Her Greatest Mistake by Sarah Simpson (14)

Cornwall 2016

A slow wistful walk up Lemon Street, a million consternations resting heavy on my shoulders. I take a deep nasal breath of crisp autumnal air. It’s such a beautiful day, I was coerced to the beach before clinic this morning; the sea beckoned me down. In need of the kind of perspective the turquoise waters always allow me, I followed. Switching off the ignition, I remained, transfixed, stretching my gaze as far as I could out to sea. What was happening the other side of those waters? Maybe someone was looking back at me, wondering the same? Mesmerised by the mélange of blues, greens and frothy whites, lapping marbled silver slate rocks. Thrashing waves, gradually creeping closer, pilfering our beach. But what was happening beneath the shifting surface? I tried to remind myself of its vastness as my world began to close in once again. My concerns were a drop in the ocean. I couldn’t drown, not now.

Fresh tides washing away the deeds of yesterday – why couldn’t life do the same? A moving figure caught my eye, making me start as the shadow knocked on the side glass: Charlie. He giggled, waving, oblivious to my startled response, before ambling away to his seemingly uncomplicated job. Unlike mine, loading already encumbered shoulders. How did life become so complicated? Didn’t we sometimes miss the point?

Now, crispy golden leaves float beneath my footsteps, as I feel each tentative tread on solid grey ground. An unusual seasonal warmth joins me, gifted by the perfect blue-skied day. Why did you have to come back? The cathedral bells peal behind me, advising me to quicken my step. I’m going to be late. Normally by now I’d be aware of my scheduled appointments for the day, have planned for them, rereading my notes. But today, I’m not sure if I’ve forgotten the plan or if I’m just without one. Ruan will bail me out. By the time I arrive, the reception will be warmed, the air filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. I’ve explaining to do. My stomach hardens, with the thought of Bea and Ruan; they’ll want to understand what drove me to the insane behaviours last night. They’ll question me about you, my reasoning for being afraid. In the cold light of day; I wish I hadn’t created the stir. But I was truly scared. I thought I’d be ready for you, if and when the day arrived. I was wrong. After all this time, you still have such impact on my nervous system. Screwing it up, wringing it out.

I clasp the cold iron handle, stretching my foot towards the clinic door just as it moves away from me. ‘Here she is!’ A beaming smile. ‘Told you she’d be here. Late as ever. Gosh, you look rough, lovely!’ Bea adds.

‘Thanks, Bea. Here, take these.’ I dangle the slightly moist paper bag under her nose. ‘Inhale. Croissants, hot out of the oven.’ I withdraw the bag. ‘But that was before you told me I looked rough!’

‘Hmm. Can I retract that particular comment, please?’ She grins, snatching the bag from my hands.

‘Thought we could do with some sugar this morning. It’s also a small, though delicious, peace offering.’ They regard me. ‘For last night?’ I know they’re being polite, that they were probably talking about it before I arrived. Like, I needed to remind them.

‘Mmm. Absolutely. They smell so, so good. You know, you really don’t look quite so rough in this light, anyway.’ Bea hugs me, clutching the bag to her side. ‘You certainly don’t need to provide peace offerings. Silly.’ Letting go, she plants her face in the paper bag, breathing deeply, in then out. ‘Thing is, though, I did intend to be good today.’ She sighs heavily. ‘Oh, well. Tomorrow’s as good a day as any. Anyhow, you can’t rush these things, can you? Rome wasn’t built in a day, was it?’

‘Exactly,’ I say.

‘Here, Ru, grab one while it’s warm. You’ve got hollow legs anyway. Git.’ She orders him to take a croissant whilst shoving the end of another into her mouth. Flaky crumbs everywhere. I try my hardest not to glance at the floorboards. The now flaky-pastry floorboards. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll fetch the vacuum. You can’t bring croissants, then worry about crumbs!’ She rolls her eyes.

The sickie feeling overrides my hunger as I walk towards my room. ‘I’ve had one already so feast away,’ I say before Bea begins to guilt-trip herself further. Despite my stomach being empty but for the caffeine. You always were the best diet around.

