing?’ I say again, shaking not so much from physical fear now, but rather that a woman – a client – is naked in my house.
‘Taking a bath,’ she says, as if it’s the most normal thing to be doing on a Monday lunchtime. ‘I cleaned up for you,’ she says, offering a tiny smile. She walks past me into my bedroom, taking off her watch and dropping it in her bag. ‘You’re back earlier than I expected,’ she says almost accusingly.
‘What?’ I say, following her into the bedroom, getting up close and trying to intimidate her. I want to grab her, shake her, throw her naked onto the street. Though I can already hear Joe’s harsh words: You were violent to a client who’s clearly vulnerable and mentally unstable? I need to call the crisis team now – as well as the police. If she’s not arrested for breaking and entering, she’ll be taken in for a mental health assessment at the very least. ‘This is my house, Nikki, and you most certainly should not be in it. You scared the life out of me. I’m going to have to ask you to get dressed and leave immediately. There are people I can call to help you, OK?’
She tips her head to one side before padding back to the bathroom. ‘I’m not leaving. Not yet,’ she says with a sweet smile. She lifts one leg up, toes pointed, and steps into the bathwater. A second later she’s sinking beneath the bubbles, giving me a look before closing her eyes. ‘Mmm, this is lovely,’ she whispers.
My mouth hangs open, my entire body shaking with anger, rage and, I admit, something like relief that it wasn’t actually a burglar. ‘I’ve asked you nicely, Nikki, but I’m very concerned about your mental health right now.’ Not to mention my personal safety, I think, though don’t tell her that. I don’t want her to know that I’m nervous. ‘I’m going to get my phone from the car and make a couple of calls. When I come back inside, I want you dressed and ready to leave, OK? And to explain why you’re here,’ I add, waiting for a response. But there is none.
I stare at her for a moment, not knowing what to do, so I turn to go, heading down the stairs. I don’t want to leave her alone even for a second, but I have no choice. I need my phone. We gave up having a landline handset a while ago.
‘I know what you’ve been doing,’ she sings out.
I freeze, halfway down the stairs.
‘With Andrew,’ she adds in a high-pitched, tormenting voice.
I close my eyes, grabbing the banister rail to stop myself falling.
‘And here’s you thinking I was just another nutjob. The girl from a burger bar. A lowly lodger,’ she says, spitting out the last word as if it has a stigma attached to it.
I grip the handrail, forcing myself to turn around, to go back up even though each step feels like a mountain as the realisation of who she is dawns on me.
‘I know everything about you, Lorna. And by that, I mean everything.’
I hear the water slushing as she washes herself. She’s sitting up now, rubbing her arms with my sponge as I stand in the doorway. She gives me a huge, satisfied smile.
‘What are you talking about?’ I say, barely audibly, holding on to the door frame.
‘I don’t think there’s any need to explain, is there?’ She plunges the sponge underwater, washing herself everywhere, unabashed. ‘I thought I could make us some lunch. Thought we could talk.’
‘Lunch? Talk?’ I say, hating the quiver in my voice. She’s obviously in a dangerous mental state and, for some reason, has seen fit to take it out on me. I’ve had clie
nts form unhealthy attachments to me before, one or two checking me out on Facebook and other social media, some asking where I live, if I’m married, if I want to be their friend. A couple have been more zealous and determined than others, but I’ve only had to ask a supervisor to step in once or twice to refer them on to another therapist. But this – this is like nothing I’ve ever known before.
It’s more than just an unhealthy obsession.
‘Talking can be good,’ I say, humouring her. I need to find out what she knows. What her intentions are.
‘I do a mean eggs Benedict,’ she says. ‘I saw you have all the ingredients in the fridge.’
I give a tiny nod. ‘I can help you, if you like,’ I say, smiling, having no intention of doing any such thing. I need her out, gone. ‘Why don’t you get dry now?’ I reach for a towel, holding it open.
Nikki gives me a warm smile, her eyes not leaving mine as she stands up, her breasts bobbing as they leave the support of the water. Foam runs down her as she takes the towel, holding it at arm’s length. I can’t help that my eyes sweep up and down her body.
She’s beautiful and I hate it; hate that her figure is different to mine – curvy yet slim, shapely and alluring. Unpretentious and unselfconscious almost in a childlike way, yet with the confidence of a grown woman.
I forget the brushstrokes on the paintings. Forget the mental image I’ve conjured of her over months and months, torturing myself, hating every inch of the woman I’d never even met, yet who’s caused me so much pain.
Because here she is, naked, standing right in front of me. Andrew’s lodger.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Lorna
‘Nikki, cover yourself up,’ I say, turning away. ‘Please, just get dressed. You’re not thinking straight, and you need help.’
Tell Me A Secret Page 27
