Katy rolled away from Richard, sliding an arm under the pillow and closing her eyes.
“Now.” The Voice spoke softly. “Imagine you’re completely relaxed, at rest, nothing to think about except to let go, every part of you on holiday, lazing in the sunshine, the sea gently lapping against the warm silver sand. A boat gently bobs on a cool, calm quilt of shimmering blue, rocked tenderly by waves of warm, comfortable feeling, deeper and deeper asleep.”
* * *
“Is that Jane Joyheart?” Katy clamped the phone tighter to her ear.
“Speaking. How can I help?”
“I’m calling about the SRT course.”
“You’ve phoned at exactly the right time! I’m running the basic workshop next weekend and one of my students had to drop out. The place is yours if you’d like it...ooh, the hairs on my arms just stood on end – you’re obviously meant to be here. You must be part of this particular soul group!”
“That’s short notice – let me check the diary.” Katy flipped over the pages knowing there was bound to be something booked in. The following weekend was blank. A strange tingling ran the length of her arms and legs, almost a shiver.
“When’s the next course you’re running?”
“Not until March next year. Where do you live? ”
“I’m in West London.”
“My colleague, Brenda, is closer – she’s in Teddington – I think she’s running the basic soon. Hang on...” There was a rustling in the background. “November 21st, 22nd and 23rd.”
“Oh...I can’t do that weekend.” It was Mother’s birthday and she’d never hear the end of it if she didn’t go.
“I don’t want to influence you, but it seems so synchronistic! Gill only cancelled half an hour ago, and I knew someone would step forward to take her place!”
Chapter 7
Richard sank back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, long legs stretched under his desk. The phone buzzed. “Put him through, Helen.” He unlaced his hands, leaned forward, and lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Not much to report, Guv. Watched ‘er for two weeks, per your instructions. Home, Harley Street, Waitrose, ‘er friend at number 36, her whacky friend on the bus, a visit across the river to Streatham and the usual shops, cafes, coffee shops. Let me see… Bought an expensive dress in John Lewis on Wednesday, eats that ‘orrible bitter chocolate when she thinks no-one’s looking. Bought four bars.”
“Anything else?”
“Well—”
“What?” Richard leaned forward, switching the receiver to his left ear, and picking up a pen.
“There’s this one geyser she seems to be seeing regular, like!”
“Details?”
“Some bloke by the name of Slater. Terry Slater. Sees him at least once a week at his posh house.”
“Thanks. Consider the case closed.”
“You don’t want me to follow up?”
“No.”
There was a knock at the door. “Yes!”
Helen shuffled in with a file of papers. “I’ve managed to book the cottage.”
Richard peered at her.
“The one near Ashdown Forest. You just need to confirm what time you’ll be arriving.”
Richard scanned the details. Perfect. He’d confront his wife about this Terry bloke then whisk her away – surprise her – she was bound to come to her senses and realize he was still a good catch. It was about time he had her to himself! Hopefully, without the bloody green outfit, the flipping angel cards and the latest rubbish she’d been reading. He needed to get her back on the straight and narrow, take control, get things back to normal.
Richard swiveled his chair towards the window, lost in thought. The City, Westminster, then he’d be free. Only another eleven years and he’d be able to retire. Idyllic England beckoned whenever he felt uncertain. His carefully airbrushed dream of the future kept him alive: he and Katy, sitting in striped deckchairs in an English Country Garden. Geraniums in ornate stone pots on a large weathered patio, lawns, delphiniums, hollyhocks, and an old iron seat around an equally old oak tree, somewhere at the bottom of the rolling garden. He’d employ a gardener and read all the books he’d missed in his time-starved plan to get to the top. Sauntering hand-in-hand with his wife, they’d sit on black, shiny, park benches, feeding ducks on the river or seagulls at the beach. There’d be luxury resorts and temperate climates, spas, pampering manservants and obliging handmaidens. Richard’s vision of retirement – a genteel England that never really existed. He’d sit in his silk, paisley, smoking-jacket and write his novel on an old-fashioned typewriter in the mornings. After luncheon at the club, he’d take grand pianoforte lessons – he’d always wanted to play – and Katy would slow down at last and sit with him. It was a hackneyed vision but one that gave him hope, one that spurred him on.
Just beneath the carapace of corporate life, he was breaking apart – rotting from the inside out, extinguishing his past, uprooting his origins, discarding them for power, security, and a very middle-class pension. He hated what he did, hated himself if he were honest, which he tried not to be. He could almost smell the stench of self-betrayal.
On Sunday evenings a brooding darkness would engulf and follow him like the ghost of the self he’d killed. Katy accused him of casting a gloomy depression over the entire household. Every Monday he would shake it off as he gritted his teeth, pushed on by the dream, seduced by the day when he’d have accumulated enough. His patient tenacity would pay off, he knew it.
