Men in grey suits strolled down perfectly tiled pathways, marching purposefully to their toil with hard briefcases, like worker ants seething out of the nest. He’d like to smash their smug faces.
Arriving at the station kiosk, Richard nodded at the sickly-looking man in attendance. “Financial Times and a packet of sherbet lemons.”
“Two pound sixty, mate.”
He handed over the coins, folded the newspaper and thrust it under his arm. The train was packed. Barging his way through the doors onto the already heaving carriage, he squeezed his tall, sturdy frame into the crowd and bent his head to avoid the curvature of the door. Sighing, he looked down at the dandruff on the collar of the man in front and sneered.
* * *
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Terry,” said Katy, looking up at the quiet, wiry man who sat in front of her that morning.
“Is it work?”
“I don’t know.” Katy gazed out at the elegant buildings opposite, their outlines distorted by the uneven glass of the window. “I don’t think so.” She pulled her manicured eyebrows together in thought. “I’m exhausted. It’s a challenge, dealing with people like Seamus and everything he’s been through, but it’s rewarding.”
“From my perspective, you’re doing well!” said Terry, glancing down at his notes. “You’ve got most of your clients under control, and you’re a good therapist.” He clicked the top off his pen and made a note in the margin. “Okay, so there’s one or two cases that stump you sometimes, but by and large you deal with it. Even Seamus!”
“Thank you,” she said, brushing aside the compliment. “I love Harley Street and it’s going well...”
“But?”
“I’m wondering if I should have a few sessions of private counselling.” Katy fiddled with her left earring as she crossed her legs and leaned forward, folding her right arm in front of her. Defensive, she thought. He’ll have noticed.
The consulting room was quiet and comfortable, furnished the old-fashioned way, with buttoned leather chairs and a shiny mahogany desk. A wooden standard lamp lit a dark corner with its pale, yellow light. Outside, faded red geraniums hung from the window boxes, oblivious to their urban dwelling. Terry Slater was an experienced psychotherapist and mentor. He was her sounding board and her supervisor. He understood her clients and made helpful suggestions when the going got tough. She trusted him.
“With me or with another therapist?”
“With you, if that’s okay? I’m not sure of the rules.”
“Yes. It’s fine. It’s all confidential anyway,” said Terry, opening his large, leather, desk diary. “I could fit you in tomorrow if you like. I had a cancellation at 12 pm.”
“Perfect!” said Katy, checking her schedule, “I’ll see you then.” Her face softened with relief. She knew she was doing the right thing, however scary.
Rushing from the peace of Terry’s room into the crowded street below, she hurried towards the tube station. Jostled by the masses squeezing themselves onto the carriage, she was surprised to find an empty seat. As the train lurched, she thought about the rest of the day that loomed ahead. A grid of rigid one-hour segments filled the pages of her diary. She’d left a gap tomorrow, around midday, to draw breath and take stock, and another at 12.30 pm for sandwiches and a cup of tea before the onslaught of clients. Funny how the gaps filled up, she thought, but lucky that Terry could see her. She’d better finish on time tomorrow, or she’d be rushed as usual. Her stop. She fought her way to the door. The underground was dirty, dusty, windy. She held her jacket around her and squinted as she trotted up the escalator, tousled hair blown backwards by the blast. She’d better get her head around this afternoon’s clients if she wanted to give them her best shot.
September 23 rd 2008
It was midday in the quiet comfort of Terry’s consulting room and Katy sat once more in the sumptuous chair, straightening her skirt as she crossed her legs.
“So,” said Terry, pouring two large glasses of water and handing one to Katy. “What made you want to see me?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know, exactly! An inkling, I suppose.”
He waited patiently.
“I feel...” She bit her bottom lip and looked up at the moldings on the ceiling. “I can’t describe it. Something’s not right.” She paused, trying to locate what it was. “I’m worn out, I think!” She took her gaze back to Terry, who was making notes with his fountain pen, the nib scratching across the paper. “I feel empty, arid and...” She stopped.
“And?”
