Tell Me A Secret Read online

  I nod, giving him another little smile before joining Mark in the kitchen. It’s the small breakthroughs that mean the most.

  ‘Bed, then?’ he says, taking me by the hips and inching up my skirt little by little. His mouth is against mine, the vibrations of his words tingling my lips.

  ‘Definitely,’ I reply, hoping it will help get rid of the ghosts in my head. My phone pings in my bag on the table, then twice more in quick succession.

  ‘Someone wants you,’ Mark says, pulling back from me.

  ‘Yeah, well, they can wait,’ I say, reaching inside my bag and switching it off.

  Later, with Mark softly snoring beside me – not enough of an annoyance to make me him roll over, but just enough to show me that he’s satisfied, content, in a deep sleep – I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.

  Three messages. Three. At eleven o’clock at night.

  Cath, perhaps, or Annie. Or… him.

  Another wakeful hour later, with Mark so deeply asleep I doubt even the smoke alarms would rouse him, I get out of bed and tread softly down the stairs.

  Chapter Ten

  Lorna’s Journal

  Reading back over old therapy journals is cathartic, they say, the whole point of writing them in the first place – which is why I’m doing exactly that. Hoping that by going back over old ground, the events of last year, it will throw light on how I need to act now, what I need to do to put an end to the situation I’ve found myself in. It wasn’t something I ever intended on doing, reading this, and it almost feels as if I’m prying into the life of a different woman, someone I don’t even recognise any more. But perhaps that will help me make sense of what I need to do to make everything right in this family. Put it back to how it was. Back when I was in control.

  19 January 2017

  It’s been a while since I put pen to paper. Hardly surprising with all the Christmas shopping, arrangements, entertaining, cramming in clients before the break and having Freya on school holidays. Mark had to stay late at the surgery a few nights, sometimes not coming home until after ten. I felt so sorry for him. Most of the festive arrangements fell to me, but that’s OK as he was so exhausted. Over the break it was nice to see him doing very little apart from hang out with the kids and relax. I know it’s a tough time of year for him. Sometimes it feels like there’s a hole inside him and I’m the wrong shape to fill it.

  Though I didn’t help matters when I came back with the Christmas food shop. Writing it down here makes me feel a tiny bit less guilty. It wasn’t my intention to upset Mark, but it was murder in the supermarket, and I was so behind with preparations. I hoped he’d be happy when I showed him my grocery haul. But he just stared at everything as he poured himself a whisky and ginger.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, watching me unpack.

  ‘It’s organic,’ I said, patting the turkey. ‘I was lucky. It was the last one. Another woman was going for it, but I just got in first.’ I laughed as I put it in the fridge along with everything else. How I’d got all those bags home alone, including all the bottles, beats me. I hadn’t had a chance to eat all day.

  ‘But Maria always cooked goose,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

  I stopped, the fridge door open, my back to Mark. I closed my eyes. ‘I’m sorry, but…’ I blinked away the tears. ‘… but there weren’t any geese left,’ I said, turning, smiling. ‘I thought we could have turkey this year.’

  Mark nodded. Truth was, I’d stood staring at the geese in the supermarket for ages, thinking about Maria, wondering how she would have prepared it, if she’d have made the traditional apple sauce herself, crisping up the roast potatoes in the goose fat. Day to day, I’m pretty good at not thinking about her when I use the kitchen, the things she’d have used too. Some of the stuff is mine, of course, from when I moved in, but when the Christmas crockery comes out once a year, somehow she seems to be standing over me, watching, folding her arms and shaking her head. Anyway, it’s probably just me being oversensitive. I know the psychology behind it all, of course, but knowing it is one thing. Feeling it is quite another.

  As it turned out, everyone loved the turkey on Christmas Day, especially Mark, thank God. He ate so much of it! And he got through the day remarkably well, considering how loaded it must be for him. I think I did a good job of making everyone happy. And he gave me the most beautiful necklace – white gold with a teardrop diamond pendant. I love it!

