What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (15 page)

‘You had to manage his moods?’

‘Yes, I did. And I’ve realised over this past year that I don’t want him back. I would never be able to trust him again anyway,’ I say. ‘And surely the woman he left me for must know that what he did to me he could so easily do to her.’

‘Does it matter what the woman thinks?’

‘It matters to me that she thinks she’s got away with it.’

‘What has she got away with?’

‘Ruining my life.’ I feel defiant and I stare at Leila, waiting for her to defend this woman, defend herself. Leila holds my stare, her return gaze softer than mine. I can feel my defiance set hard in the line of my mouth and the length of my back.

‘What would you like to say to this woman?’ Leila asks me.

‘I’d like to tell her that I’m going to get her back. I’m not sure how yet. But I will.’ I gulp some air and smile. ‘I will get her back.’

‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’

Tom switches on the light and I squint against it. ‘I was drifting off,’ I say.

He bends down and kisses me. ‘Busy day?’

I took Alex to rehab.
That’s what I should say.

Or maybe I should start with – Did I mention, Tom, that my son has a drug problem? And that just before I met you he was in rehab for a month. It cost me £25,000 and no end of worry. I hoped we would never go back there again. But we have. And I should also mention that my brother, who is on a mission to reconnect with our past, has been to our house. And no good can come of that. No good at all.

Except, I don’t have to tell him about David because Mrs Patterson has beat me to it.

‘Mrs Patterson hijacked me again.’ He removes his tie and then begins to unbutton his shirt. His chest is completely hairless and it strikes me that I prefer men to have chest hair. ‘She told me there’s a man been loitering in the street and that Katarina let him in.’ He throws his shirt into the linen basket. ‘Is he her boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve asked her then?’

‘No.’ I’ve forgotten that my mother’s necklace is still on my knee and when I stand up it slides to the floor. ‘He’s not anyone.’

‘How can he not be anyone?’

‘Because Mrs Patterson is a lonely old lady with nothing better to do than spy on her neighbours.’ I pick up the necklace and touch the stones with my fingers, sightlessly registering the shape of each stone before moving onto the next. ‘One day she’s going on about her cat, the next day it’s a strange man.’ I shrug. ‘She seems to forget that clients are coming here all the time and sometimes they knock on the front door instead of the annexe.’

‘So he was a client?’

‘Yes. Probably.’ Tom’s persistence is beginning to irritate me, and tiredness makes me foolishly decide to compound my lies with more information. ‘I think he was hoping for an extra session.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because of what Katarina said.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Her English isn’t great so I couldn’t quite get the hang of it.’ I rub my forehead. ‘But it definitely sounded like he was a client.’

‘And he couldn’t have called you on the phone?’ Tom has his trousers off by now and is standing in his boxers, not the baggy sort, the sort that hugs contours and leaves nothing to the imagination. His physique is sculpted by thrice-weekly body-work with his personal trainer. It’s not just about health with Tom – he is vain. He needs to be the alpha male. And he needs other people to know it.

‘Sometimes, in the early stages of therapy, clients become very dependent on their therapist.’ I seem to be swaying on my feet. ‘They see therapy as a safe zone.’

‘Erotic transference?’ he says.

‘A little, maybe.’

‘A downside to having your rooms at home. That was something I didn’t consider.’

Like it was up to him
. ‘It’s very common. It happens to therapists all the time. It’s usually a passing …’ I wave the necklace ‘… phase.’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘No, I’m not drunk.’ I laugh. ‘If anything, I could do with a drink.’

‘What’s wrong?’ He places a steadying hand on my elbow. He is concerned, but underneath the concern is a kernel of impatience. He would have preferred me in a negligee, holding out his single malt, perfectly chilled in a crystal glass. (The glass is important.)

I feel emotionally drained and I’m tempted to brush it – him – off but when Tom is focused he’s like a dog with a bone and so I give him something to chew on. ‘I took my son to rehab today,’ I say, following the words with a forced smile.

‘What?’

‘Alex has a drug problem,’ I state. ‘This is a matter of fact.’

