Black Valley (31 page)

Driving out of the car park of the hotel, Jess felt a burden lift from her. All this while she’d been a spectator in Dresler’s life, she realized, a person whose
role and function was indeterminate. Now she was herself again, back in her own sphere, one that she understood and controlled – at least to some degree, anyway. As she passed the executive
suites lining the driveway, she was glad not to be a part of this leisured, international world, but a person with a job to do, two girls to mother, a home to make – with or without a man at
the centre of it – and a life to get on with.

It was a clear night as she bowled down the motorway, the moon hanging like a great yellow lantern in the sky. Jess put her foot down. The house would be empty, she knew, as Rose had gone over
to Bob’s for the night, and Nella was at Gareth’s.

There was little traffic at that time of night, so it took her under an hour to get home. Even so, by the time she went up to bed, it was half past one. As she turned out the light, she realized
she was utterly exhausted. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell fast asleep, and didn’t wake up until morning.

Next day, she had a full schedule. There were three patients to attend to in the morning, and then she had a meeting with Maria’s social worker regarding the arrangements
for the children. Afterwards, she felt the need to get out of the office, so she went over the road and got herself a sandwich and a coffee from the deli before heading over to the park nearby. Her
plan was to go down to the river, sit on a bench, eat her lunch, watch the ducks, and think about what had happened the night before.

The row with Dresler was playing on her mind. She knew from experience that she could lay her personal problems to one side and continue to work effectively with her patients, whatever her mood
– and that being able to do that was, in itself, a boost to her confidence and a source of comfort. In that sense, at times she needed her patients just as much as they needed her. However,
she also knew that the kind of turbulent emotions she was experiencing that day could, despite her best efforts, affect her judgement – not consciously, but unconsciously. That was one of the
pitfalls of her chosen profession: one always had to be one step ahead of one’s own unconscious, which to some degree was a contradiction in terms.

Jess walked quickly over to the park, found her favourite bench in a solitary spot by the river, and sat down. She watched a family of ducks swimming in the shallows at the edge. The ducklings
swam behind their mother, all of them poking their beaks in and out of the rocks, looking for food. From time to time, one of the ducklings would lag behind, and she would turn back and chivvy it
along. The drake was nowhere to be seen.

She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. Hummus and a salad of tomato, cucumber and lettuce. Nutritious, but not all that delicious.

One of the chicks drifted off in the swirling eddies, dangerously close to the mainstream of the river. Mother duck was pecking at some algae on a stone. On the river bank, a large black crow,
silent and motionless, watched its passage.

What happened to us? she wondered. It started out so well. When we first met at the museum, and discussed the Morris painting, he seemed so cultured, civilized. He was so knowledgeable, without
being snobbish about it. And distinguished-looking. Those blue-grey eyes. That chambray shirt. She sighed involuntarily. That first night we spent together, in the hotel, making love in the
lamplight. It all seemed to happen so easily. He seemed so delighted by me, by everything, when we were at Cwm Du, before . . .

The crow opened its wings and took off, heading for the river. Crows don’t eat ducks, Jess told herself, and took another bite of her sandwich.

That was it, most probably, she thought. Blake’s suicide. It had been too soon in their courtship for them to weather such a storm. The cracks in the relationship had taken a while to
show. At first, they’d clung together for support, both of them shocked by finding the body at the tower; then there’d been the trip to London. She’d loved his flat, the
galleries, the restaurants, Soho – his whole world. The lovemaking had deepened and intensified. But then there’d been the attempt to track down Morris. She’d found Dresler
irritating on that occasion: on the one hand, bossy; on the other, easily flustered. And ever since then, a certain distrust had crept into their dealings with each other. When she’d phoned
him with her idea about Isobel and Morris, he’d dismissed it out of hand, rattled by the notion that anyone might question his judgement. And now, as far as she could see, he’d started
lying to her. Morris, whoever he was, hadn’t broken with Isobel and the Powell Gallery after Blake’s death, and asked him to be his agent instead. It wasn’t as simple as that.
There was some kind of scam going on, whether it involved Isobel painting as Morris or not. Dresler was covering it up, or at least turning a blind eye to it. Obviously, he was enjoying his
new-found status as Morris’s agent, showing off to his pretentious, boring friends.

