DEDICATION
For Henry and Natàlia
CONTENTS
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people have helped guide this book through to publication. Special thanks go to Helen Williams, who offered advice from the start; to Margaret Halton, who helped knock the manuscript into shape; to Peter Straus for finding it a home; and to Trisha Jackson for her sound and sympathetic editorial judgment.
Thanks to Natasha Harding and all at Macmillan for their work on the book, and to Emily Cunningham, my editor at HarperCollins, for her help in preparing the US edition.
Thanks also to Izabela Jurewicz for her advice on technical aspects of the text, and to Carol Jones and David Rees for reading early versions of it.
I am grateful to my mother, Susan, for many helpful discussions about the book; and to John for his continued support in every way.
I would like to acknowledge the award of a writer’s bursary from Literature Wales for the purpose of writing this book.
1
It was a sunny Monday in September. The day started out like any other: Bob away on business, Nella and Rose quarreling over breakfast, both silent in the car as I drove them to school. I dropped them off at the gates and watched them walk down the road, keeping a firm distance from each other, Rose neat in her navy anorak, hair tied back, Nella shambling along in her ripped jeans, nodding her head to her iPod. I wondered whether Rose was slightly too well turned out perhaps, a little too eager to please. And Nella the other extreme, rather too scruffy, too insouciant. I sighed involuntarily as I watched them go.
I hope they’re all right, I thought, as they disappeared around the corner out of sight, one after the other. I felt that familiar tug of love, or fear, or whatever it is, that always hits me when my children walk away from me, out into the world; and then I leaned forward, switched on the radio, and headed off to work.
There was a traffic jam all the way along Cathedral Road, and while I was waiting I tilted the rearview mirror toward me, examining my appearance. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and there were bags under my eyes to prove it. I took a lipstick out of my pocket and rubbed some of it onto my cheeks. I hoped it would distract attention from the bags. It did, but not in a good way. I was wondering whether to wipe it off again when the driver in the car behind began to bang on his horn, so I tilted the mirror back up and put my foot on the accelerator, resisting the temptation to flick him the finger as I went.
On the way in to the office I bought myself a takeaway cup of coffee from the local deli. I parked the car at the back of the building where I work, and went round to the front door. I stopped on the way up to my office to say hello to Branwen, the receptionist, and we had a detailed discussion about the possibility of rain that day. Then I climbed the stairs to the second floor, unlocked the door, and let myself in.
As ever, the room was calm, pale, welcoming. The sun was filtering through the leaves of the trees outside the window, casting a shifting play of shadows over the ceiling, and there was a gentle hum of traffic from the street below. Everything in the room was in perfect order, my books lined up straight on the shelves, my Ben Nicholson–style relief resting serenely on the wall opposite. The two armchairs in the corner were positioned exactly right—not too close for comfort, not too far for intimate revelations—and the couch by the window, with its muted green upholstery, looked inviting, rather than intimidating.
I went over to my desk, switched on my computer and, while it buzzed and flickered, began to look through my post. There was nothing much of interest among the bills and junk mail, just a couple of invitations to conferences that I was unlikely to go to, one in Leipzig and one in Stockholm. At the bottom of the pile I came to a small brown envelope with my name and address written out on it in neat capitals. I opened it, wondering what it could be. There was no letter inside, just a photograph of a middle-aged man. He had a sinister appearance and, when I looked closer, I saw why: his eyes had been colored in with a marker pen, so that they were black.
I was puzzled. The photograph had been taken outdoors, perhaps by the sea—somewhere windy, anyway. The man was handsome, in a patrician sort of way, with a full head of graying hair, a bony, aquiline nose, and the kind of wrinkles that make a face look distinctive, lived in, rather than ground down and defeated. He was dressed in a leather jacket, the collar turned up rather raffishly against the wind. The ghost of a smile played around his lips. He wore the expression of a man who was pleased with himself and his place in the world, perhaps a little disdainful of the onlooker. Even the blacked-out eyes failed to dispel his air of self-confidence.
I checked the envelope to see if there was a letter inside, but it was empty. I turned it over and studied the postmark. It had been posted locally the day before. I wondered who on earth could have sent it, and why. I was curious, but not alarmed. Getting odd missives through the post is an occupational hazard in my job. Ex-clients, or members of their families, occasionally send me rambling, incoherent letters that are either effusive, abusive, or both. I usually glance through them, put them to one side and, after a couple of weeks, send a polite note in response. In this case, as there was no address, it was clear I wouldn’t even need to do that.
I slid the photograph back into the envelope and put it in the “pending” tray on my desk. I covered it with the letters I needed to keep from the morning’s post, and threw the junk mail in the bin. Then I opened my coffee, blew on it, and took a sip.
The phone rang. I didn’t pick it up, because I knew who it would be—Bob was away at a conference. The answerphone came on, and I listened.
“Jess, just calling to see how you are.” There was an anxious note in his voice. Good, I thought. Serves him right. Let him suffer.