He withdraws his hand and is silent for almost ten seconds as he thinks this through. All he can come up with is, ‘I don’t understand.’ He frowns and shakes his head. ‘Since when? Where has this come from? He’s in
rehab
? Already? Is the problem so serious? How long has this been going on for? You can’t get a place that quickly! Not for love nor—’

‘Money? Yes, you can get a place that quickly if you can afford it – if you can call in a favour, as I am able to do, and if the client is already known to them.’

‘He has an existing problem?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when were you going to tell me about that?’ He looks hurt.

‘Tom.’ I stare down at the necklace. ‘I’ve been a single parent since Alex was born and so if it means that sometimes I forget to share information—’ I shrug ‘—I’m sorry. I hoped that Alex was drug-free and would never take drugs again, but he’s not, and he has, and it’s been … a difficult day.’

He moves towards me and takes hold of my hands. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Would it have made a difference?’

‘Of course!’

‘In what way?’

‘I would have helped you!’ He half-shakes, half-hugs me. ‘I would have come with you!’

‘You’re a criminal barrister and Alex is a drug-taker living in your home.’

‘Our home, Leila! This is
our
home.’

It doesn’t feel like that to me but then I have never felt a sense of home. I’m used to moving house, town, country even. I’m used to shifting sands, to rebalancing and recalibrating myself. ‘Fear is at the root of everything,’ I say quietly.

‘For Alex? What’s he afraid of?’

‘Not just for Alex, for all of us.’ I tug at the collar of my blouse and my fingers rest on the pulse in my neck. My pulse. My life. Life in all its fragile, bloody glory coursing through me. ‘Fear is a driver for all of us.’

‘Leila, please.’ He takes me in his arms and starts to kiss me: my cheeks and my hair, my neck. ‘I’m sorry. I can see you’re upset. Why don’t we get you to bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry darling, I haven’t been much use to you lately, have I?’

It’s true; Tom isn’t much use. It was unlike me, but when we began our affair I had been cautiously optimistic. I hadn’t just chosen Tom for myself – I’d chosen him for Alex too. I knew that Tom was exactly the kind of man Alex needed to spend time with. Human beings rub off on one another and for all his faults, Tom is nothing if not ambitious and purposeful. But Tom has shown little interest in Alex up to now and that is disappointing.

‘How about we both go to see him at the weekend?’ he says.

‘He’s not allowed visitors.’

There’s a darkness at the back of my skull. I rest my forehead against Tom’s shoulder because I want him to stop talking now. He gets the message and starts to undress me. I allow myself to become putty in his hands. He peels off my clothes, item by item, kissing each part of my skin as it’s revealed to him. He’s enjoying himself – he has an erection to prove it. I feel almost nothing but I go along with it because if I’m going to avoid selling my mum’s jewellery then I need to ask Tom to lend me some money to pay for Alex’s treatment.

Quid pro quo.

He takes me to bed and makes love to me, no effort spared, and after a reasonable amount of time I fake an orgasm and he falls asleep satisfied with his performance.

I’m exhausted but I don’t fall asleep. I lie awake for a while, thinking about David, about Alex, about myself. And when my mind attempts to drill down into memory and peer into the corners where my stepfather Gareth lurks, I climb out of bed and go into the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind me. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and lean into the glass. I see weakness in my eyes and I don’t like it. ‘Where are you, Leila Mae?’ I whisper to my reflection. ‘Where are you?’ I watch my expression flit from fear to neutral and then to determined. The longer I stare the more I’m reassured. Normally I prefer not to conjure up my teenage self because she doesn’t sit well with the woman I’ve become but Leila Henrikson, the therapist, is a poor match for David.

When I find her, I breathe more easily. She’s still in there, my teenage self, Leila Mae of the black eyes and the steady gaze. She is fearless. She is a survivor. She is me.

I swallow two sleeping pills before I go back to bed because I won’t allow my mind to tempt me backwards in time. I won’t think about Gareth. I never think about Gareth.

Tuesday comes round again and I’m feeling relieved because I’ve been counting the days until I can see Maurice, and at last it is today, this evening. I spend the morning catching up with admin and at midday I call the Bridge to see how Alex is doing.