She finished the sandwich, opened the lid of her paper coffee cup, and took a sip.

He’d seemed so different from Bob at the start, she mused. And yet, when it came down to it, he hadn’t been; clearly, despite his relaxed, urbane manner, he was extremely
self-involved, ruthlessly ambitious. His career was far more important to him than his relationship with her. He’d lied to her, expected her to go along with whatever he told her, whatever he
did, no questions asked. That was the deal he’d offered her, and he’d given her no choice but to accept it, if she wanted them to stay together. But she couldn’t accept it. She
wanted to know the truth, and she wanted to be with a man whose dealings were honest, not just with her, but with other people, too. Clearly, he wasn’t that man.

So why, she asked herself, had she been attracted to him in the first place? Perhaps there was some docile, quiescent, feminine aspect to her nature that always impelled her towards the alpha
male. Perhaps, in future, she’d need to be aware of that, so she wouldn’t keep making the same mistakes . . .

There was a sudden squawking, as the mother duck turned and saw the crow descending from on high towards her offspring.

Her mobile phone went off, but she let it ring.

Where’s the bloody drake? thought Jess. Then she remembered she’d read somewhere, probably in one of Rose’s nature books, that drakes play no part whatsoever in raising their
families.

All thoughts of Dresler left her mind as she watched the drama of the riverbank unfold. The mother duck paddled frantically towards the duckling, which was by now drifting away. The crow swooped
down and pecked at the duckling. The duckling, finally realizing the danger, tried to scurry towards its mother, but it was caught in the undercurrent of the river. Suddenly, the mother duck stood
erect in the water, flapping her wings, her squawking reaching a crescendo. The crow swooped again, but this time the mother duck took flight, landing smoothly on the water and edging the duckling
back into the shallows, along with the rest of her brood, where they continued to poke about in the rocks. Defeated, the crow gave up, and flew away.

Jess gave a sigh of relief, and scrabbled in her bag for her mobile phone. She checked the log, found that the caller was registered as ‘unknown’ and called back, just in case it was
something to do with one of the girls.

A female voice answered.

‘Hello? Did you call me just now?’

‘Is that Dr Mayhew?’

It sounded like Elinor, yet the number was registered as unknown. And the caller had addressed her rather formally, as Isobel might do. Jess hazarded a guess.

‘Isobel. Is that you?’

‘No, it’s Elinor.’

‘Elinor. Sorry. You sounded like Isobel.’

‘That’s OK. People always get us mixed up on the phone.’ Elinor paused. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘OK. Carry on.’ Jess glanced at her watch. She didn’t have much time to talk. Her next patient was due in fifteen minutes’ time and she needed to check her notes before
she came in.

‘I really just wanted to ask you a favour.’

Jess sighed inwardly. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Well, I’ve started painting again.’ Elinor sounded excited. ‘And I’d like to show you some of my new work.’

‘Oh.’ Jess was surprised, and somewhat relieved. ‘OK. That would be very nice, Elinor.’

‘I thought maybe this Sunday, if you’re not too busy.’ There was a certain timidity in Elinor’s tone.

Jess thought about it. She had nothing particular planned for Sunday. She’d envisaged staying home, cooking lunch, and pottering about the garden as the girls came and went. She could
spare an hour or two of her time for Elinor – indeed, it would be a pleasure to see her getting back to work again. And she was curious to see these paintings she’d heard so much
about.

‘How about Sunday afternoon at four? But I’d need to be home by six. Is that OK?’

‘Fine.’ Elinor sounded pleased. ‘I can come to your house and pick you up, if you like.’

‘No, don’t worry. I’ll drive in. Where are the paintings – at your house?’

