I still have my boys. Children are supposed to be such a comfort. But just at the moment all they do is remind me of my husband. I still have my father. I still have my friendship with Rob and Carly. And of course, I still have God. I will always have God. But, after everything that has happened even God seems more distant at the moment.
So I sit on my battered old sofa, stroking the dog while he softly wags his tail, swigging the end of my black coffee, looking forward to going to work. At least I don’t have to worry about the boys today; last night they slept at their friends’ house, and another mother is taking them to school. I extricate myself from the dog who watches me wistfully as I put my coffee cup in the sink and reach for my handbag and coat. The sun is blinking in through my living room window as I walk across the flat, making my world a little less grey.
Walking through Stansfield, everything seems almost the same. Except a few of the shops have closed. And the council have improved the pavements. The lap-dancing club across the road from the surgery has become a nail bar. I’m not sure why we ever had a lap-dancing club here in the first place. I wrote to the council complaining about it when we lived here before. So did Rob. Carly told us both off for being provincial. Provincial. What did she mean by that? She was so friendly at first but now she is worried about my return, I know she is. She has been guarding Rob with her eyes; I see her worry building every day. I turn right at the lights on the high street, into the surgery entrance.
‘Good morning,’ I say to Sharon, who nods her woolly head.
‘Good morning,’ I say to Carly.
Carly. So curvy. So Marilyn Monroe sexy. No wonder Craig succumbed to her charms. Craig and Carly. Craig and Anastasia. My jaw clenches.
‘See you later,’ I say and scuttle away.
Through the waiting room and along the corridor to my brand new consulting room with state-of-the-art equipment and lilac painted walls. I close the door and inhale deeply. I move across my room, sit at my desk and switch on my computer to check my day’s patient list. My first patient is a widow like me. Except her husband died of natural causes.
Five minutes later, my patient sits in front of me. Ninety years old. Wearing a long skirt and a green jumper. Fingers gnarled like bent tree trunks. Skin like potato peel. She has tried to brighten herself up with green eye shadow and red lipstick. But her eyesight is going and she obviously can’t put her eye shadow on properly. It is above and below her eyes, making her look like a green-eyed panda. Her skin is so threaded with wrinkles that her lipstick has not managed to stay on her lips, but is seeping into the grooves of her face.
She starts to describe her aches and pains. She has had nearly every major joint replaced, both hips, one shoulder, both knees. So only one major joint left. Benign tumour on her ovary. So many aches, so many pains. When she has finished telling me I have to ask her to repeat them.
She starts again. Chest pain: I check her heart with my stethoscope. It sounds fine, but I carry out an ECG, just in case. The ECG is fine.
A pain beneath the left ribcage. I can’t make head nor tail of that.
I put my hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Wade, we need to refer you to a cardiologist and gynaecologist. I’ll talk your case through with Doctor Burton and ring you tomorrow to let you know who will contact you.’
She is looking at me, eyes wide with concern. She looks as if she is about to cry.
I am only just getting used to diagnosis. Reassurance is more difficult.
‘Please don’t worry,’ I try. ‘We’ll get this sorted.’
She puts her head in her hands. I stand up and bend down next to her. I put my arm around her back.
‘I’ll tell you what, wait here, I’ll go and speak to Dr Burton now.’
I catch Rob between patients. He listens intently and then comes back with me into my consulting room. Mrs Wade’s eyes relax when she sees him. Dr Burton, the most popular GP in Stansfield.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Dr Burton,’ Mrs Wade purrs.
He kneels down next to her and takes both of her hands in his. She looks into his eyes.
‘Meg, I agree with Nurse Rossiter. A cardiologist and a gynae doctor will sort you out. We will make sure you get seen as soon as possible. I’ll ring the hospital this afternoon. And in the meantime you must try and stop worrying. This can be sorted out. It is highly treatable.’
‘Really, Doctor?’
‘Yes. Really.’
‘Thank you.’
He stands up, still smiling at her. Showing her his dimple. Her eyes melt into his.