A month ago, Bob had returned from a business trip and confessed to me that he’d had a one-night stand. He’d said he’d resolved not to tell me, but after he’d got home he’d found he couldn’t live with the guilt. He’d begged my forgiveness, explained that he wasn’t unhappy with me, but that he’d been feeling frustrated in his career. It had been a pathetic attempt to boost his ego, he’d said. I hadn’t been very understanding.
“And the girls,” Bob went on. “I hope Nella’s concert goes all right today. Tell her I’m sorry to miss it.” Pause. “Give her my love, won’t you. Wish her luck.” Another pause.
I’d asked him how old the woman was. About thirty, he’d said, shamefaced. Who was she, I’d wanted to know. Just a local translator, he’d told me. No one of any significance. That had disgusted me. A man of fifty-two, the head of the legal department at the Assembly, sleeping with a woman so much younger than himself, someone he regarded as unimportant. I hadn’t inquired further. And I hadn’t forgiven him, either.
“Your mobile doesn’t seem to be working. Mine’s on, if you want to call.” He sighed. “Anyway, I’ll be back later this evening. I’ll get a cab from the airport. Be in about nine.” Silence. “See you then. I’ll bring you a surprise.”
I hoped it wouldn’t be flowers. Bob knows I love flowers, so he’d been bringing them home, great bunches of them, waiting for me to put them in a vase and, when I didn’t, doing it himself. Seeing them there, arranged clumsily on the mantelpiece, had made me want to cry. Or scream. I hadn’t yet, except to myself. I was determined not to upset the girls. And I wanted to hold on to my marriage . . . at least for the time being.
Bob hung up. I leaned forward and switched off the ringer on the phone, so I wouldn’t be disturbed again.
I glanced at my watch. There was an hour to go until my first appointment of the day, an assessment of a new client. I decided to spend it doing some research on one of the regulars I had coming in later on, rather than letting my mind dwell on Bob, what he might be getting up to at the conference, and how I was ever going to forgive him for his betrayal.
I was reading a paper on complicated grief in the Journal of Phenomenological Psychotherapy when there was a knock at the door. I glanced at the clock. My new client had arrived a little ahead of time, but as it was his first visit—for an assessment, rather than a session—I put away my paper, picked up my notes, walked over to the door, and ushered him in.
I noticed immediately when he walked into the room that he was a remarkably handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a natural grace in the way he carried himself. I judged him to be in his late twenties, or thereabouts. He was wearing carefully ripped jeans, a black V-neck sweater with nothing on underneath, and a pair of running shoes covered in straps and bits of rubber. His shoulder-length hair was swept back from his face, and he had a day’s stubble on his chin.
“Do sit down,” I said, indicating one of the armchairs in the corner of the room.
“Sorry if I’m a bit early.” He spoke in a low, polite tone.
“Not at all.”
He took the chair nearest the window. I sat down opposite him, glancing at my notes.
“Do you mind if I call you Gwydion, Mr. Morgan?”
“That’s fine.”
“And please call me Jessica.”
He nodded. Up close I could see that his eyes were green, fringed with thick, black lashes. I looked away. It seemed indecent to do anything else.
I waited for him to start talking. The way I was trained, that’s what you’re supposed to do. Wait for the client to initiate the conversation. You listen attentively, then you “reflect back”—that is, repeat what they’ve just said, maybe paraphrasing it a bit. Only I don’t always do what I’m supposed to. Hardly ever, in fact. These days, after all my years of practice, I trust myself to do whatever comes naturally. So, after a short pause, I asked, “How can I help?”
I was conscious of his eyes on me as I spoke. Normally, I dress quite formally for work, in fitted suits and smart blouses. My taste runs to high-quality vintage and reproduction outfits, which I go to a lot of trouble to track down and customize. But that morning, as it was a warm day, I’d dressed more casually, in a forties–style printed cotton dress and high espadrilles. Now I began to feel self-conscious about my bare legs, and wished I’d worn something more modest.
“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, in a gesture of frustration. “It’s a bit . . .” His voice trailed off.
Silence again. This time I didn’t say anything. Experience has taught me that when someone comes to a grinding halt, something interesting is about to be said.
“It’s odd . . . I don’t know how to . . .” He blushed.
I wondered if it was going to be premature ejaculation. That’s one of the commonest problems I see with men. Especially men under thirty, like this one. So I waited for an opportunity to help him to say it, if that’s what it was.
He looked down. The thick, black lashes fluttered against his flushed cheeks. Eventually, he spoke.
“It’s to do with buttons,” he said.
“Buttons?” I repeated the word quietly, evenly. Reflecting back, you see. Sometimes, of course, it’s best to follow the correct procedure.
“Yes, buttons.”
I glanced down to see if there was a rivet on his jeans. If there was, it was hidden by his belt.
“Any particular type?”
He looked up at me, relieved that I hadn’t laughed at him.
“The plastic ones are worst. The ones with four little holes. But I don’t like any of them, actually.”
