Tell Me A Secret Read online

  ‘Hello,’ I say, walking up behind him. The odd feeling grows, creeping up my throat, choking me, even though I don’t know what it means. Habit makes me offer my usual kind, welcoming smile, but it quickly falls away when he turns around.

  Him.

  Shit.

  No!

  ‘David…?’

  My new client.

  Not David.

  Andrew.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t run.

  He’s staring up at me. His shoulders square and firm, his hair cropped short at his neckline, longer on top. The scar forking out from his top lip.

  Then I feel the full force of the fear in my stomach, like I’ve been kicked. A crunching twist in my guts as he stands. Taller than me, of course. Looming and present. My body screams out at me. Betrays me. I’m shaking inside, the tremors vibrating from deep within – through my heart, my chest, my legs, arms, shoulders and right down to my fingertips. Everything’s numb, yet I feel on fire. I grip on to the back of a chair.

  A year dissolves into nothing.

  Speak, Lorna!

  ‘Hello, um, hello David.’ My voice is thin and unconvincing.

  He gives a small nod, blank-faced, waiting for me to continue. His strong features hold fast. Exactly how I remember.

  I’m drowning.

  ‘Please, come through.’ I look away. I can’t hold his eyes any longer.

  I know Sandy’s watching, scrutinising. All my senses are in overdrive: a dog barking outside sounds as if it’s trapped inside my head, the tick of the clock is like a hammer, passing cars are an earthquake and a mother calling out to a child in the street is a fire alarm. The lilies on the reception desk smell of paint, making me want to retch, and the tiles beneath my feet are like walking on shards of glass. Even my clothes hurt.

  Walk!

  I force my feet to move, one in front of the other. Click. Click. Click. I see my hand reaching out for the big old brass knob on the door to my office. My feet sink into the plush green carpet as I step inside, making me feel as though I’m sinking in quicksand.

  All I want now is numbness. Detachment. Dissociation. Monday nights.

  But, thank God, something inside me takes over. Ingrained habit from seeing thousands of clients over the years – a second nature kicking in. Whatever it is, I’m grateful. I swing around, holding the door as he follows me in, gesturing towards the sofa with my arm.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ It’s more of a croak, not quite proper words.

  He says nothing. His jacket – oh how I remember that jacket – slips off his shoulders in one easy move. He drapes it on the sofa, lowering himself down, hitching up the legs of his jeans, adjusting a cushion. All the time his eyes are on me – I can feel the heat on my skin.

  I want to scream, punch something, but instead I close the door, manage to go to my desk and pick up my notepad and pen even though there’s no way in hell I can go through with this assessment. I sit down, trembling, thinking how to get out of it.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I whisper, leaning forward and glancing at the door. My voice is deep and low now. It doesn’t sound like me.

  He stares at me. ‘I miss you.’

  That voice.

  For a moment I think I must be going crazy, that I’m in the middle of one of my dreams – the ones where he and Mark meet by mistake – or that I’m perhaps in a psychiatric hospital: the sectioned therapist, drugged on medication.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

  ‘I’m paying for it.’ That look. Those eyes.

  No, I’m paying for it, I think. Paying for my stupidity.

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

  ‘I need your help,’ he says, relaxing his shoulders, making my heart slow to a steadier pace for a couple of beats – he needs me. It’s just muscle memory, I think, forcing it to kick up again. It’s fight or flight I need right now, not to be lulled by his smooth words and charm. ‘I’d like to start up therapy again.’

  I fight the urge to laugh. It would come out as hysteria. ‘It’s impossible,’ I say. ‘Unethical.’ I clear my throat. ‘But of course I can get you an appointment with a different therapist. You’ll still have a full assessment.’ I wait but he says nothing. ‘Though I think under the circumstances, another practice entirely would be best.’

  ‘But it’s you I want to see, Lorna.’

  I close my eyes briefly.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I take my glasses off. Put them on again.