She pulls herself up from the chair.
‘Thank you, both,’ she says as she walks slowly out of my room, balancing on her stick.
‘A tricky customer. Always fearing there’s something else wrong with her,’ Rob says as soon as she has closed the door behind her. ‘It must be so frightening being on your own at her age.’
‘It is at any age.’
We stand looking at each other. I drink him in. His little-boy-lost look. His kindness.
‘Thanks for coming to help me,’ I say. ‘It’ll take me a while to build my patients’ trust.’ A pause. Fixing his eyes in mine. ‘Could you come for a drink with me after surgery tonight? To talk things through about our patients?’
‘Jenni, no. We’re not going for drinks on our own.’
‘You don’t need to look so deadpan.’
‘Jenni,’ he says. ‘This isn’t a joke.’
~ Rob ~
We stand looking at each other like we used to. Your hair is shorter than it used to be. Dyed a funky copper colour. It makes you look young and edgy.
‘Jenni, no. We’re not going for drinks on our own,’ I say, trying to sound as if I mean it this time.
‘You don’t need to look so deadpan.’
‘Jenni, this isn’t a joke. It’s good to have you back. I missed you.’ A deep breath. ‘But Jenni – you know our … friendship … confused Carly last time.’
‘Confused her?’ There is a pause. ‘Is that how you would describe her feelings when she was shagging Craig? Confused by us? By our relationship?’
‘I don’t want to talk about the past. About Carly and Craig.’
‘It still hurts, does it?’ She is pushing me.
‘Jenni, please. The past is the past.’
‘The past is confusing. I still worry about that night.’
‘Which night?’
So many nights to worry about.
‘The night Carly took the overdose.’ There is a pause. ‘Maybe she wasn’t trying to kill herself. Maybe she was trying to kill me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My mind keeps stepping back to the second time Carly tried to kill herself. She came to see me, angry about the friendship between you and I. Suppose she put something in my drink?’
I shut my eyes. I don’t want this to be happening again. ‘Come on, Jenni, what are you talking about?’
She shrugs her thin shoulders. ‘Suppose she put something in my drink and the glasses got mixed up?’
‘How?’
‘By accident?’
‘But. But …’ I splutter. ‘We all know what happened. Carly had taken a cocktail of drugs before she ever got to you. Why are you dwelling on it now?’
‘I’m just confused. Over-emotional.’ She bursts into tears. ‘I know I need to stop it. I need to stay calm. But all my fears from the past keep flooding towards me.’
She is in my arms. And I am stroking her back and whispering in her ear.
‘Everything will be all right this time.’ I am not sure whether I believe it. Has Carly made a terrible mistake asking Jenni to come home? We were managing. We were coping on our own.
~ Jenni ~
Through the lych-gate to the churchyard, walking over lichen-covered stone. Past the gnarled yew trees. Opening the heavy oak door. It’s midweek; there are no services, just people like me coming to pray. The lights are on to welcome visitors but even though it is late summe
r, the church is cold. It is always cold. I shiver a little as I walk down the aisle, the aisle of the church where Craig and I married so long ago. So long ago that I can hardly remember the girl I was then: so besotted, so in love with him. A long way from the woman he forced me to become.
I sit where I always sit, on the front row to the right, close to the pulpit, and look up at the choir stalls. I kneel down, bend my head and close my eyes. I want God to move towards me again. After everything that has happened, please, God – please, God, come back to me. I close my eyes tighter and turn my mind in on itself. I move to standing, arms out, legs splayed. I stand and stand, and wait and wait, surrounded by cold and silence. Please, God, come back to me, I pray. The atmosphere in the church is pressing against me. I feel it. Solid and finite. Silence pounding in my ears, as loudly as if someone was holding a hammer, and I know that in the noise of this silence God is here, walking back to me. Forgiving me for my sins.
~ Rob ~
I have never experienced anything like this before. Whatever I do, wherever I go, she is there, watching me, taunting me with her eyes. Put those eyes away. Please. Jenni. Please. At the end of surgery she comes to see me to discuss her patients.
