by A J Waines
This was not good. This was not good at all and I had no idea how to deal with it.
The next moment, I heard her footsteps rattling down the iron staircase. I thrust the box under the chair and folded my arms.
Miranda gave me a prim smile and grabbed her keys from the kitchen table. I didn’t move. I was in two minds about confronting her there and then, but I decided it would be better to deal with the situation once we were outside. Then at least she wouldn’t be able to bundle me out and lock the door on me.
As soon as we were on the high street, I opened my mouth to speak. But she beat me to it.
‘Someone is interested in one of my pictures,’ she said. Miranda’s canvases had been selling steadily since her last exhibition at the gallery. ‘She works at Battersea Dogs and Cats Home…Denise someone.’
‘That’s great. Is she paying enough for it?’
‘I don’t need any handouts, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No. It wasn’t. Never mind. I’m glad.’
Would it ever be possible to have a conversation with Miranda without her getting defensive?
There was a steady reggae beat thumping away in the background at the Urban Shack Café. A warm-faced Rastafarian with dreadlocks down to his waist, and an attitude so relaxed I was surprised he was still standing, asked what we’d like.
Miranda ordered a chocolate milkshake and I had a latte. We sat on high stools by the window.
‘It’s nice here,’ I said, looking over at the waiter.
She’d pulled the folded napkin from under her tall glass and had started scribbling on it. ‘Dezzie is really sweet. He plays his guitar in here, sometimes.’ She bopped around to the beat, rattling the pen between her teeth. ‘You seeing anyone yet?’
I ignored her. Why did she keep asking me this? ‘I haven’t seen enough of you, lately,’ I said pointedly.
‘I get preoccupied with my painting.’ The doodle she’d begun started to evolve into a dragonfly. She stopped and looked solemnly into my eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ She gave the words considerable weight.
‘You’re sorry about what, exactly?’
She let a silence hang. ‘We’re just different, that’s all,’ she said.
That seemed to be my sister’s answer to all our problems. I was too sensible and strait-laced in her eyes; she was reckless and irresponsible, in mine. Poles apart.
There was a moment of awkwardness, then I bit the bullet. ‘I know I shouldn’t have looked, but—’
‘You’ve been spying on me,’ said Miranda indignantly. She scrunched up the napkin and stuffed it under the edge of her saucer.
‘My foot got caught on—’
She shoved her glass towards the window. ‘Yeah, yeah, come on, spit it out.’
I took in her entire face. ‘I found it, Miranda. I found a syringe in the pizza box.’
She tutted and flapped her hand at me. ‘Oh, that. I use it for paint. To get the right mix of oil base, otherwise the white, in particular, goes all lumpy.’
I was on full alert waiting for the scratch behind her ear, a turning away, but there was nothing. Maybe I was losing my touch, or maybe Miranda had wised up to it. Whichever way, I didn’t believe her. It all added up; her distant behaviour, sleeping in late and now I was seeing her in daylight, the orange rings around her eyes and her brittle hair. Were her pupils dilated? Was she sweating more than usual? I’d have to pay more attention.
‘Are you sure?’ I said. I’d come across plenty of schizophrenics self-medicating with heroin before.
She reached for her bag. ‘If you don’t trust me, that’s your problem.’
I didn’t know what to do. Should I go straight to her case worker? Should I try to squeeze the truth out of Miranda first? Had I got it entirely wrong? I pulled at her wrist. ‘Don’t go, Miranda. Please.’
She plonked herself back onto the stool and sat in sufferance, playing with her top lip. I chose another option. I’d drop it for now, give her the benefit of the doubt, and go to the Project where she worked to speak to her tutor and friends. I’d be tactful. I’d ask if they knew about her painting practices. Check if white paint was a particularly difficult one to work with. I was determined to find out for certain, one way or the other.
A couple came in who recognised Miranda. Her face instantly shifted out of the shadows into blazing sunlight and she gave them a cheery wave. ‘I’m glad you’ve made friends,’ I said.
‘That’s Sponge and Kora – they work at the gallery.’ Miranda extended her smile to me. She seemed to have completely forgotten about my accusations. Good timing, I thought. Now I knew who to ask. It was obvious she wanted to join them, so I left her to it.
Later that evening, as I was getting ready for bed, my landline rang. It was Rosie.
‘I know I’m seeing you soon, but I thought you’d like to know they found Max’s violin case…’
I felt unexpectedly vulnerable hearing her voice as I stood barefoot on the cold kitchen floor in my pyjamas.
‘Rosie – okay, but this isn’t—’
‘It turned up in a cove. The police said it probably broke open, but there was nothing inside. I thought you’d be interested. They also found Stephanie’s cello a few days ago. It was all smashed up in the lake. They think the violin is probably ruined, too – but they haven’t found it yet.’
‘Rosie, this is all very interesting, but you do know we agreed that you’d only phone if you needed to cancel a session?’
Silence.
‘Rosie? You remember that sheet I gave you last week? Have a look at it again – it does say that we—’
‘I thought you’d want to know, that’s all.’ Her voice was clipped, sharp.
