by Jane Asher
Michael and Juliet smiled politely and followed the professor’s grey head into his consulting room, which was only marginally less dreary than the ground floor, but which was lightened considerably by the personality of the inhabitant.
‘Now do please sit down,’ he said, gesturing to two chairs in front of a desk by the window. He sat opposite them behind the leather surface, still smiling in benign, fond-uncle style at the two of them. Michael thought how remarkably he fitted the traditional image of the kindly but eccentric professor: the bald head, fringed with eminently grey tufts above his ears, sported obligatory half glasses over which peered what would have been described in a children’s story as ‘twinkling blue eyes’.
He painstakingly took a full history from them both, during which Michael was relieved to find Juliet’s account emerged calmly and factually. It was only when she began to describe the recent ‘love affair’ that he began to squirm, and it took all his restraint not to shout out in fury at the insulting and humiliating drivel she came out with. Perhaps sensing Michael’s discomfiture, Professor Field asked to see Juliet alone, explaining that he was in no way implying that she had secrets from her husband, but that it was important to hear her account without any embarrassment she might feel at his presence in the room.
‘Then I would like to see you alone, Mr Evans,’ he said. ‘It would be a help to me to talk to you privately, for exactly the same reasons.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Michael, rising from the chair, ‘shall I wait downstairs, or—’
‘No, let me show you.’ Professor Field got up and walked over to the door, then opened it for Michael and gestured to a door further along the corridor. ‘Do wait in there,’ he smiled at him, ‘we won’t be long.’
The receptionist grinned at Anthony as he strode into the clinic. ‘Hello, lover,’ she said, ‘another pile of letters awaits you and this came for you this morning.’ She lifted a large basket of red roses from behind the desk, and grunted as she passed it across to him.
‘Oh Christ,’ he sighed, ‘not more! And don’t laugh about it, Laura. It’s not funny. Give me the letters, please, I’d like to get rid of all this before Prof sees them.’
She handed him a pile of six or seven envelopes, all addressed in the same hand, and he shifted the flowers over on to one arm and reached out to take them. She smiled again as she whispered, ‘Cheer up – once she has the baby her hormones will be sorted out and she’ll forget all about you.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ he answered as he carried the unwanted offerings towards the stairs, ‘only eight months to go. If Andy rings, no mention of the flowers, OK? Or the letters.’
‘No, of course not. Sorry, Anthony, we’re not really laughing about it. It’ll all blow over, you’ll see.’
‘I believe your wife is suffering from what we call de Clérambault’s syndrome: a psychose passionelle. I’m sure your French is—’
‘Yes.’
Professor Field looked at Michael over the top of his glasses, the eyes serious and concerned, the twinkle nowhere to be seen now and even their colour appearing less blue and more grey than before.
‘It’s not as uncommon as you might think,’ he went on, ‘but it is comparatively rare to see it in such an extreme form. It differs from what you might call a more straightforward erotic paranoid delusion, although there are obviously many similarities. The de Clérambault patient – generally a woman – will typically delude herself that a man, with whom she may have had little or virtually no contact, is in love with her. The victim – if you’ll forgive the word – may well be a public figure in politics, on the screen, stage or television; or it’s often a priest or—’ he paused, just for a fraction of a second, ‘—a doctor.’ He was speaking quietly but firmly, the authority in his voice reassuring but at the same time frightening because of the weight which it gave to the discussion.
Any secret fantasy remaining within Michael that this was some sort of had dream or joke was now shattered.
‘This is a very difficult time for you, and I take this very seriously indeed. Having had this first consultation with Juliet, I consider that her present state of nervousness and insecurity is not unconnected with her early anorexia, which she says you know about.’ He took off his glasses and placed them gently down on the desk, then rubbed his face with one hand, before placing it down on the blotter in front of him and studying its splayed fingers as he spoke. ‘People suffering from this type of psychosis have these feelings very strongly, as, of course, you are only too well aware. She feels valueless without her delusional love; the rejection of her advances will merely be interpreted by her as paradoxical and as a communication of hidden emotions. In other words she will simply believe that all the time he really loves her. It may confuse her, but not change her view.’
