by Tammy Cohen
Today, he’d shifted his computer screen to the side and was sitting staring down at his desk top, reading something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t holding his attention. He looked up frequently, gazing through the window as if searching for inspiration. Before she could duck, his eyes locked with Corinne’s and, after a split-second delay, he raised his hand to wave. She lifted her own half-heartedly and then made a show of picking up her red pen and turning her attention back to the chapter printout on the desk in front of her.
But the words swam in front of her eyes.
Ever since she had got the call from Danny nearly ten weeks ago, his voice tight with all the things he wasn’t saying, nothing in Corinne’s world had made sense.
‘Don’t panic, but we’re in the hospital. Hannah fell down the stairs at home. She’s done something to her wrist.’
‘And the baby?’ Corinne had forced her voice to stay calm but she’d gripped the edge of the table so tightly that, afterwards, all the nails on her right hand were split.
‘We’re just waiting for an ultrasound. Hannah is hysterical. She’s afraid something has happened.’
That was it. The thing he wasn’t saying. The fear that pressed on his voice until it broke.
Then, ‘I have to go. They’re calling us. I’ll phone you afterwards.’
Then the wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. Half an hour. All the different scenarios running through Corinne’s fevered brain.
All except one.
As always, thinking about what had happened made Corinne feel useless. Desperate to do something – anything – she reached down and plucked a piece of blank paper from the tray in the printer by her feet.
‘HANNAH’, she wrote in capital letters across the top of the page in red pen, and then sat back, studying the word carefully. Then she added ‘DANGERS’ and underlined the two words.
Underneath that she divided the page into three columns. At the top of the first one she wrote ‘1) Steffie Garitson’ and underlined it. Number two was ‘The Meadows’. That, too, she underlined. Then she stared at the paper for a long time before adding a third danger to the list: ‘Hannah’s own thoughts’.
Instantly, she wanted to erase the words, feeling as if she had betrayed her own daughter just by writing them.
Steffie Garitson was a little worm of fear wriggling in Corinne’s stomach. The trip to Tunbridge Wells had been so strange, the brother’s warning so ominous, Steffie felt like a malign black shadow over their lives. But aside from hoping that she’d cleared out for good, there was little Corinne could do about her. Instead, she concentrated on the middle column. The Meadows.
Objectively, Corinne knew The Meadows was the best place for Hannah. After the trauma of Hannah’s admission to hospital and her subsequent breakdown, she and Duncan had researched Hannah’s condition exhaustively, looking for places within easy driving distance that had a track record of dealing with delusions like their daughter’s.
In the end, it was Corinne who had stumbled on The Meadows. As soon as she’d seen the well-appointed rooms and the beautifully kept gardens, she’d known Hannah could be all right there. It didn’t look like a psychiatric clinic. It could easily pass as a small, select, five-star hotel discreetly tucked away in the Barnet green belt in the very outer reaches of north London. There was no stigma to being there.
‘Stigma for who, Cor?’ Duncan had asked, when she’d sent him the brochure. ‘You or Hannah?’
But he hadn’t quibbled about contributing to the astronomical fees, even though she was quite sure Gigi would have had plenty to say on the subject.
And she couldn’t deny that Duncan had a point when he implied that one of the biggest selling points about The Meadows was its resemblance to the kind of place they were all familiar with – a hotel or a spa, somewhere that fitted within their sphere of reference. Hannah’s mental illness had plunged them all into a completely unrecognizable world, so it wasn’t surprising that Corinne clung to anything that reminded her of the people they used to be.
Corinne logged on to her office computer, ignoring the 234 unread emails that had appeared in her inbox.
When she typed ‘The Meadows’ into the search engine, she recognized the links as the same ones she’d checked before booking Hannah into the clinic. Care quality inspections passed with flying colours. Glowing testimonials from previous clients – not fully identified, but they had that ring of authenticity.
Then she tried typing in ‘The Meadows danger’, anxiety knotting itself in her stomach as she waited for the results to load, but in the event, there was nothing. Only a link to a speech Dr Chakraborty had made in which he’d talked about ‘the danger of making assumptions about mental illness’.
Now she turned her attention to Dr Roberts. As figurehead of the clinic and its charismatic spokesperson, he was the one who shaped the ethos of the place.
Her search threw up page after page of references. Endless links to papers he’d written and speeches he’d given and celebrity-studded fundraisers he’d attended.
Gradually, she was able to piece together his career path over the previous fifteen years: he had moved from a mid-level post in an exclusive London clinic to set up his own successful private practice and then, five years ago, had opened The Meadows, answering a need for ‘expert, highest-quality psychiatric care in a safe, discreet, luxurious, home-from-home environment’. But about his earliest beginnings, there was surprisingly little.
What had started out as a random exercise to make her feel as if she was doing something solidified into a real, burning need for information. This was the man in charge of Hannah’s care. It seemed suddenly imperative that she know everything there was to know about him, from the very start of his career onwards, so she could be sure he was the best person for the job. How else could she persuade her daughter to stay where she was?