  Hearing him say my name makes me melt inside. It’s been ten long months. Each one bound up with tight routine, making sure each day is stuffed to the brim with work, activities for Freya or other scheduled evening pastimes. No space to think about how things used to be. It was because of him that I changed jobs last June. I keep telling myself that I never asked for any of it.

  ‘Answer my question – how did you find me?’

  Thing is, I know it’s not hard. Not hard to find me at all. Moving jobs wasn’t so much to run away from him, but rather to escape the fear. The longer I stayed at my old clinic, the Medway, the more likely it was that I’d have slipped up, been found out, not to mention what could have happened if things had turned nasty between us. My career would have been finished.

  He laughs, shaking his head, looking around my office, drinking it all in as if he’s just catching up with me over a coffee. Him assessing me.

  ‘I like it when you’re bossy,’ he says, ruffling his hair and rolling up his shirt sleeves. I can’t help the glance at his forearms. Strong, muscled, just the right amount of hair. I hate what he does to me. What he’s always done to me, from the moment I first laid eyes on him. I still don’t understand it. It’s not for want of soul-searching.

  Then thoughts of how it was, how things used to be for those few intense months, ransack my mind, trying to protect me – second phones secreted away, a car cruising slowly by my house late at night checking who’s home. Thousands of texts, missed calls, scuppered meets because Freya was ill, or Annie asking why she never saw me any more. Mark puzzled but patient, concerned for me when I told him my odd mood was probably just hormonal, or that I was stressed at work. All the cheap hotels with the late-afternoon sun streaking across our sweaty bodies. Lunchtime hangovers and hidden gifts. Cancelled clients, fake doctor’s appointments, explanations, excuses, excitement and lies… Exhausting doesn’t come close. Exhilarating, intoxicating and wrong only touch the surface. I exposed my soul, gave it away.

  I still haven’t got it back.

  And Mark. In all of this there was Mark – kind, generous, loving, devoted and hard-working. He doesn’t deserve someone like me. It’s true. I am second best.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I repeat, my voice quiet.

  ‘Lorna,’ he says, leaning forward, his dark eyes drawing me in. ‘I never lost you.’

  Chapter Nine

  Lorna

  I wipe my lips and scrunch up my napkin, placing it on the table. My pasta was delicious – Mark’s choice, of course. He always knows what I like, what’s best. The restaurant, our usual Italian place, was busy when we arrived, but Mark wangled a spot. Wherever he goes, he’s able to work his way around people, getting what he wants with a smile, witty quips and a promise to return the favour one day. It’s what I like about him, that he looks out for us, for me, for my happiness. Never taking no for an answer. And he seems happy tonight, which makes me glad. Eases the guilt by the most minuscule amount. He pulls my hand across the table, our fingers meshing like familiar pieces of a puzzle, reminding me how much I love him. How much he loves me.

  ‘How was work today?’ I ask.

  He stares at me, an appreciative look in his eye. In truth, it’s probably been a long time since I’ve shown an interest.

  ‘Really busy. How about you?’

  ‘Ditto,’ I say, and we exchange a fond look – the look that says we’re both remembering. “Ditto” was what I replied to Mark the first time
he told me he loved me. I’d explained that Ghost was my favourite movie ever, where I’d got it from. He’d never seen it, but now, every time I say “ditto”, it’s an unspoken reminder of how much we’re in love.

  ‘The day flashed by,’ he goes on, taking the last piece of garlic ciabatta. ‘Surgery for most of the morning,’ he says, chewing. ‘A bloody tough extraction.’ He swigs some of his beer. ‘Fractured root canal, and this one was a bitch. Upper right three that is, not the patient.’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘Mind you, she did honestly think she was going to die, especially when I was drilling into her bone for the implant.’ He rolls his eyes, a small smile curling one side of his mouth. ‘I love dealing with the nervous ones,’ he says, something flaring in his eyes.

  ‘Well, I sympathise with her,’ I say, pulling a silly face. ‘You know what I was like before I met you.’ It’s true, I was terrified of going to the dentist before Mark. But soon after we got together, he had my teeth straightened, whitened – gleaming and flawless. Not that they were bad in the first place. Far from it, in fact. But he liked his women perfect, he told me; liked them to be the best they could be. That he thought me so worthy of the finishing touches, the gentle way he’d treated me during the treatment, I admit, it made me fall for him all the more. I wanted to be the best I could be for him. I still do.