‘Oh my God,’ Michael said quietly. He put his hand to his forehead and looked down at his lap. ‘What has – why has she got it?’
‘I could give you all kinds of instant theories about background, personality, the trauma of fertility treatment, but I would be far more honest if I said to you that we don’t really know. There is no one cause that I can pinpoint at this stage, although her childhood history would tend towards emotional disorders in adulthood. The important thing is where we go from here. I hope and believe that treatment will be successful, but I must warn you that in my opinion it is going to take some time, and I’m afraid you are going to have to be extremely patient.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Let me tell you that I am convinced nothing you could have done would have prevented this. I am anxious to reassure you on that score.’
‘I understand. Thank you.’
‘I intend to begin a regimen of treatment as soon as possible. It will, of course, owing to the pregnancy, necessarily exclude some of the pharmaceutical approaches I might normally consider using. However, there still remain plenty which have been tested as safe in such circumstances. I’d also like to admit her to hospital.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think she can. I don’t—’
‘Why do you feel that would be a problem?’
‘Because she just won’t. She can’t bear hospitals; we’ve already had talks about trying to have the baby at home because she’s so terrified.’
‘All right, Mr Evans. At this stage I’ll rely on your feelings. You, after all, are the person who is closest to her and knows most about her. I’m a great believer in listening to the partner in these situations. We need to keep her as stable as possible: that is the priority now. I shall arrange for her to have outpatient treatment. It’s extremely important for her that you are patient and tolerant; her actions at present derive from an illness and are not a reflection on you or how she feels about you. You must keep this in mind.’
‘I see. Thank you very much.’
Chapter Nineteen
Juliet began daily visits to Wimpole Street, and to H Michael’s relief accepted the routine without protest H or any apparent reluctance. He learnt not to broach the subject of Anthony, as any mention of him produced such a disheartening response that he thought it best to keep their lives in a state of suspended reality, floating above the emotional horror lurking beneath the surface. Christmas had come and gone without being celebrated in the Evans’ household, and Michael had been glad to see the back of it, relieved when the moment came for him to throw out the brightly decorated tree. Its wilted, dried-up branches, still bearing the superficial trappings of joyous festivity, had seemed to taunt him and he relished its destruction. On Professor Field’s advice, Juliet had given up her job, eliciting an agonising call from the estate agents to Michael, sympathising with him on the imminent divorce and reassuring him that, as a valuable member of the team, Mrs Evans would be welcome back on the staff whenever their domestic problems were sorted out.
At first Michael too took time off and stayed at home, but as the days went by and Juliet appeared calm and resigned to the regime of treatment, he began to spend a few
hours at the office each day, in an attempt to restore a small amount of normality to their lives, and knowing that, once all this was over, hanging on to his job would be seen to have been essential. In spite of her apparently settled acceptance of the new routine, there was always a sharp corner of anxiety in him when he returned from the office as to whether he would find Juliet at home or an empty house – the latter occasions provoking an hour or two of terrified waiting for the telephone or door bell to ring with news of humiliation and embarrassment. But always she came back without comment or explanation, daring Michael with her silence to question her. He never did, restraining himself to a brief noncommittal greeting for fear of hearing that she had been sitting outside the Weymouth Street clinic in her car all afternoon, or following Anthony home.
After a couple of weeks of relative calm, Michael began to feel almost hopeful, seeing in Juliet the occasional hint of her old self, and one evening he decided to risk buying her a bunch of flowers, a little gesture that in the days before Anthony – an emotional universe away – had been a frequent and appreciated part of their married life.