Later that evening, from the vantage point of the sofa, he watched his wife fussing in the kitchen. Why the hell couldn’t she leave the washing-up and indulge him? Some kind of Indian mantra was playing softly in the background – over and over it repeated itself. He’d seen Katy lose herself in pet enthusiasms before. The novelty always wore off: Feng Shui, favorite restaurants, step-aerobics, authors, music. She seemed to immerse herself and guzzle at the new until sated, chew the fat till there was nothing left, then discard the bones and move on, realizing it wasn’t what she’d wanted after all. Her endless search, for what, she didn’t know and nor did he: careers, houses, friends – he’d seen them come and go – and it would be the same with this latest fad. He’d get his Kittykat back, he knew it. He’d bide his time for now and play along. She was bound to realize it was all nonsense, and then she’d be running back to him for a reality check.
“One of these days you’re going to dematerialize as you wash up!” he said, with a forced laugh. She turned to him and smiled.
“I’ve got a surprise, Kit, how do you fancy going away for the weekend? Ashdown Forest, the place that inspired AA Milne and the Hundred Acre Wood.” He was beaming from ear-to-ear as he played his trump. He knew she loved Pooh Bear. She’d read the poems to the children when they were young.
“You’re joking? You never book anything!” she said, dropping her smile.
“Well, there’s always a first.”
“Next weekend?” Katy was wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Yes! Just you, me and the kids!”
“I can’t, Rich! I’m booked on a course in Brighton!”
“Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me? I thought you were taking the weekend off?”
“Changed my mind!”
“I thought we were going to spend some time together?”
“I’m sorry, Rich! This course came up spur of the moment!”
“Then cancel it!”
“I can’t. I’ve paid! I always book the holidays and I always check with you, first! Why didn’t you check with me?”
She was being ridiculous now.
“Then it wouldn’t be a bloody surprise, would it?” “I’m sorry! I didn’t know! Plans change – just like they do with you sometimes!”
It was typical of her to twist it around. She was walking towards him now, arms outstretched, palms open.
“I don’t know what the hell’s got into you, Katy Stone.” Richard’s face was thund
er, his voice booming now as he stood his full six feet two, flecks of spit leaving his mouth as she came closer. Throwing down the paper, he marched hurriedly past, pushing her out of his way. She was saying something softly to herself.
“Fralinski. It’s Katy Fralinski.”
He stormed out into the cool evening air. It must have been this Slater chap that had gotten to her. He’d have it out with her right now.
The chimes jangled as he barged back in, knocking them almost off their hook. “And another thing!” He snorted. “I know all about your little tête-a-têtes.” He jabbed a finger at her and slammed the door behind him, rousing Tilly and Freddie from their bedrooms.
“What’s going on?” they chorused.
“Nothing. Go back to your rooms,” bellowed Richard.
“Calm down, Richard. They can hear us.”
“I am calm,” he shouted. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He could see her eyes darting from side to side as she tried to think of an excuse.
“Does the name Slater mean anything to you?”
“Yes, he’s—”
“You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you?”
Katy put her sleeve up to her mouth, trying to cover what looked suspiciously like a smile.
“Richard! He’s my supervisor! My clinical supervisor!”
“But you only need to see a supervisor once a month – you’ve been seeing him every week.” He wasn’t going to let her get away with it. He could see she was rattled.
“And how the hell do you know?”
“You’ve been spotted, Katherine.”
His wife took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She was probably getting her story straight.
“I’ve been seeing him for a few extra therapy sessions.”
“What?”
“I’ve been feeling a bit,” she searched for words, “low recently and I thought it would be a good idea to talk it through.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”
“You never want to! I tried! And anyway, I needed a professional perspective, Rich, that’s all. I swear to you, there’s nothing in it!”
Richard stared at her, unflinching, searching her face, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Have you seen what Terry Slater looks like?” she said, the beginning of a smile curling at the sides of her mouth.
“I don’t care what he looks like, you’re not seeing him again.” There. He’d put his foot down.
“Rich! He’s an old-school psychotherapist and happens to be my clinical supervisor!”
Chapter 8
A small, bald man, impeccably dressed in a stylish suit and polished black brogues, stepped off the train at Paddington station. He made his way across the concourse, stopping at one of the kiosks for coffee and Danish. At the taxi rank outside, he hailed a cab. “The Priory, please.”
“Roehampton?”
“Yes.”
Forty minutes later, a black London taxi swung into the car park of the Priory Hospital, depositing its bald occupant in front of a large, arched reception door. The man stared up at the icedcake concoction of white crenelated walls, turreted chimneys, and mullioned windows. Straightening his Italian silk tie and pulling his jacket sleeves down over his solid silver cufflinks, he straightened himself up and mounted the wide, shallow steps to reception.
Opulent chairs, a plush carpet and an antique chandelier did nothing to hide the institutionalized smell of disinfectant. A polished maple table, laden with shiny copies of Country Life, Harper’s Bazaar and GQ magazines dominated the room. Rifling under the latest editions, he found an old copy of Esquire and sat waiting to be called.
Following his initial visit, he was about to experience his first one-to-one session with Dr. Watkins. He would be ‘taking his history’.
After some preliminaries – name, date of birth, occupation – the questions began to probe a little deeper.
“Tell me about your parents.”