  But that’s not why I’m writing here again (heaven forbid if anyone reads this entry). My last supervision session reminded me how important journaling is for a therapist, and not just during training. God, that seems such a long time ago now – these ten years have flown by. A counsellor’s self-awareness is so important if I’m to help my clients. There’s something about the process of putting ink on paper that’s cleansing, a place to expunge myself, to get stuff out of my brain. During training, our journals formed part of the degree, allowed us a deeper insight into ourselves; though, of course, they were never read by the tutors. As a therapist, it’s my responsibility to be congruent and honest with myself. I once tried writing an online journal, secured with a password, but it felt too impersonal, just wasn’t the same. Besides, there was none of the thrill of finding a hiding place, stashing it away until next time, opening up the pages and reading my previous thoughts and feelings, noticing what had changed.

  Anyway, Mark is the only one likely to come across it and, to be honest, I wouldn’t really mind if he read it anyway. I share everything with him.

  Nearly everything.

  But maybe not now. I wouldn’t want him to read this entry. It’s too personal. Hurting him is the last thing I want to do, but I have to get this out. And I have to remind myself that I haven’t done anything wrong, as well as remembering that it happens to the best of us in this job. Most in this line of work have experienced it. I know from chatting to colleagues. I’ll take it to supervision with Chrissie next week. It’s her job. And I must remember what mine is.

  OK… so there was this client today (my hand is shaking, my writing turning into scrawl now). He was self-referred, and he arrived on time… nothing unusual there. I went to fetch him from the waiting room (wish they’d make it more welcoming at the Medway. Even a pot plant would help!) and Nat was on reception. She’s OK – people grumble about her, but she does her job.

  Anyway, when I saw him, something fired off in my brain and body – one of those indefinable moments I don’t want to dwell on. I have no idea why or where it came from. A trigger, perhaps, but of what? Thinking back, it was his scent I noticed first – sandalwood, musk – something alluring yet dangerous. It got to me. Drew me to him like a moth to a flame before he’d even spoken a word. Attraction to a client occasionally happens, of course, and it’s certainly very common the other way around – a client falling for their therapist. Even women fall for me sometimes. It’s the unique relationship that does it. A good therapist is genuine, empathic and non-judgemental, providing a safe and unconditional space for the client to open up. What’s not to fall for? It’s a relationship like no other and sometimes clients have never experienced these feelings before. It’s this security that gives them the space to grow, to change, to empower themselves. To fall in love.

  But a therapist doesn’t cross the line with a client. Ever.

  It was when he stood up and turned around, when we were face-to-face, that it really started. And I know he sensed it too.

  (Note to self: next journal entry will show this very differently once I’ve worked through this. Supervision + self-awareness = sorted. Go me!)

  But then all that physical response stuff came. My body couldn’t help it. My heart was suddenly freewheeling at the sight of him, my pupils dilating, my cheeks colouring up, not to mention all the thoughts flying around my head. (Yes, I’ve had a glass of wine or two writing this. Mark’s out with Ed at a gig so it’s OK – I’m allowed to chill. But I must remember, when I read this back, I was just getting it out, expunging. It
doesn’t mean anything. It’s just words. They can’t harm anyone, right?)

  So he came into my office, sat down, and I knew, just knew, he was thinking the same. Fucking hell. It was so weird. A bolt from the blue. Our eyes wouldn’t let go of each other – his were particularly… well, kind-looking. Warm. Jade green with a rare depth to them. I could barely speak. But what was I supposed to say? ‘Actually, sir, I’m afraid I can’t see you professionally because I fancy the bloody pants off you?’ The attraction was instant.

  I dealt with it the right way, of course, saying and doing nothing out of the ordinary. Instead, I hit the refresh button on my boundaries. I started the assessment, went over the client–therapist contract, letting him know how I work, the session timings, payment, confidentiality, client safety and all that. Like everyone, he probably just wanted to get on with telling me why he was there. (Note to self again: have had three glasses of wine now so ’scuse crap writing and spelling ha ha).