It was nearly seven-thirty by the time he got home, holding the rustling bunch of wrapped chrysanthemums under one briefcase-carrying arm while he let himself in with the other hand. As soon as he opened the door he knew something was very wrong. There was a strange sound coming from upstairs, something disturbingly familiar, but which he hadn’t heard for a long time, and it was the matter of a second or two until he registered it as a woman crying. Not just crying: a kind of moaning, desperate sobbing that made Michael shudder with the misery of it. He dropped his case and the pathetically inadequate flowers and rushed up to the bedroom, where the distraught figure of Juliet was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands, and her shoulders heaving.
‘Julie, Julie, darling, whatever is it?’
He squatted down next to the bed and put his arm around her. She looked up at him and he almost flinched at the sight of her red, swollen face, the open mouth pulled down into an ugly curl, tears mixing with mucus and saliva in a sticky sheen over the bloated features. She was gulping and taking involuntary, juddering breaths that jerked her head to and fro in little nods in an effort to control the weeping and, although she tried to answer him, Michael could make no sense of what she said. He dreaded hearing what he was sure was coming: some imagined slight from Anthony that had thwarted her obsession. But he persevered, forced by the strength of her obvious grief into continuing his questioning, yet feeling himself drawn irresistibly towards his own humiliation.
‘What? What, darling?’ he persisted. ‘What is it? What are you trying to tell me? What’s the matter?’
Juliet drew in her breath in a huge, sighing, sob that pulled the tendons of her neck into sharp, ugly relief, then let it out in an involuntary series of choking gasps as she spoke: ‘H-h-he-he’s-g-goh-goh-gone.’
‘What do you mean he’s gone?’
‘N-n-ot th-ere,’ she gasped, ‘not – there – any – more.’
In spite of himself, Michael recognised a tiny spark of something like relief flash deep inside him for a split second; a subconscious awareness for the first time of the possibility of the disappearance of his unwilling rival. ‘Where? Where has he gone?’
‘WHAT?’ She turned and shouted at him with such force and fury that he drew back instinctively. ‘Where has he gone? How can you ask that? How can you be so cruel? How do I know where he’s gone? He’s not gone anywhere – he’s just not there. Not any more.’
‘Juliet, please, you’re not making any sense. Just tell me as calmly as you can what’s happened, and I’ll try to help you.’
But she turned and threw her head back down into her hands again and cried with such pitiable intensity that Michael simply put his arm around her shoulders once more and pulled her gently on to his chest, stroking her matted hair with his hand. They sat together for a few moments not saying anything, while her shaking body slowly calmed and the doleful noise of her weeping lessened.
Michael continued to stroke her head gently, but at the same time gradually became aware that quite apart from the obvious distress of the woman in his arms, something else was worrying at him, gnawing uncomfortably at the back of his mind. He forced himself to examine it, to face what it was that was bothering him. As he did so, a slowly dawning but insistent thought of such unhappiness confronted him that he tried, too late, to turn away from it and put his thoughts elsewhere. Fear travelled up through his body like a cold wave, clutching at the organs in its path, leaving them chilled, until the full terror reached his brain and made him wince with pain.
He pushed Juliet a little away from him and looked at her. ‘Julie, who’s gone?’ he said quietly, curling inwardly with the dread of what was to come, praying with every nerve in his body that he was wrong, and that this was a truth he didn’t have to face.
‘What?’ she whimpered. ‘What do you mean, who? The baby of course. My baby.’
He dropped his arm from around her and threw his head back, screaming inside with unbearable despair but letting it out only in a tortured whisper: ‘Oh dear God, no, please, no.’
‘I’m empty, Michael. I had life inside me and now it’s not there any more.’ She had stopped shuddering now, but her voice still quivered with misery as she went on. ‘The heartbeat – I heard it; they played it to me – now it’s gone. He’s gone. The life, it was growing there, it was part of me, it was inside me, and now there’s nothing. I just don’t understand – it was there and now it’s over. Just a lump of meat, Michael, he was just a lump of red jelly – it’s – oh God, what am I going to do? Red jelly sliding down my leg – I can’t stand it. Put it back – I want it back – don’t take it away from me, I can’t stand it – my baby! I want my baby back! God, please, please, I’ll never hurt anyone ever again, please, please, God, let me have my baby back.’