I softened. ‘I know this is stirring things up for you, but our contract doesn’t involve you ringing me outside our session times. I thought you understood that.’
‘I did. I do, but I’m all on edge about it. I want to know what really happened. Did someone go back for it? Did it float into the cove on its own? Did a complete stranger find it? It had a special Xenara case. They’re really expensive and they’re supposed to protect a violin under extreme circumstances. Do you—?’
‘We can’t go into this now,’ I said firmly. ‘Why don’t you write down your questions and we’ll talk about it all on Thursday? I really have to go now.’
I dropped the receiver back into its stand as though it was on fire, before she could utter another word.
After charging across London for my emotional meeting with Miranda, I’d spent the afternoon fighting the Christmas crowds trying to find suitable gifts for Mum and Dad and I was wrecked. I’d been winding down for an early night, but now I was fully alert. And angry. How dare Rosie think she could call me whenever she felt ‘on edge’?
I’m not the Samaritans…
I went into the bedroom and stood blankly in the middle of the carpet. Rosie’s call had jolted me straight back to last Christmas. That other call. I’d thought at the time that I’d handled it well; I’d been firm, but kind.
Little did I know.
I’d made a vow then that I’d never get involved in that kind of situation again, but here I was, getting sucked in. I stared at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror, my hand over my mouth, looking like I’d woken up to find myself sleepwalking in the middle of a busy road at midnight.
I could picture the book on Joanne’s bedside table, smell her perfume left suspended in the air. I shivered and wandered over to my bed in a daze.
No. Rosie was different.
Completely different.
Chapter 14
Sam
Dr Minette Heron was an inspirational psychologist I’d heard speak many times before. She was one of the warmest people I’d ever come across, with a surprisingly raunchy sense of humour. I did my best to get to all her London lectures and we’d often squeeze in lunch if neither of us had to rush off somewhere.
Cutting it fine, I bolted out of St Luke’s before lunch and hailed
a cab to get me to King’s Hospital near Brixton. For once, I was delighted that the driver was a maniac, weaving around buses, dodging a red light and even mounting the pavement at one point to keep us moving. I arrived with two minutes to spare.
Minette had a penchant for the colour orange and, sure enough, she lit up the stage, her jacket, scarf and shoes in a blinding shade of tangerine.
In her presentation that day, she was making the case for matching the right style of therapy to each individual, especially in cases of low self-image. Her arguments were always fascinating and I liked the way she included recorded extracts of sessions. Most of these came from the psychotherapy teams she supervised, though of course she used pseudonyms to preserve patient anonymity.
She was getting towards the end of her presentation and I was finally starting to flag, when she introduced a recording of a patient she called ‘Kitty’.
‘I won’t go into Kitty’s history,’ she said, ‘but suffice to say she’d had years of rejection to cope with. A childhood bereft of love. In her mid-thirties, and after a string of therapists, she believed she was being respected and heard for the first time in her life. This was a person-centred, client-led approach and Kitty felt in control.’
Minette stopped and scanned the faces in the hall. ‘But some therapists didn’t work so well for her – those using more analytical or cognitive approaches, for example. She felt they were replicating authority figures from her past who had instructed her, questioned her, made demands on her. For Kitty, acceptance in a relationship was crucial.’
I jotted down a few notes. My NHS role required a cognitive approach, and with all the CBT forms we now had to complete, straying into other methods held less appeal. Minette’s words were a reminder, however, that the patient’s needs should come first. She was right.
A hand went up in the auditorium. ‘Are you suggesting we should contact patients’ previous therapists to find out which approach worked best? That could take months…’
‘No, I’m not proposing that,’ came Minette’s response. ‘I’m advocating a couple of simple questions at the start of your first session – you’ll find these on the handout; page three.’ She glanced down at her notes. ‘It saves time. It gets results. It saves money.’ She gestured towards the chief executive of the NHS commissioning board, sitting at the front. ‘Anyway, enough of me, let’s hear what Kitty had to say.’
The recording had barely started before my pen slipped from my hand. I knew that chirpy voice. She was telling her therapist months ago that she was so pleased she’d found someone who seemed to truly understand her.
‘You really seem to get me,’ came the voice. ‘It’s such a relief. I’ve never had that before.’
I felt a spine-tingling chill of déjà vu. Almost the exact same words were written in the card Rosie had sent me: I feel you’re someone who truly understands. I’ve never had that before.
The recording went on, but I didn’t hear any more after that; my head was filled with questions that drowned out any outside noise. Who was Rosie’s psychotherapist? How long had they been working together? How had she coped with Rosie’s emotional neediness?
I missed the end of the talk altogether and suddenly everyone around me was getting up to leave. I got to my feet and swayed, staring blankly ahead as the auditorium broke into geometric patterns. I started to walk down the steps and the next moment, everything in my path turned orange. I was face to face with Minette and she was smiling, waiting for me to say something.
My mouth felt like it was full of glue.
‘Hey – are you okay, Sam?’ she said.
‘Yeah…sorry. I wanted to say it…your lecture…very enlightening, as usual. Really useful, interesting.’ Most people had drifted into the corridor by now.