‘He’s making progress,’ Rob Mooney tells me. ‘He has some unresolved issues but he’s working through them.’

For five years Rob and I shared a therapy practice in Leeds and I know he is a master of understatement. The Bridge is a safe environment and I suspect Alex is kicking off. I can only imagine what he’s saying about me – she expects too much, she always puts herself first, we’ve never been a proper family, she has boyfriends and then dumps them just as I’m getting to like them. And on top of all that, she says she loved my father but really he was just some guy she shagged and lost touch with. And she expects me to be moral.

On and on it will go.

David has been conspicuously quiet all week. I haven’t spoken to him since last week when Katarina let him into the house. I wonder whether he’s heard from John Lewis and whether he’s got the job. It would be a departure from the norm as he usually works cash-in-hand jobs and it would make his stay in Edinburgh more permanent. He has always lived a nomadic lifestyle, picking up work here and there, never staying in one place for any length of time. So here I am daring to hope that he might have changed his mind about settling down to steady work and be planning his next trip abroad.

Tom has been working from home this morning and is flying to London mid-afternoon. He has been attentive and considerate all week and I feel myself softening towards him. Katarina is out shopping (I gave her a £100 bonus as way of apology for her banging her head. She’s still wary of me but she couldn’t say no to the money) and Tom joins me in the kitchen for lunch. I’ve made us both steak and chips and a green salad with a strong mustard dressing – his favourite. Throughout the meal he talks about his latest client and I’m able to ask the right questions, which encourages him to talk further. When we’re finished I rinse the plates and he makes us both a coffee. We sit side by side on the sofa by the window that looks out into the back garden. The timing feels perfect.

‘Tom,’ I say. ‘I wonder whether I could ask a favour of you.’

‘Of course.’ He takes my free hand onto his lap. ‘What do you need?’

‘I spoke to Rob Mooney at the Bridge this morning. Alex is doing well, but he does need to stay there for a further week, maybe two, depending on how he progresses, and I’m wondering whether you are able to lend me some money.’

He nods. ‘How much?’

‘It’s expensive.’ I widen my eyes. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

‘Wow.’ He pushes his breath out quickly. ‘That really is expensive.’

‘You don’t get this sort of treatment on the NHS, or not until it’s almost too late to make a difference. The therapists are experienced. The ratio of staff to clients is high and so the success rate is good.’

‘How much did it cost you last time he was there?’

‘It’s five thousand pounds a week and he was there for five weeks.’

‘I see.’ We hold eye contact and I watch his thought processes. He’s wondering how to let me down without it sounding like he’s actually doing that. But the reasoning he comes up with is not what I expect. ‘In principle, I want to be able to help, and I’m not saying I can’t, but at the moment I’m having to deal with a financial issue myself.’

‘Oh?’

‘Ellen has now decided she isn’t happy with the divorce agreement we’ve drawn up.’

‘I thought it was all finalised. Wasn’t she about to sign it?’

‘She was but something has changed her mind. Her solicitor is now playing hardball, demanding that the marriage assets are frozen.’ He waves his hand through the air in a circle. ‘We’re back to square one. We have a meeting scheduled for next week and I’ll have to see what we can renegotiate.’

‘Is she entitled to more?’

‘In the eyes of the law, yes. She waived her rights to my pension and other monies we had saved. She didn’t need to do that.’ He sighs. ‘She’s now saying that she wants the house.’

‘This house?’

‘Yes.’

I stand up and move to the window. ‘You told me she was happy to move out.’

‘She was! She couldn’t wait to get away from me.’

‘But we’ve already started making the place our own.’ I look at the extension and then at the spot where the oak tree once stood. Tom told me that for several years now he’d wanted the tree chopped down because its height and width dominated the space. The children had outgrown the tree house but Ellen loved it so it had stayed. I agreed that it was a light-stealer, and went along with Tom when he decided to have it felled. The hot tub wouldn’t have been my first choice but I’d been persuaded that it was worth the expense and we’d enjoyed a couple of evenings under the stars with each other and a bottle of prosecco for company.

‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you.’ He stands behind me, wraps his arms round my waist. ‘I’m not going to let her have the house but I might have to yield in other ways.’