  ‘Then it was mostly routine stuff this afternoon. Guilty mothers justifying why their kids’ mouths were full of rot.’ Mark drains his beer before stretching back in his chair. ‘Fine by me,’ he says. ‘Keeps me in business.’

  ‘Messed-up mouths and messed-up minds,’ I say quietly, wondering what that says about the pair of us.

  The cinema is virtually empty, probably because the movie has been out for a few weeks and didn’t get great reviews anyway. But Mark wanted to see it, insisted he was a fan of the main actor, though having just seen the lead female actress, part of me bristles that she’s the real reason he wanted to come. Thirty minutes in and she’s barely worn clothes.

  I have no right to feel this way.

  ‘Just going to the loo,’ I say, leaning in to whisper.

  ‘You always do that,’ he replies, giving me a look.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say quietly, getting up and following the floor lights out into the corridor. The toilets are empty, so I whip my phone from my bag, my heart thumping as I check the screen. Nothing.

  I shove it back in my bag and go into a cubicle. Back then, he never had my main phone number. We were way more careful than that. But now, because of my stupidity, he does. Mark and I freely access each other’s phones, always have done, which is why I used a second phone last year – an old one I’d kept after upgrading. The rabbit hole had got deeper and deeper.

  I sigh, leaning back against the wall, not particularly wanting to sit through an hour and a half of car chases and a helpless, half-naked woman. Bombs, explosions and Bond-style shenanigans aren’t my cup of tea. Especially not the punch-ups. And despite all my lone trips to the cinema last year, telling Mark I needed ‘me’ time, self-care time, I never actually went. I never saw one single movie. Instead I was holed-up in a cheap hotel with him.

  I wash my hands, noticing the shiver, the shudder, as I think of the person I was, who I’d become without even realising it. The woman I vowed never to become again. I love Mark and he deserves all of me – the woman he fell in love with years ago.

  ‘Oh God, why…’ I say, almost in tears, trailing off as a girl comes into the toilets. She gives me a strange look and goes into a cubicle. Then I give myself a similar look in the mirror above the sink. A stern look. A look that tells me to watch it, that I’m dangerously close to veering off the straight and narrow.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck him to hell,’ I whisper, staring at the drawn, tired woman I’ve become.

  Back in my seat, I take hold of Mark’s arm, curling mine around his and pressing my head against his shoulder. It feels safe. He reaches through and holds my other hand, reminding me of when we were dating and all over each other – of all the dinners he bought me, the romantic walks, kissing in the rain, cooking for each other, sizing up each other’s food likes and dislikes. Eventually, we became a thing – a couple – though it took a long while. I’d worked out he was likely still grieving for Maria when we met, judging by the way he so rarely mentioned her. And when he did, there was always a look of regret about him, that perhaps he wished I was her. It was ages before he could even hint to me how she died, but I liked that it wasn’t rushed between us, that he took his time, that we were able to get to know each other gradually, thoroughly, deeply.

  Mark and Lorna. Lorna and Mark.

  Lorna and him.

  I stare at the screen but have lost track of what’s going on. Then Cath is on my mind again – all her dating stories. Her loves, her hates, her successes and her heartbreaks. There have been dozens over the last year or two, and it makes me so grateful to have Mark. I know he’s my forever man, which makes what I did even harder to understand. Poor Cath came out of a long-term relationship and hasn’t properly healed. As a therapist, it’s obvious she’s still on the rebound, though she won’t admit it. And as her friend, there’s not a damn thing I can do apart from be there as she crawls through the wormholes of Tinder and various other dating sites she’s always showing us all, Mark and Ed included. I think she hopes they’ll have some single mates she can meet.

  I jump, suddenly screaming. A bomb just exploded, making my ears ring and the floor vibrate.

  ‘Didn’t see that one coming,’ I say into Mark’s ear, laughing.