‘Actually, no.’ Elinor paused. ‘They’re in rather a special place.’

‘Meaning?’

‘They’re not hung in a studio. They’re exhibited somewhere rather exciting, outside the city. It’s a bit difficult to find.’

Jess thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what, pick me up outside the consulting rooms. I’ll be there at four.’

‘Great.’

‘See you then.’ Jess brought the conversation to a close.

‘See you. Bye.’ Elinor rang off, sounding pleased.

Jess got up, gathered her belongings, and walked back through the park the way she’d come. On the way, she threw the sandwich packaging and her coffee cup, still half full, into the bin.
She’d had enough coffee for one day, she thought. She needed to be calm, cool and collected for the afternoon sessions.

She came out onto Cathedral Road. The trees lining the street were now in full leaf, and they rustled above her in the wind, casting dappled shadows on the pavement. She’d always liked
this street, ever since she’d set up the practice here, all those years ago. The grand Victorian gothic houses had a sombre, respectable air, softened by the murmuring trees that stood
sentinel before them. Most of the houses in the street were professional rather than residential, and had always been so – doctors, dentists, insurance consultants, and the like. It made her
feel proud that, with her own practice, she had become part of that sedate history that stretched back to the nineteenth century.

She walked up the steps to the consulting rooms. If Jacob texted her, she’d text him back, she thought. Just to be friendly. But the relationship was over. There was no doubt in her mind
about that.

When Sunday came, Jess began to regret her offer to view Elinor’s new work. She was enjoying being at home, in the peace and quiet. Nella and Gareth were staying over at
his place, and Rose was at Bob’s. The rain was drumming on the window outside, and it was cosy in the sitting room, where she was lying on the sofa, her head propped up on a cushion,
reading.

She was making good progress with
The Twin in the Transference
. Not only had the book helped her to understand Elinor’s behaviour, it had also explained her own, to some degree.

Lewin argued that when a twin undergoes therapy, the therapist herself is drawn into this dual psychic world, unknowingly playing the role of the ‘other twin’:

No wonder she’d found it so difficult to maintain the boundaries between herself and Elinor, she thought. She’d granted her all sorts of special privileges – changing the time
and place of the sessions, allowing her to phone whenever she wanted – that she denied her other clients. Elinor had treated her as a twin, transferring her feelings for Isobel onto her
therapist, but she hadn’t been fully aware of that. She’d also failed to realize that she herself had responded to Elinor as a twin, enjoying that feeling of having a
‘special’ relationship with her, one that broke all the normal rules.

She looked up from her book, aware of the silence in the room. Perhaps her eagerness to indulge Elinor was also to do with what was going on in her personal life. The girls were less dependent
on her these days, often out of the house, engaged in their own activities. Perhaps unconsciously, as a mother, she’d been feeling that loss – while also, of course, enjoying the
freedom it brought – and using Elinor to fill the gap, as a kind of substitute daughter.

She glanced at her watch. She’d have to leave in fifteen minutes. She didn’t want to go, now that she was deep in thought. Reading Lewin’s book, she’d begun to realize
that she, too, had become ‘enmeshed’ – with Elinor. Elinor had treated her, Jess, as a twin, a confidante, seeking to replace Isobel, who’d gone off and married Blake.
Isobel had, in effect, moved on from the twinship to her relationship with Blake, which was a healthy, adult development. Significantly, Elinor had given up the therapy when Isobel had come back to
her, after Blake’s death. Later on, Elinor had realized that things wouldn’t be the same with Isobel, not after what had happened, and had come back to see Jess.

Given Elinor’s ‘twin’ dynamic, Jess reflected, it wasn’t surprising that she herself, as the therapist, should have been drawn into enacting the role of the ‘other
twin’. There was no need to blame herself unduly for that. However, now that she’d begun to understand the situation better, she realized that there was a limit, and that she’d
now reached it. After this trip to see Elinor’s new work – which she had to admit she was extremely curious about – the boundaries would have to be redrawn, and in future
maintained much more firmly.