Link after link focused on the older, established Roberts. His first steps in psychiatry remained shrouded in mystery until, finally, she came across an article he’d written in an obscure medical journal on a controversial new approach to bulimia in which he referred to a case he’d observed while working in a small private clinic in the Oxfordshire countryside. The clinic wasn’t named in the piece but he gave away sufficient details for Corinne to narrow it down to two options, both of which she found without difficulty on Google.
She picked up her phone but hesitated, then replaced it on the desk. Then she snatched it up again and punched in the first number. Listening to the ringtone, she had no idea what she was going to say, but as soon as the call was answered the lie popped into her head.
‘I’m a journalist with the British Medical Journal. I’m writing a profile piece on Dr Oliver Roberts and I believe he worked with you early in his career.’ If Roberts was now in his late fifties, Corinne was guessing this would have been in the late 1980s.
It wasn’t the greatest cover story. But it wasn’t bad either. Especially not for Corinne, who, like her younger daughter, had been cursed from earliest childhood with an inbuilt inability to lie. Unfortunately, the first clinic drew a blank. ‘We didn’t open until 1998,’ the receptionist told her in a clipped voice.
The phone at the second clinic, Westbridge House, was answered by a man with a strong Eastern European accent who seemed perplexed by her long-winded explanation. ‘I fetch someone,’ he said eventually.
The longer Corinne waited, the more she felt her sense of purpose dissolving away. She was about to hang up when a woman’s voice came on the line.
‘This is Christine Holmes, the administrative manager of Westbridge House. Can I help you?’
She took a deep breath. ‘My name is Corinne Harris. My daughter Hannah is in a psychiatric clinic in Barnet and I’m so worried about her I can’t breathe.’
Where had that come from? That unintentional splurge of honesty? No choice now but to plough on.
‘One of her current … fixations, I think you’d call it, is that she has become convinced she’s in
danger, and I’m researching the staff whose care she’s under so I can put her mind at rest.’
To her own ears, she sounded unhinged, but Christine Holmes proved surprisingly sympathetic. ‘I do know what it’s like,’ she said. ‘Wanting to help and not being able to.’
The problem was Dr Roberts’ tenure would have been well before her day, she said. The clinic had had a total overhaul when it changed management thirteen years before with a complete change of personnel. There had been certain irregularities in the way it was previously run.
‘Irregularities?’
‘Oh, nothing illegal. I believe the original director favoured some more unorthodox theories that have since been discredited. But as I say, that was a long time ago, and there are no staff members still remaining from that period. We now have an exemplary assessment record.’
‘There must be some records, though, relating to previous staff members. I’m just looking for basic biographical details I can relay back to my daughter, to reassure her.’
Christine Holmes made a noise that, if she hadn’t been in the office of a medical clinic, Corinne would have sworn was someone taking a long drag on a cigarette; it was probably her sucking in air between her teeth.
‘All the computer systems were replaced when the clinic changed management, I’m afraid.’
‘There must be physical files, though.’
A hesitation. ‘The truth is, all the files from before 2004 are missing. There was a disgruntled employee. My predecessor, in fact. It’s a sad story. She’d been at the clinic since it opened in the mid-1980s but she had problems with alcohol and was dismissed after turning up one too many times half-cut. When she left, she apparently destroyed all the files out of spite, although that was never proven. As I said, a very sad case.’
‘Do you happen to remember her name?’
Corinne was aiming at relaxed, but worry strained the fabric of her voice, and when Christine Holmes replied Corinne could tell that she had registered her desperation.
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you that.’ Her voice was once again detached and professional. ‘Out of respect for the staff member concerned.’
Inwardly cursing, Corinne hung up. Sitting at her computer, she called up her search engine and typed in ‘Westbridge House Clinic’ and ‘administrative manager’, instantly generating a string of hits involving the name Christine Holmes.
She randomly added the year 2003 to the search box, remembering that Christine had told her she’d been there since 2004. This time there was a link to a one-day conference that had been run at the clinic in February 2003. There was a number to ring for more details and a contact name. Clinic manager, Geraldine Buckley.
It wasn’t much. But it was all she had.
26
Hannah
Ever since Stella told me about the older boyfriend who used to choose her clothes for her, I’ve been feeling angry about the many ways it’s possible for a man to fuck up your life.
I’m trying to keep focused on Stella, but my mind keeps drifting back to Danny and what he did with Steffie, and I can’t go there, because that way madness lies.
‘Why are you so concerned about what Stella told you?’ asks Laura. It’s mid-afternoon, and Charlie died more than two weeks ago, and I am hiding out in Laura’s little office at the back of the art room while the others are in the dance studio doing some kind of exercise Grace has invented that mixes yoga with keep fit. She calls it Stretchercise. I call it a kind of torture.