  He looks at me, perhaps for a moment too long. ‘That’s because you weren’t paying attention,’ he whispers back.

  ‘You like her, don’t you?’ I say playfully. It’s pure projection, of course. We’re in the car, Mark driving. He pulls out of the car park, swinging onto the main road. ‘Go on, admit it.’ He knows I’m winding him up, making a silly thing out of it, but he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know that I actually want him to confess to it, that I want him to hurt me. Payback.

  ‘Who do I like?’

  ‘That blond actress, what’s-her-name in the movie…’

  I wait for his response but he’s concentrating on the roundabout. It’s dark as we head back into Fulham from south of the river. We rarely go into central London these days, preferring the more local cinemas and restaurants.

  ‘Don’t you?’ I press again.

  It was something he said way back, not long after we met – something so small and insignificant that I should probably have laughed it off. I frown, not wanting to make a thing out of it now, but equally I do. I want to make a thing so big, so vile and offensive that Mark has no choice but to pull over, yell at me, spit in my face and hit me for being a complete bitch.

  And there’s Cath in my head again. God, stop overthinking everything, will you, Lorn? You’re a fecking nightmare…

  ‘What are you chuckling at?’ Mark says.

  Cath does that, brings a smile to everyone’s face even when she’s hurting inside. ‘You’ve definitely got a thing for that actress, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve got a thing for you,’ he says, sliding his hand onto my thigh.

  ‘Stop it, you,’ I say, taking his hand and sliding it under my skirt. I hold it there, warm against my skin, making us both just want to get home.

  But those words, those words from way back about a month after we met. At the time, he’d not even introduced me to his family or friends – that came way later – and perhaps he was only trying to be complimentary, make me feel good. What he said has haunted me ever since, made me feel second best even more.

  ‘You know what, Lorn?’ he’d said. We were on the balcony of my flat, sipping wine on a warm night. I’d not been to his place at that point. He’d got his hands on my hips and we were pressed close, swaying to the music playing inside. ‘I’ve always had a thing for busty blondes…’

  He stared at me, drinking me up, pressing the length of his body agai
nst mine. I didn’t have a chance to react before he spoke again. ‘But I think I’ve just got myself a new type…’ His mouth came down on mine then, one hand pushing through my long dark hair, the other feeling out the leanness of my athletic body, my small breasts.

  He’d made me feel like the most special woman in the world, while also making me feel like the most ugly and unwanted, planting a make-believe woman in my mind. Almost as if she’d been there all along.

  ‘Hey, Jack,’ Mark calls out as we go inside. ‘All OK, mate?’ I squeeze his arm, giggling, telling him to shush or he’ll wake Freya. Last thing I need is a grumpy daughter in the morning because she didn’t get enough sleep. She’s been acting up enough recently as it is. I hate seeing my little girl fractious; hate it that it’s likely my fault because I’ve not given her the attention she deserves lately.

  Jack’s sprawled on the sofa, laptop on his legs, headphones clamped across his head. He raises a hand, which Mark high-fives as he walks past.

  ‘Freya’s fine,’ he says, turning off his music. ‘She was asleep by eight. Have a good evening, you two?’

  You two. It doesn’t go unnoticed and neither does the almost warm look he gives me. I smile in return, feeling, for just a moment, something like his real mother. It’s hard to live up to someone he doesn’t even remember. Mark’s always been considerate and doesn’t like to mention Maria if I’m around, and he’s never been one for talking much about her, but he did tell me she was killed in an accident. I know all too well from my job how tragedy weaves into the psyche. I hoped in time he’d open up about it more, and I once suggested he get some grief counselling, perhaps with Jack, but he was reluctant. I didn’t pressure him, gave him the space he wanted. It doesn’t take a therapist to work out that he blames himself for what happened.

  ‘Hungry?’ I ask Jack.

  ‘Nah, Frey and I ordered in pizza. I’m stuffed.’ He turns back to his computer for a second but then looks up again. ‘But thanks. There’s some left if you fancy a slice.’