“I don’t even know if I need therapy.” Katy uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them again. She’d forgotten how uncomfortable it was to be in the patient’s seat. It took courage to admit there was a problem – to see a therapist, she thought, recalling what she said to her own clients.
“After all, I lead a privileged life, don’t I?” She raised her eyebrows as if awaiting an answer to the rhetorical question. “It probably looks like I’ve got it all.” She looked down at her hands, loosely folded in her lap. Her thumb nail needed filing and she picked at it nervously. “But it feels like I’m living a lie.” A lump was forming in her throat. “I can’t work it out, Terry! I should be feeling on top of the world!” She composed herself and marshalled her thoughts. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful...” She faltered and checked herself, not wanting to cry or sound like a whining bitch. She was acutely aware of being judged – not by Terry, but by herself. She was supposed to know what she was doing, have it all under control! What would he think? “All those clients who can’t have children or struggle with an addiction or feel alone in the world.” She swallowed. “Then there’s the broken cases – the ‘hole in the soul’. I’ve got nothing like that to complain about!” She shuffled in her seat and took a deep breath.
“Go on.”
“I’m sorry, Terry,” she said, taking a packet of paper tissues from her bag. She looked away, mortified. “People think I’ve got a great life, and I have!” She dabbed carefully under her eye, mopping up a stray tear before it ran dark rivulets of mascara. She didn’t want people to know or to see. “I struggle to get out of bed in the mornings. Wish I could lay there all day and sleep! And I’m feeling so tearful. It’s not like me.” Diverting her attention away from her thoughts, she glanced back at Terry. “I can’t face Richard, either. He’s draining. He doesn’t understand and he won’t listen. I can’t talk to him about anything.”
“Have you tried?”
“Yes. He turns, like a mad dog, barking and snapping. Takes it all personally, thinks I’m criticizing him. He makes it all about him – just like my mum and dad did.”
Terry pursed his lips slightly and made a note on the page.
“Why do you think Richard’s acting like the wounded party?”
Katy wiped the end of her nose with a fresh tissue. “I don’t know, but I’m the one who ends up consoling him and making it all better.”
“Like the caring person you are, but what’s actually going on here, Katy?”
She blushed. “He’s so distant and angry, and I don’t know what to do.”
Terry was looking straight at her.
“I guess he’s in denial and deflecting criticism by projecting.”
“And where have you seen that pattern before?”
Katy ducked the question. “It’s not just Richard. I feel as if I’ve lost something valuable. This terrible feeling of loss and panic. I feel trapped, somehow. Like it’s all closing in on me.”
She didn’t want to admit it to herself, let alone Terry. “It’s easier to put on a brave face and pretend everything’s fine. Just carry on. Stay positive. Keep passing ‘go’ and all that.”
“What are you avoiding by pretending?”
Katy changed the subject. “One of my clients complained the other day that their life was like chewing an old piece of gum – all action and no flavor! I know that’s how Richard sees it.” She thought of the home she’d bu
ilt, the family she’d created, the children she’d nurtured through sickness and health. “I told Rich I’ve got too much on my plate, but he doesn’t get it. He thinks I should see fewer clients, but my career keeps me going! It’s juggling everything else that’s wearing me down.”
Terry smiled. “Could you be mirroring each other to some extent? Has your life lost its flavor too?”
“Yes. I think it has, and I need your help to get it back.” Her stomach knotted. She’d hated saying that. It was a weakness, needing support. Helping others was easy, but she was awkward when it came to being helped. “I need a safe sounding board and a place to work it through.”
I want to be happy, thought Katy, smiling to herself. That’s what lots of clients said. Katy would ask them “What would make you happy? How will your life look when you’re fulfilled? What will you be doing differently?” The answers were usually simple. I’ll have a girlfriend. I won’t be fat. I won’t have these panic attacks. Did that bring lasting happiness? Katy wasn’t sure. Nobody’s life could be happy all the time, and didn’t contentment come from within? Perhaps it was meaning that was important in life?
“I think you’re working too hard. When was the last time you had a break?” said Terry, snapping her out of her reverie.
“Recently – July!”