‘Can’t you help her with that?’ an equally full-mouthed Ruan blurts.

‘What, making a mess?’

‘No. Her diet thing. Does my head in. I don’t get it. It’s simple, isn’t it? If you’re hungry, eat, if you’re not, don’t. Why’s it need to be such a deal? Couldn’t be bothered.’

‘Hey. Cheeky sod, Ru! What you trying to say – you think I need help, do you? Need to lose some weight, eh? A bit on the chubby side? You should’ve said before.’ She nudges him fondly.

‘Me? No. Never said anything. It’s you – it’s all you think about. Talk about. Imagine how much extra time you’d have if you stopped thinking about eating, and just ate. Must be exhausting. No wonder you’re always hungry.’

‘God, you’re such a simpleton sometimes.’ She turns to me, pointing her mostly demolished pastry at me. ‘Could you help me, do you think, Evie? You deal with eating disorders, don’t you? Perhaps I should book myself in. It’s not such a bad idea despite it coming from him.’ She nods at Ruan.

‘For God’s sake, you two. Don’t you think I’ve enough of this during clinic hours? No, Bea, you haven’t got an eating disorder, okay? You’re just like the rest of us. Someone who worries and thinks too much, likes her food, beats herself up about it, so feels bad about it, so wants to eat more to make herself feel better. You don’t need therapy to work that one out. Join the proverbial club.’

‘Yeah, I own the bloody club,’ she hoots.

‘What I’m actually saying is, you’re normal. Normally abnormal. Normally imperfect. Great just the way you are. Not overweight. Okay?’

‘Okay. If you say so.’ She nods at Ruan. Two rivalling siblings.

‘Yeah, whatever she just said, I agree, if it helps,’ he adds.

Bea rubs her greasy fingers through Ruan’s hair before he can pull away. ‘How d’you get your hair like that anyway? So much body? D’you gel it?’ she asks him.

He runs bronzed hands through natural blond waves. ‘All natural, of course.’ He flicks his head back, smiling. ‘Courtesy of the sea. Never wash it after I’ve been in. Salt water. The best and it’s free.’

‘I hate you. Look at your eyelashes too. What a waste.’

I leave them to it, continuing to the haven of my room. Though aware of the eyes on my back as I do and the conversation going on between them without words, about me. They’ll have to wait. I need to switch into clinic mode; no room for personal twitterings. I turn to pacify their expectant faces. ‘Later.’

‘What?’ they say together, as if surprised.

‘We’ll talk. About things, stuff. Last night.’ Two heads nod back in unison.

I hover over my desk, flicking through unopened envelopes, trying to ignore the rushing of my heart. I hate even talking about talking. The front door opens as I hear Bea greeting her next client. ‘Ruan, have you got my list? For my first appointments today? Please.’ He quickly reaches my side, handing me today’s list with the relevant files.

‘Certainly have. First one, Dr Jakes.’

‘Yep.’

‘Second one, umm, here, it’s the new-referral guy.’ A fist seizes my stomach and twists. What’s the problem? New referrals are a weekly occurrence. What’s up with your heartbeat?

Ruan bumps his head back. ‘What’s the look for? I did tell you. Or tried to anyway. You know, the PTSD guy. The one from up-country.’

With the antics of last night, I’d forgotten all about this case. A sick sense reminds me it’s a worry. ‘Warwickshire?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, the soldier, the ex-soldier now, from somewhere in Warwickshire, wasn’t it? He must be living down here now, then. I mean, to be able to get a referral for here. Isn’t that how it works?’

‘Or at least residing here for the time being,’ I correct.

‘Should be interesting. Wouldn’t mind sitting in on this one?’

How could I have forgotten? I glance at my wall clock, ignoring Ruan; Jesus, he’s going to be here in an hour and twenty. If he turns up, that is. There’s always a chance he won’t. Here, in my clinic after all these years. How come you’re still alive?

‘Hello? Earth to Eve?’

‘Sorry. Not today, you can’t. I haven’t asked his permission yet.’