  He signed the contract and we got going. At least I’d managed to reel in my stampeding heart (a little) and the flush had subsided, though I know I kept fiddling with my hair. Barely took my eyes off him. But when he started talking – oh, his voice! I really don’t think I was listening to him properly. Rather I was soaking up the timbre of his words, absorbing the rich sound rather than what he was actually saying. In all my years as a therapist, I’d only need one or two fingers to count the number of times I’ve #listeningfailed a client. And he sensed it. Like he knew he had this power over me. It was when he gave that smile – just the one side of his mouth lifting a little, his eyes narrowing and inquisitive – he just knew the effect he was having. And all this twelve minutes into knowing him.

  Nice work, Lorna.

  So by the end of the first session all I knew was that his name was Andrew, he was forty-five, had no kids, had never been married, and that he was an artist who lived in a rambling terraced house that needed repairing, with a lodger to help pay the bills. Oh, and he occasionally played golf. I didn’t think he looked the type. When he told me about his house, describing the renovation work it needed, I’d even imagined myself in his kitchen. Watching him whip up a meal for us both while I sipped a glass of wine, some music playing, the conversation effortless. He was simply the most gorgeous and perfect man I’d ever laid eyes on. I have no idea why he affected me so much. Me, Lorna, a happily married woman with a wonderful husband. The only other thing I recall him saying during the session was something about him being at a crossroads in life, that things hadn’t turned out the way he’d imagined or hoped. That he needed something more.

  But I’d not listened. Not truly listened because I spent the rest of the session hoping that ‘something’ was me.

  Good therapy works, Lorna.

  But sometimes it goes horribly wrong.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lorna

  ‘Annie’s here,’ I say, getting up to press the button on Cath’s entry system. On the black and white screen I see her outside the building’s main door, standing on the old stone steps with a bottle of wine tucked under her arm. Megan comes back from the kitchen carrying some pâté, and cheese and crackers. She puts them on the coffee table. A moment later, Annie is knocking on Cath’s flat door and I let her in, pulling her close for a hug.

  ‘Sorry. Bloody parents’ evening ran over. Some stroppy father wouldn’t accept that his son is a little—’

  ‘Shhh,’ I say, placing a finger over her lips. ‘Sit, wine, food,’ I tell her, leading her through. Cath’s only been living in the flat a few weeks, but already it’s oozing her individual style – crammed full of knick-knacks and clutter and stuff she doesn’t need but can’t bear to part with. The high ceilings, the decorative architraves, the wooden floors, the mismatched kitchen cupboards are the perfect backdrop for her weirdness – from her taxidermy, her eclectic paintings bought from junk shops, her 1970s tasselled lampshades, and a huge collection of ornate mirrors that make the place look twice its size. Much of it is still in packing boxes stacked up in corners. Cath never seems to get organised.

  ‘What did everyone think of the book, then?’ Megan asks, perching on the arm of a shabby red velvet sofa. An assortment of brightly coloured cushions makes it almost impossible to sit down. She taps the novel she’s holding, its cover slightly torn. She’s a few years younger than the rest of us and quite new to the group. She works in the shop with Cath.

  ‘Oops,’ I say, pouring more wine, eyeing Annie.

  ‘Er, what book would that be?’ Annie says, laughing.

  ‘Fecking useless, the lot of you,’ Cath chips in, carrying two trays of hot pizza from the kitchen. ‘I read it, Meg, and I thought it was actually quite good. Though it made me bawl into my pillow and hate myself even more.’

  I watch as she sits down, curling her legs up underneath her. Her cherry-red toenails peek out from her spotty slippers. The smile stays on her face even though I know she’s hurting inside.

  ‘I thought it was quite romantic,’ Megan says sweetly. She’s slim and blonde, her long legs crossing over each other as she struggles to get comfortable.

  ‘Sit here,’ I say, moving up. She does but stays on the edge of the sofa, reaching forward for a single crisp. I take a slice of pizza, lifting it high, the cheese strings refusing to break. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten all day. In fact, it’s pretty much the first thing I’ve eaten since he came into the clinic on Monday. I’ve barely been able to function since.

  ‘That’s actually not romance,’ Cath says. ‘It was some guy being a bastard to a vulnerable woman until she caved in and gave him what he wanted.’ She drinks a large mouthful of wine, grabbing her phone as it sounds an alert. ‘Hey up,’ she says, her eyes lighting up. ‘What have we got here, then?’