‘Oh darling, my poor darling.’ Michael suddenly hugged her to him, as tightly as he could, the strength of his sorrow flooding his body and making him squeeze her closer.
‘I want my baby, Michael, I want my baby, oh please,’ she murmured through her crying, ‘oh please, please.’
He couldn’t help it; as he sat with his head resting on hers and his arms still tight around her, he broke into desperate, uncontrollable sobs, hoarse and jarring in the small room.
In the cold dark room in Streatham, somewhere deep at the back of her mind the woman lying half comatose on the floor had come to a momentous decision. Perhaps for the first time in weeks, she saw the situation with a clarity and truth that made it unavoidable. Anthony wasn’t coming. Now that she could see it, understand it, it was so obvious that she couldn’t think why she hadn’t known it before. The shock of realisation brought her suddenly to full consciousness, and with a flicker of strength born of her innate practicality and sense of purpose, which she could see now had been so cruelly misrouted for so long, she reached into the bag lying next to her for the bottle of Chlorpromazine. In spite of the childproof top, she opened it easily with a click that echoed in the silence, and as she began to cram the tiny pills into her mouth, turned her head to look across at the little body lying beside her.
‘Poor baby,’ she whispered, ‘poor baby. Where’s your mummy? I’m so sorry.’
The shock of losing the baby seemed to jolt Juliet back into a state of rationality that appeared to Michael to be well on the way to being that of her normal self. She continued to visit Professor Field and to take the prescribed anti-psychotic Chlorpromazine, but Michael liked to assume that the sessions were now more concerned with the very real loss of her precious baby than with the fantasised love of the young doctor.
He grieved for the loss of his child more than he could ever have foreseen and, although to all outward appearances their lives settled into a more comfortable and stable regularity, the sense of something missing, of somebody missing, hung over them both in an unacknowledged cloud of depression. They spoke of it little
, each unwilling to voice their extreme unhappiness for fear of seeing it reflected in the other, which would give it even greater reality.
A week after the loss of the baby Michael telephoned Mrs Palmer, surprising himself by the depth of his sympathy for her, realising that he hadn’t known until he heard it in her voice, just how much the potential grandchild had meant to her. He also jotted a note to Harriet, anxious that in the event of her contacting Juliet, she should be forewarned.
Juliet continued to stay away from work, spending most of the time when she wasn’t visiting Professor Field lying on her bed watching television, or pottering quietly around the house. Michael secretly dared to hope that Anthony might be out of their lives for good, but there were still occasions when she left the house for several hours without explanation, leaving him cringing with imaginings.
‘I do love you, you know,’ he said to her on her return from one such outing. ‘I’m not going to ask where you’ve been, but I hope you know that I’m here, just as I ever was. I can’t forget the baby, and I don’t want to, but I believe we can be just as we were before if we’re both patient and just show a little more kindness to each other. And if we perhaps try to talk about things a little more.’
They were standing in the hallway where he had waited for her as he heard her key in the lock. She slowly took off her raincoat and the scarf from around her neck and folded them neatly over her arm as she turned to look at him.
‘Do you think we can start again?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes, that’s just what I’m saying. I think we can. I think—’
‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean, do you think we can try again? Try the IVF again?’
As Michael involuntarily looked quickly away to hide his reaction from her, he saw himself reflected in the hall mirror on the opposite wall. The face that looked back at him – as was always the case when he caught sight of himself unexpectedly – was older and more weary than the image he unconsciously carried around with him from day to day. But its expression of sheer surprise, tinged with a hint of what could be either panic or hope, gave it a naivety that softened the hard lines and produced a look of almost comic childishness.