“What can you do to slow down, do less?”
Katy could feel the resistance pressing against her. She couldn’t possibly slow down. There was far too much to do. The last thing she wanted was for it all to come crashing down. It had taken too much to build.
“Can you take some time out for yourself? A small break in your day? That’s what I’d like you to do between now and our next session.”
At around 3.30 pm, Katy was barging through the front door of number eleven Sycamore Road, the wind chimes ringing out in celebration. ‘Welcome home,’ they seemed to be singing.
“Tea!” she said to herself, reaching up to the top shelf for the Earl Grey. Sipping at the hot liquid, she sighed contentedly as she sat back in the kitchen chair, reflecting on her session with Terry. Time out for herself? Huh! Two minutes with a cup of tea before all hell breaks loose! She savored the moment, then made a mental note of the afternoon’s chores. Meet the kids in town, new rugby boots for Freddie, school blouses for Tilly and a quick dash around Waitrose. There was nothing to eat in the house.
It was seven o’clock by the time they returned. “Can you lay the table, Freddie? Dad’ll be home soon.” Katy was unpacking the bags and trying to take her jacket off at the same time. “I’ll heat up the chicken. Tilly? Tilly? Where are you?” I’ll do it myself, she thought, pulling open a packet of salad leaves.
The wind chimes rang out their warning as Richard thrust open the door. “Train stopped at Earl’s Court for ages,” he grumbled. “What’s for tea?”
“Hello, Darling,” muttered Katy, thinking – it’s supper, not tea. Tea’s at 4 o’clock with sandwiches and scones. He probably hadn’t heard her and probably didn’t care. He was rushing upstairs to change.
“It’s ready!” she called a moment later, adding oil and balsamic to the salad. Katy looked across the kitchen table at her husband as he helped himself to chicken. He was good looking, maybe that’s why she’d married him? She’d loved him once: wanted to get hitched and feel settled. All those chemicals churning around, the great romance, the thrill of the chase! He’d swept her off her feet, the smooth-talking man in the dark suit.
Richard was reading the Evening Standard as he slid a finger over the plate and licked off the juices. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
Katy picked at her lettuce, her thoughts still rumbling around. He often said, ‘I’m a good catch’, and she supposed he was. He’d always provided for them. She tried to focus on the positive. The crux of Cognitive Behavior Therapy, she reminded herself, was to see things from a fresh perspective: to reframe.
Clearing the plates and packing them into the dishwasher, her thoughts rambled on. She could trust him – she knew he was reliable. Not like Adrian who was a totally irresponsible git or Nick who was a bloody alcoholic. If only she’d been trained! She could have helped Nick! Jeez! His childhood was a mess. When she thought of it now, she realized how stupid she’d been, wasting her time, trying so hard to be the one who changed him. She’d put so much love into that relationship and nothing had shifted. But you have to want to change, she thought.
Wiping the table, she looked up and smiled at Richard. He had all the qualities her parents had wanted for her in a spouse: tall, dark, handsome, with an education and a good job. They were companions alright, but the passion had fizzled long ago. And it was all her fault.
“Thanks, Mum,” said Freddie, pulling back his chair with a scraping noise and heading off to his room.
“Homework?”
“Yeah. Tons of it.” He groaned. “What about you, Tilly?”
“What’s it to you?” she said, slouching in the chair, kicking a foot against the floor, and giving her mother one of her withering looks.
I don’t know where I went wrong with that girl, thought Katy, I’ve done everything to support her and this is how she repays me.
Richard paid no attention. His nose was buried in the newspaper.
There’s no spark, she thought, watching her husband as he read the sports page. We keep up appearances, but inside we’re chalk and cheese. I’ve been papering over the cracks for years. I wish we could go back to how it was in the beginning.
“Rich, can I talk to you about something?”
“What?” snapped Richard, “I’ve had a hard day at the office and I just want to unwind with the paper.”
Katy twiddled her left earring before returning to the dishwasher, clunking the door shut and switching it on. It was never the right time, not for Richard anyway. Last weekend he’d been too tired, on holiday he’d wanted to get away from it all, and last night he’d wanted to watch The West Wing. No matter what moment she picked, it was wrong, and he’d have a rebuff lined up.