  ‘And you think that’s romantic?’ Annie says, laughing. ‘Some dating app? You’ll get used to her, Meg.’

  ‘Oh, I already am,’ Megan replies, warming up a little. ‘Don’t forget I work with her all day every day.’ She tips back her head, laughing, exposing her long white neck. She’s wearing one of the necklaces from Cath’s shop, but it looks too large and chunky on her small frame.

  ‘And she’s like this all the time?’ I say, trying to join in, trying to sound normal even though I don’t feel it. Rattled sums me up right now.

  ‘Yep.’ Meg leans closer to me, grinning and pretending to make it so Cath can’t hear. ‘One guy she’s been chatting to online actually found out where she worked and came into the shop the other day. He’d stalked her.’

  ‘Creepy as,’ I say, frowning as I’m reminded of him. Though with Andrew it wasn’t creepy, as such. More like pure passion – him frustrated that we’d met at the wrong time in our lives, and me, well, I was driven by something I’ve still not worked out.

  ‘Fuck off, you lot. I’m not made of wood.’ Cath holds up her phone with a guy’s picture on the screen. ‘What do you reckon? Hot or not?’

  ‘Definitely hot,’ Annie says. I can’t help catching an eyeful of a semi-naked man standing on a surfboard. ‘Hell yeah to those abs.’

  Cath passes round her phone, and it ends up in my hands. ‘OK,’ I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘So what does Mr Surfer-dude actually have to say for himself…’ I scan the text. ‘“Discreet daytime meets only. Can you take your punishment like a…”’ I hesitate, the words swimming out of focus. ‘“…like a good girl?”’ I finish reading, my voice wavering. ‘Jesus, Cath, and you’ve actually matched with him? What were you thinking, swiping right?’

  ‘Duh…’ she says, rolling her eyes.

  ‘He might be hot, but he wants to slap your arse on a Tuesday afternoon while his missus changes his kids’ nappies and cleans his house.’ I toss her phone back, angry. Something bites deep inside. ‘Do you have to go on that bloody app? It’s unhealthy.’

  ‘I don’t always go on it,’ she says, tapping the screen. ‘There, he’s gone. Unmatched. Despite what you lot think, I don’t want hook-ups. I d
o want to meet a decent guy.’

  ‘Then find one the bloody normal way,’ I say, immediately regretting sounding so harsh.

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ Cath replies, a pensive look on her face. ‘Anyway, all the good ones are taken. By you bloody lot,’ she adds, rolling her now teary eyes.

  ‘And I’m not sharing mine,’ Annie chimes, sloshing more wine into everyone’s glasses. ‘I knew Ed was a good ’un from the start.’ We all know that Annie and Ed sweat love for each other.

  ‘How about you, Lorn?’ Cath asks. ‘Did you feel that about Mark when you first met?’

  ‘Oh God, yes,’ I say, hesitating. Truth is, when I first encountered Mark, I thought he was a bit of an arrogant sod. He soon won me round, though, with his constant messaging, his romantic gestures – red roses sent to my flat every day for a week – the pictures of himself he’d text me (some quite revealing, but it turns out that’s what I liked about him – his boldness, his confidence), the theatre tickets, the snatched weekends away. All this after only meeting briefly at a mutual friend’s party. He’d begged the host for my number.

  ‘I always get what I want,’ he’d told me at the end of our first date, smiling, tilting my chin up with his finger. I thought about that for a long while after, wondering what happened after he’d got it.

  ‘Love at first sight?’ Megan asks.

  ‘Oh. Yeah, definitely,’ I reply. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Gary and I started slow. You know, a few dates here and there. Nothing too heavy. After a couple of years and we were serious, it seemed sensible to move in together, especially when I started work at Cath’s shop. His place is only round the corner. We’ve been together three years now and…’ She waves her left hand about. ‘Watch this space,’ she adds, sticking up her empty ring finger.

  ‘You lot make me totally sick,’ Cath says, hurling herself back against the cushions, diva-like, folding her arms and pouting.