There was a pause.
“Well.” I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “That’s not as unusual as you might think. It’s a well-known syndrome. It’s got a name. Koumpounophobia.”
“Really?” He looked relieved. “Koumpou . . . What was that?”
“Koumpounophobia. They made up the word for people who are so button phobic they can’t say the word ‘button.’ ”
“I see.” He smiled at me a little warily. “Well, I’m not that bad. I can talk about buttons. I can’t wear them, but I can cope with seeing them. From a distance. I won’t touch them, though. And if they come loose. Or fall off . . .” He shuddered.
I’d come across cases of koumpounophobia before. They were difficult to resolve. Sometimes, if I couldn’t get anywhere, I sent them over to Dougie, the cognitive behavioral therapist on the other side of the corridor. Meinir, the hypnotherapist on the floor above, was also pretty good on this kind of thing.
Gwydion sighed and passed a hand over his forehead. His glossy hair flopped forward over his face.
“It gets worse when I’m stressed.”
“That’s very common, too.”
At this, he looked a little put out. People are funny like that, I’ve noticed. At first, they’re pleased to find that they have a syndrome with an important-sounding name. Then they start to get worried that their complaint might not be exclusive enough.
“Actually, I am under rather a lot of strain at the moment,” he said. “I’m working very long hours, finishing a series.” He stopped and gave me a searching look. “A TV series.” He stopped again. “I’m Danny in Down in the Valley. You’ve probably seen it.”
I nodded in a noncommittal way.
Down in the Valley is a long-running Welsh TV soap. The girls watch it religiously. But I’d never sat through an episode all the way through, and I’d certainly never seen Danny appear on-screen. If I had, I would have remembered him.
He began to tell me about himself. As well as being Danny in Down in the Valley, he’d also starred in a film called The War of the Dragon Kings and had played several other screen roles, which, he said, I should look up on an Internet site called Curtain Call Casting. He was currently on the verge of a breakthrough in his career, having been offered a starring role in a major new period drama, an adaptation of the novel Helen by Maria Edgeworth, a contemporary of Jane Austen. He was very excited about it and was preparing to start rehearsals in three months’ time. He’d come to me for help because he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to cope with his costume—the buttons on the waistcoat, the jacket, and so on. His manner, as he spoke, was intense; he was evidently deeply committed to his work. Despite—or because of—his reserve, he had a strong presence, and I could well imagine that he was a gifted actor. I could also see that he was very troubled by his phobia, afraid that he might let this longed-for opportunity slip through his hands.
When he’d finished I asked, “I wonder, are there any other difficulties in your life at present?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Anything else worrying you?”
“Such as?”
“Well, relationships, for instance.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend, if that’s what you mean. I mean, there have been . . . there are . . . from time to time . . .” He looked away. I was surprised at his diffidence, given that he was such a good-looking man. “But nothing serious. At the moment, anyway.”
“And your family?”
“I’m an only child. I have a very close relationship with my mother. My father . . .” He came to a halt.
&
nbsp; “I don’t get on with my father, as it happens,” he continued, after a short pause. “He’s a bit of an egomaniac.” He hesitated. “But to be honest, I don’t really want to go into all that. I just want to get this button phobia sorted, and get on with my life.”
I nodded. “Well, I can see why, with this big part coming up. But I’m afraid if you’re in a hurry, I’m not going to be much help to you. I’m a psychotherapist. What I do takes a long time and a lot of effort. And it doesn’t always work.”
He looked surprised.
“You see, if you came to me, we would definitely need to look into your family relationships, especially those you find difficult.”
A flash of irritation crossed his face, but I continued.
“So if you want to deal with this quickly, you’d be better off seeing my colleague over the way. He has an altogether different approach. He’ll help you identify your negative thought patterns, your specific fears, and so on, and take you through a set of exercises to try to change them. He may use a technique called exposure. First, you’ll talk about buttons, then you’ll see pictures of them, then you’ll be asked to hold one, and so on, until you get over your phobia.” I paused. “Is that the kind of thing you’re after?”
He looked doubtful.
“It’s actually very effective,” I said. “And I can highly recommend this particular colleague.”
“The thing is . . .” He looked away, avoiding my gaze. “It’s not just the buttons.”
He seemed shy all of a sudden, embarrassed. The idea that he might have a sexual hang-up came back to me, but I put it to one side. Bracket your own thoughts, that’s what you have to do when you’re listening to someone. Put them in parentheses, and return to them later. It’s a good rule, and one I try to stick to.
“It’s hard for me to talk about it.” His voice dropped to a whisper.
I wondered what was wrong. In my view, phobias about things like buttons and spiders are fairly easy to understand, though not to cure. They’re the safe, convenient places we choose to store all our anxieties about the big things we can’t control, starting with the fact that we’re born, we die, and we don’t know why. Getting scared of buttons is easier than getting scared of that. Until it gets harder, of course.
The House on the Cliff Page 1