Today she is standing in front of me in my consulting room, again. She’s lost weight, I’m sure of it. Her nurse’s uniform hangs off her like a sack. As she slips into my patients’ chair, for the first time I notice she has a tattoo – a heart outlined in black, blocked in in red, about the size of a fifty pence piece, on the inside of her right wrist. It must be freshly done because the skin around it is red, still reacting against an invasion of fresh ink. She sees me looking at it and catches my eyes in hers.
‘It represents everlasting love.’ She stretches her arm out to show me. ‘Do you like it?’ she asks.
I don’t reply. I take her wrist in my right hand and pull it towards me so that I can inspect more closely. The skin around it is very, very red.
‘I’d put some anti-itch cream on it tonight. Itchiness will be the next stage.’
‘I know. I’ve got some.’ There is a pause. ‘Do you like it?’ she repeats.
‘Yes,’ I lie. I take my hand from her arm, and give her a tight smile. ‘Jenni, I’m right in the middle of my list. What is it? What did you want to see me about?’
‘It’s Mrs Mulberry. I’m confused by her symptoms. She’s got tachycardia, and bradycardia.’
‘Stop bulling me, Jenni. You know she doesn’t have both.’
She sits in my patients’ chair, knees prim, resting her hands on them. She leans towards me, haunting me with her eyes.
‘I just wanted to see you. I’ve really missed seeing you. I’ve missed having you to myself.’
‘Jenni, you’ve never had me to yourself. We both know that.’
~ Rob ~
When I go and buy my sandwich at lunchtime I turn my head and she is right behind me. Always right behind me, or right in front of me, large brown eyes engulfing me.
~ Jenni ~
Rob is a few minutes ahead of me on the high street. I see his floppy brown hair and his broad shoulders amply filling his linen jacket, bobbing up and down between an elderly couple and a woman with a dog. Rob always wears a jacket for the surgery – whatever the time of year, whatever the weather. I’d say his look is smart-casual. Always a jacket, but never an austere one. Always a collared shirt, with no tie, and the top button undone. Trousers without a crease. M&S boat shoes. Nothing too fashionable. No pointy-toed shoes. No Hugo Boss.
It’s a soft September day, imbued with the last of the summer warmth, the first chill in the air beginning to percolate, making it cold the second the sun disappears behind a cloud. He passes the fishmonger, he passes the greengrocers. On the corner by the bakery, he turns left off the high street, into a side street. He crosses the road and enters a new café that’s just opened; one the rest of the surgery staff haven’t gravitated towards yet. That’s why we meet there, isn’t it, Rob? I look at my watch. I walk past the café and amble up and down the side street, looking into other people’s houses, stepping into their lives in my mind. Exactly five minutes later, I follow him inside.
The new café is boldly decorated. Blue and orange. Colours that are striking at first sight, not restful colours to live with as Carly always likes. I’m quite the opposite of Carly. I decorate in bold colours, but I have a tasteful personality. Carly Burton, so different to me.
Rob is sitting in the far corner of the café, furthest from the window. He has a table for four to himself, plenty of room to spread out the newspaper he’s engrossed in. As I walk towards him his face lights up. ‘What a lovely surprise, Jenni,’ he says, standing up and kissing me on both cheeks.
Tone it down, Rob. You don’t need to pretend quite so much.
~ Carly ~
Communication. Communication. Communication. My mother always says that’s what you need for a good relationship. Dr Willis agrees with her. So, Jenni, I’m coming to communicate with you, right now. I’m on the way to your consulting room – Sharon is stalling our patients while we sort things out. I know no one is with you, so I don’t need to knock.
I burst into your room to find you typing patient data into your computer, leaning far too close to the screen, squinting. What’s the matter, Jenni, do you need glasses? What a pity. Glasses will spoil your looks.
As soon as you see me, you lean back from the screen. You put your hands in the air to stretch out your back.
‘Carly, how nice to see you. Can I help you?’ you ask.