“I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed,” she said as Richard turned the page and took a gulp of red wine from the generous glass he’d poured. “When would be a good time to chat?”
“Don’t come at me with your therapy-talk! I told you before – see fewer clients!”
“It’s not the client work, Rich, we’ve been over this!”
“Then what the bloody hell is it?” He slammed the paper onto the table.
“It’s okay. We’ll talk another time, when you’re not tired.”
“You’ve disturbed me now, you may as well carry on.”
“It’s a big house to run, and the kids still need me, even though they’re more independent, and—”
“For God’s sake, Kit, get a housekeeper!” He picked up the paper and returned to the sports page.
She didn’t want a housekeeper. She wanted a husband who cared and children who appreciated her. She’d had to help out at home when she was young. She might as well be a housekeeper herself, she thought, at least she’d get paid and be able to take leave!
“But I don’t want a housekeeper! I just want a bit of support. You could help me load the dishwasher or book the car in for service or organize a holiday! Anything!”
“You don’t think I support you? Look at all this,” he said, holding his arms up and gesturing to the large modern kitchen with its black, granite worktops and taupe-painted cupboards. “You don’t get this on a therapist’s salary!”
“I know, Rich,” she said, “I didn’t mean—”
“What the hell did you mean?” His nostrils flared as his jaw tightened, a small muscle twitching at the corner.
“Nothing, Rich. Nothing,” said Katy, turning to the stove and rubbing at a spot of burnt-on food. She pushed the chairs back under the table and caught his wild, indignant eye. “We do need to talk and you’re running away from it. In therapy we call that ‘denial’.” She backed away, thinking he might just lash out, but he
restrained himself and went back to the paper, flicking it sharply as he turned the page.
“I’ve got a few post-session notes to sort out,” said Katy, boiling the kettle and making herself a cup of mint tea. “Could you leave a small glass of that for me?” She nodded at the bottle of Valpolicella. He glared at her before taking himself and his paper off to the sofa, his eyes firmly fixed on the TV page.
He’s not listening, she thought, looking over at Richard, now slumped on the couch with the remote in one hand and a refilled glass of red in the other. He never listened.
It wasn’t just him. Tilly and Freddie were just as bad. At least Freddie was cheerful. At their age, Katy was already proficient in the art of domestic drudgery. It was different nowadays, she thought, and just as well: she didn’t want her kids to have the life she’d had. She wanted to redress the balance, break the pattern, help and encourage them, nurture them. But it was a one-way street.
Katy lugged her briefcase upstairs and checked in with Freddie, who was sitting at the desk in his bedroom. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“Need any help?”
“No. I’m alright, Mum.” He turned and smiled as she ruffled his hair and gave him a hug.
Tilly was reciting lines for her school play, and flashed a look of thunder as Katy approached, as if to say, ‘Don’t you dare disturb me!’ Katy nodded and backed away, shutting the door to her daughter’s room.
Another flight of stairs led to the top of the house where Katy’s office overlooked a tree-lined suburban street. It was peaceful there, and walking in, she breathed a sigh of relief. She saw a few clients here, answered emails, paid bills, ran the family finances, and booked holidays online. There was a lavender-colored massage couch in the corner, where she gave the occasional healing. She’d trained as a Reiki Master some time back. It was a swap with a friend, otherwise she’d never have considered anything like that. Shanti had trained her, and in return, Katy had counselled Shanti through her divorce. It turned out that she loved Reiki. And she loved this room with its calming blues and violets and its one indigo wall. A stack of white shelving was lined with books, crystals, relaxation CDs, aromatherapy oils, candles, and a wooden statue of the Buddha. There were small pictures of sacred geometries and Indian deities. Her qualification certificates were framed and hung above a small, iron fireplace with patterned blue and white slip-tiles either side. Psychotherapist. Advanced Hypnotherapist. Reiki Master. Under the couch was a pale-blue, Zen meditation stool.
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