To be accurate, Laura’s office is actually more like a cupboard. There’s a desk that’s completely covered with paintings and drawings, and art books so well thumbed their pages curl up at the corners. There’s one comfortable armchair, where I’m sitting, with a soft tartan woollen blanket covering my knees. And a swivel chair from which Laura is looking at me thoughtfully over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses. The whirring of the fan heater blocks out any external noise, making our space feel even more intimate. No window, just the orange glow from a table lamp in the shape of a crystallized rock on Laura’s desk. A lit, scented candle is releasing a heavenly smell of jasmine that feels heady in this enclosed space.
‘Maybe because it just reminds me how little I really know anyone here. I mean, even though I’ve only been here two months, it still feels as though we’re all like family, because we know each other’s secrets. But really, we’re only giving away what we want to give away.’
Laura nods, and the glasses slip back over her eyes so they appear magnified and blurry with understanding.
‘I thought I knew Charlie,’ I press on. Now that I’ve started picking at this scab I can’t seem to stop. ‘But I didn’t know her. I saw her the morning she died and had no inkling what she was planning. None at all.’
‘So you do accept she killed herself?’
I shrug.
‘I swing from knowing that she did it to being utterly convinced that she couldn’t have done it, all in the same minute. My thoughts are so disjointed at the moment. So all over the place.’
‘Your mum says you feel like you could be next.’
I look at her, then back at the ground. It sounds ludicrous when she says it.
‘I get paranoid, I guess. Isn’t that why most of us are here?’
It comes out whiny and defensive. I don’t mean it that way.
‘Would hypnotherapy help? I can’t promise to make the paranoia disappear but I can certainly help you relax.’
I consider it. I know it has helped some of the others, but I worry about the lack of control.
I shake my head.
‘Let me at least give you a massage then.’
Laura gets up and stands behind me with her hands on my shoulders, and the sudden physical intimacy is almost more than I can stand. It feels like it’s been so long since I was properly touched. To my horror, tears start to pool in the corner of my eyes.
I’m relieved when Laura sits back down again, as if she has sensed the turmoil going on inside me.
‘Your mum asked me if you ever paint your husband,’ says Laura, and my stomach lurches in shock at her mentioning Danny like that, without warning.
‘I don’t need to paint him. He’s never out of my mind.’
She looks at me, long and unflinching, until I look away.
‘Do you want to tell me about that night? The night everyone found out there was no baby? Sometimes it helps to talk about the bad stuff and confront it head on. It lessens its power.’
I don’t want to tell her. But once the memory is in my head it swells until it’s all I can think of.
‘I slipped on a Domino’s Pizza flyer,’ I tell her, as if it being Domino’s might somehow change it to a funny story, easier to tell. ‘I didn’t want to go to the hospital, but Danny insisted. He was so protective of me and Em …’
I don’t tell her how much I miss his protectiveness. Because it makes me sound weak and pathetic, and that’s not who I am. Was.
I don’t tell her either about the row we’d had just before I fell. About her – who else? Though I’d banned Danny from mentioning her name, I exerted no such control over myself. Steffie was like a form of Tourette’s for me. She came out of nowhere. We’d be eating dinner and chatting about something on the news, an election in Italy, for example, everything calm and civilized, and that would make me think of how much I’d love to visit Italy – Tuscany, Florence, all the places I’ve never been – and without warning an anger would sweep through me and out she’d come. ‘I expect Steffie loves Italy.’ Danny blinking at me in confusion.
The thing was, she was always in my head, skating across the surface of my thoughts. She was the shadow in front of my sun and, no matter where I moved and what I did to evade her, there she was, blocking the light. And because I never told Danny, because I didn’t want to give her that victory, it was always a shock to him when I couldn’t bear it any more and I’d lob her at him like a grenade, seemingly from nowhere.
We’d
been watching something on telly. We used to love American box sets but now they were a minefield, with their casual infidelities and broken marriages, so we’d started choosing programmes purely on the basis that they were less likely to contain trigger elements, which basically ruled out most adult dramas. So we ended up slumped in front of anodyne shows that neither of us had much interest in. A lot of cookery programmes. That one about people building their own houses. But even then, Steffie managed to blow like dust into every crack and crevice so there was a greasy film of her over everything we watched.
On this particular night, it was a programme about an unlikely choir of former prisoners. Danny claimed it was emotionally manipulative, but I saw him wipe a tear away when he thought I wasn’t looking. One of the people taking part was a gruff, middle-aged man who’d never been able to form close relationships and wondered if it was because he’d been given away at birth. ‘It stays with you. Rejection. It’s like an invisible tattoo you don’t know you’re wearing.’
‘Have I got one of those?’ I turned to Danny, who hadn’t made the connection and gazed at me blankly. ‘An invisible tattoo? The rejection tattoo?’
Danny sighed his ‘not this again’ sigh, which just infuriated me more. ‘I’ve told you,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a rejection of you. It wasn’t about you.’
I’ve heard that’s said quite a lot. It’s in the Cheater’s Manual, apparently. It was nothing to do with you. It was about me, something I was going through. As if it makes it better to know we didn’t even feature in the decision that shattered our lives.