‘We need to talk,’ I say.
‘In the middle of surgery?’
‘It won’t take long.’
You give me the look I’ve always hated; sad, saucer-like brown eyes so large they look like those of an alien, pushing into mine.
‘Well sit down, then,’ you say.
‘No, thanks.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Jenni, I know I’ve been ill and everyone fears I may still be a bit paranoid, but I want you to know that I’m not. I’ve been well a long time now.’ I pause. ‘You’re making cow-eyes at Rob. It’s upsetting me. It’s annoying me. I want you to stop.’
You get up from your chair. You come and stand in front of me. Our body language is a mirror image. Feet apart. Hands on hips.
Your brown eyes fire to amber.
‘Carly, I’m not making eyes at Rob.’
‘What are you doing then?’
‘I like your husband. I respect him. He’s a friend. I get on with him. That’s it. End of.’ A spray of your spittle peppers my face. ‘How can you be like this, if I just smile at your husband, after what you did with Craig?’
Your voice whines and undulates. Your eyes are like large muddy pools – quicksand trying to suffocate me. I look in your eyes and my mind steps back to the past. Remembering the day I burnt your photograph in the hospital toilet. The acrid smell of the burning ink. The shrill sound of the fire alarm cutting through the hospital. The despair in my heart. I push the memory away.
I do not want to go there again.
~ Jenni ~
Carly, you have invaded my consulting room with a display of churlish bad temper. You have disrupted my day. I came back to Stansfield because you encouraged me. What’s wrong with you? Telling me it’s not working out? That I need to go back to Trethynion? Accusing me of flirting with Rob?
Carly, you are so difficult. So impetuous. But, at the height of your ranting and displeasure, you suddenly stopped. Your face became wistful, it softened. You suddenly put your hand on my arm.
‘I’m sorry, Jenni,’ you said. ‘We’ve all been through so much together. I shouldn’t take things out on you.’ You started to cry. You clung on to me, and I clung on to you.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ you said. ‘It’s just I need Rob so much.’
~ Rob ~
Jenni sidles into my surgery in between patients. She sits in my patients’ chair, as usual. But this time there is something wrong, really wrong. She is ashen. Marble-fa
ced. Eyes glazed in a way I have never seen before. As if she is here but not here.
‘What is it, Jenni?’ I ask gently.
She crosses her legs, suntanned legs without tights. Boyish, thigh-less legs. She sits staring straight ahead, not focusing, tapping her fingernails together. Tapered fingernails. Perfectly manicured like her toenails.
‘Anastasia,’ she almost whispers.
‘Anastasia?’
‘Yes. Anastasia. Craig’s lover.’
More staring at nothing. More tapping fingernails.
‘Anastasia is dead.’
More death. More destruction. Her words hurtle towards me like bullets.
Carly, I tell you about the death of your lover’s lover as you stand by the microwave, heating up our Friday night takeaway.
‘When? What happened?’ you splutter.
‘I don’t know. Jenni told me today but she didn’t give me any details. It’s too painful for her to talk about it, apparently.’
‘Too painful to talk about?’
We sit at the kitchen table to eat our takeaway. Your face is calm and composed. Is that how you feel inside?
‘I can’t believe there’s another death.’
‘Perhaps we can find out what happened on the internet. Jenni said it was all over the papers.’ Abandoning my food, I fetch my iPad from the kitchen counter.
I tap the keys and find a newspaper article in the Cornish Gazette. I perch the iPad on its stand in the middle of the kitchen table, so that we can read it together.
She died of a prescription drug overdose, apparently, at her house in Cornwall. Linked to the death of Craig Rossiter. Suicide pact. Like Craig, she left a note. Her son, Rupert, found the body and called the police.
‘An overdose, again, like me, like Craig,’ you whisper. ‘Suicide, like my apparent suicide attempt.’ Stilted words through closed teeth. Blue eyes darkening to black. You continue. ‘She did it. He told me she threatened to. She told him she would kill him if he strayed again.’
Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly Page 23