‘Thanks – I’m glad it came across as more than just a cost-cutting exercise.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘I’d love to chat, but I’ve got a flipping board meeting.’ She gathered her papers against her chest. ‘We must do lunch again soon.’
‘Yes…sure.’
I must have looked gormless, barely able to string two words together.
‘Just one question before you go,’ I managed. ‘The woman Kitty was working with – who is she? I’m not sure if you said.’
Her face clouded over. ‘Erica Mandale, a dear friend of mine. Over at Guy’s.’ She shook her head. ‘Died suddenly earlier this year. Such a shock.’
Chapter 15
Sam
I had no time to dwell on Rosie and her previous therapist; I had to use the return journey to St Luke’s to bolt down a sandwich and prepare for my remaining patients. At the end of the day, I was about to lock my consulting room when I heard hurried footsteps coming up behind me in the corridor.
‘Sam…sorry, Dr Willerby…’ It was Rosie, out of breath. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you. I’m so sorry to bother you here, but I’ve just been for a lung check-up and—’ A paramedic swung around the corner with an ambulance trolley and we were forced to back against the wall before she finished. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I need a form for work – to prove I attended the sessions we had here.’
Standard procedure. Form D1.11. I told her to wait in the corridor and went round to the main office.
It took longer than I’d expected to get my hands on the right form and when I returned, Rosie wasn’t there. I turned full circle and went back into my office only to find she’d made herself at home in my room, sitting in my chair, swinging it from side to side.
‘Great,’ she said, smiling as I came in. She had no idea that she was overstepping the mark. Rosie didn’t seem to grasp established social protocol.
I hesitated, torn about what to say. ‘Rosie, I asked you to wait outside. This room is private.’
‘Oh,’ she said, getting up, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. ‘Oh, well…see you Thursday at your place,’ she added merrily as she left.
As Rosie disappeared down the corridor, Debbie, who managed several units on my floor, appeared at the door.
‘You’ve made someone happy,’ she said. ‘Are you handing out special pills or is it just your innate charm?’
Debbie was tiny in size, but big on warmth and generosity. We’d been best buddies ever since I joined St Luke’s over eight years ago. She was the one person at work who could be counted on to offer two rare comforts: a sympathetic ear and decent biscuits.
‘You finished now?’ she asked, tapping the face of her watch.
‘Totally finished,’ I said, my shoulders sagging.
She beckoned me with a curled finger. ‘My office, Willerby. Now. Tea and Hobnobs.’
I followed her like a new puppy.
‘Doing anything exciting tonight?’ she asked, handing me my steaming tea in a mug decorated with the words, I may be short, but I’m in charge.
‘Er. One word. No,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I’ve got a spin class on the way home.’
‘And how many eligible guys in the class?’
‘Um. One word, again,’ I replied with a giggle. ‘Zero.’
She’d been nagging me for weeks about ditching spinning and taking up Spanish or boxing instead. ‘You need an activity with more men in it, Sam,’ she sighed.
I waved her words away. ‘I want a relationship that “unfolds naturally”, you know, where I just turn a corner in the supermarket or bump into someone gorgeous at a friend’s wedding.’
‘Well, good luck with that one,’ she said and we both laughed.
I’d tried online dating, but only because Debbie and Hannah had goaded me into it; I’d been half-hearted from the start and hadn’t bothered responding to the ‘likes’ I’d got.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Relationships are overrated.’ I thought of Con as I said it, feeling something of a fraud, because I still found myself wishing we’d had another chance.
Debbie, on the other hand, had every right to be cynical about things that were meant to ‘unfold naturally’. She and her
husband had been on IVF treatments for months and she was starting to give up hope. Numerous times after work we’d stopped off for a drink on the way home and she’d dissolved into tears. Every time, she apologised.
‘Oh, Sam, here I go again,’ she’d blubbed only last week. ‘As if you don’t have enough of people’s problems at work…’
That’s one drawback about working in my profession; friends always assume you’re inwardly cringing the moment they start talking about themselves. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I’d said, pulling her close. ‘You must never think that. This is a huge deal, Deb. I can’t bear that you’re suffering and there’s nothing I can do to help.’
‘But you do help. You let me drivel on,’ she’d said, crushing a tissue into a tight ball. ‘I’d go mad if I didn’t have you.’
Miranda had told me she was going to Eastbourne for the day, so I took the opportunity to head over to the Arts Project. I was looking for the couple Miranda had said hi to in the café the other day: Sponge and Kora.
I found Kora wiping up mugs in the kitchen.
‘I’m Miranda’s sister,’ I said, as I picked up the tea towel she’d dropped.
‘Oh – she’s not here today.’
‘I know. It’s you I came to speak to actually, and Sponge if he’s around.’
‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’
‘Sort of. Psychologist.’
She grimaced. ‘Even worse,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell Sponge. He doesn’t like shrinks. He’s in the back yard. Someone smashed a pile of bottles over the wall, last night.’
She waited. I wasn’t sure where to start. ‘Miranda seems to be doing well with her paintings.’
‘Yes – she’s selling at a steady rate. It’s a good spot for us here.’
‘You paint too?’
‘Mixed media – sculpture mostly. I’ll show you.’