“Dad’s not around much. He’s Italian by birth but moved here as a young man – that’s how he met my very British mother. Mum died almost a year ago. Lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. How are you coping?”
“Gave up smoking on the spot! I loved Mum. She was decent. Put up with a lot of shit from Dad. He wasn’t exactly the loyal husband.”
“Go on.”
“The hospital told us we grieve in different ways. We weren’t that close – not as close as I’d like to have been. She wasn’t that sort of Mum. She was quiet but firm. Brought us up strict Catholic. Had a keen sense of right and wrong.”
“And have you inherited her sense of right and wrong?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at?”
“Just asking if you’re like your mother in that regard?”
“Do you think I’ve done something bad?”
“Not at all,” said Dr. Watkins, making a note on his pad. “What would happen if you had done something bad?”
“How do you mean? Are you accusing me?”
“Not at all! Just asking how you’d feel?”
The bald man stared down at the edge of the desk, hesitating for a moment. “Afraid, I guess.” He paused. “And guilty.”
“And Father? Were you – are you – close to him?”
“In many ways, yes. I didn’t inherit his Italian looks – I’ve got my mum’s pale coloring – but I’ve got his quick temper – and definitely his Latin libido!”
“Is that why you’re here?”
The bald man blushed, lowered his eyes to his lap and fiddled with his left cufflink. “Partly.”
“We’ll get to that in good time. Let’s continue with your childhood. Any siblings?”
“My sister, Maria, she’s two years younger than me. After she was born, my Dad was away a lot and their marriage fell apart. They slept in separate rooms. It was a bit of a pretense but they stayed together. Dad’s still in the house – with his new fancy woman.”
“And what about your sister?”
“Married with two kids, lives in South London. She’s a teacher. Happy enough. We get on well, not when we were kids though. We used to fight. She gets cross with me sometimes. Just doesn’t get me.”
“In what way?”
“Opposite views on the world, that sort of thing – but we’ve learned to accept each other. Mostly.”
“Tell me about your childhood.”
“When I was young, we lived near Southampton. But I spent most of my childhood in Surrey, in a small market town. Dad was away a lot. We didn’t see him much. Mum was the usual housewife. I think she was depressed. We were close, but she wasn’t very cuddly – could be a bit of a moral compass. Nagged sometimes, but she was always there for us. She was the one who made me change schools. That’s why we moved in the first place, actually.”
“Tell me more about that.”
“I was almost albino as a kid – and small. The other boys used to bully me, call me names, tease me. The usual nonsense. I got beaten up in the toilets once. Not badly – but enough to make me scared of school.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Tell me more.” Dr. Watkins’ soft, dark eyes watched him, holding him in their encouraging gaze.
“Mum tried to help me but those bastards weren’t going to give in that easily, were they?”
Dr. Watkins nodded. “What happened next?”
“We moved. Mum found me another school. I realized I was quite bright and if I got my head down and tried, the teachers would respect me, but I needed to get the other kids on board.” The bald man stared at something invisible, slightly to his right.
Dr. Watkins watched the bald man’s eye movements, his facial expressions, his body language. The man had his knees together, his toes pointing inwards, his feet raised with the heels stretched upwards. He was burying his clamped hands between his thighs and leaning over, his back slightly bent, his shoulders slumping forward, his hi
gh forehead wrinkled. Dr. Watkins waited as he noted the signs.
“When I was older, at secondary school, I started to rebel a bit – found the hot Latino blood in me! I got into trouble. Nothing drastic. Bunking off, pranks, scraps with other boys, lifting girl’s skirts – petty stuff like that.”
“And how did you manage the scraps?”
“My dad had given me some weights to play with in the garage. I started cycling as well – my old man loved watching bike races, he still does, that’s how I got into it. I started doing press-ups, too, and learned how to defend myself. I still cycle by the way. Keeps me fit.”
“So, you spent some happy times with your father?”
“When he was there, yes. Mum used to moan we were two peas in a pod.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“Drinking, smoking...dirty magazines.”
Dr. Watkins inadvertently raised an eyebrow.
“The usual ‘top-shelf’ stuff they had in those days. Quite tame really,” said the man.
“How old were you then?”
“About fourteen, I guess. That’s when I started to fill out, grow hair – raging hormones and all that. I was a looker in those days, and I knew it!”
Dr. Watkins scribbled some notes while the man reached for his glass of water, almost draining it in one go.
“Carry on.”
“I learned how to seduce women. Copied my dad. He was a charmer with the ladies. Watched his style and emulated it.”
“So, you were popular with the girls?”
“In those days, I could probably have had more or less any girl I wanted.”
“That sounds very confident for a fourteen-year-old?”
The bald man’s mouth stretched into a wide smile as his mesmerizing blue eyes twinkled. His knees opened, his heels dropped to the ground and he leaned back in the chair, the flats of his palms on his strong thighs.
“I was about fifteen by then. Something happened. I just became popular – with the girls and the boys, not that way, I mean, they saw me as cool – and it somehow made up for the years of being shunned.”
“What happened next?”
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