‘Pity. Here’s the others, then. I’ll leave you to your preparations.’ Ruan places the remaining files on my desk and I watch him leave. The rule book filed away in my head fleetingly questions my ability to work ethically this morning. I’m hardly feeling calm and collected. The responsibility of my appointments feels like gigantic boulders, hurtling towards a rickety thoroughfare.

I remove my overflowing diary, full of needs-attention household paperwork, from my briefcase. Each day I undertake that I’ll go through it, but the ruler separating pages reminds me nearly nine months of broken promises have passed. Then I notice it, the brown A4 envelope sitting solitary in the unzipped pocket; the one I was to open after seeing Milly at the GP surgery yesterday. Something else I’d completely forgotten about. I flip the envelope over. No postal mark – it’s obviously been hand-delivered.

How strange – no surname? I open it quickly, suddenly aware of muffled voices; the doctor’s arrived for his appointment. Cautiously easing out an A4 sheet of photocopied assemblages of newspaper articles. What the hell? Swallowing hard. Who could have done this? Who has access to my briefcase to be able to plant it? Me, Ruan, Jack, Bea? I don’t get it. I clumsily examine the sheet, then again, the envelope, as the titled words repeat over and over, hurtling through my mind.

I drop it on my desk. No. Please, no. Who has sent this? What are you trying to tell me? Why now? The articles are as old as my story. Is this your idea of a bilious joke? Ahead of your appointment? Shaky hands shove it back in the envelope, out of sight, temporarily out of mind. I don’t have the space to think about it now.

Fifty-five minutes later, I show the doctor from my room, pondering about his lucid exchanges. He’s a self-referral, seeking help for a severe alcohol addiction, but I’m undecided if he wants to be helped, more, he knows he should pursue help. The pretence of taking action enables him to fulfil his consultancy at the hospital. A consultancy he clearly struggles with, partly due to the addiction, partly due to the stresses and unfair demands of the job, but mostly because of the turmoil both of these have caused at home. Yet for all his candour, morality and obvious intelligence, he lies. He lies to me, he lies to his consultancy, to his wife and family; but most of all, he lies to himself. In love with his addiction but doesn’t wish to be realised as an addict. But for his alcohol dependency to be an accepted member of his life and family. Smacked by the king of motivation, a huge dopamine release, each time he even contemplates alcohol.

Ruan follows in soon after him, swooshing the air with both hands.

‘Quick, help me get this window open. It stinks in here.’ As I grapple with the heavy sash window. ‘He assured me he hadn’t touched a drop this last week. But I’m already inebriated on the fumes. How long have I got?’

Ruan stands back from the open window, grinning towards Reception. ‘About ten minutes, I guess.’

‘For Christ’s sake, that’s all I need. I’m going to be branded as the clinician who’s partial to a little intoxication.’

‘Matches?’ suggests Ruan, on the hunt towards Reception, then he returns. ‘Here, light the candle thing, always works. That’s what I used to use at home.’ He laughs. ‘Let’s just hope I’m not about to blow us up.’ He lights the candle.

I snatch the matches from him. ‘Glad you find this so amusing. Go out into the street, then come back in.’ I give him a gentle push.

‘What? Why?’

‘To make sure you can’t smell the stale alcohol any more. We’ve probably just acclimatised to it.’

He rolls his eyes as he heads off out onto the pavement in a theatrical manner then bursts back into the reception. ‘No, it’s definitely okay. We’re in the clear. Can I put this down as valuable work experience? You know, tricks of the trade, kind of thing? The art of discretion? Why didn’t you just tell him straight when he denied it – he reeks of the stuff?’

‘You perhaps need to work on that art of discretion. No. I didn’t, of course not.’ I’ve already asked some clients if they’re happy for me to discuss their cases with Ruan, whilst he’s gaining work-experience hours. This is one of them.

‘Does he think you’re stupid or what? I mean, does he even pay attention to what you say?’ He throws himself into the tub therapy chair, a leg hanging over the side.

‘Ah, well, he listens with interest, nods and agrees. But no, I’m not convinced he really hears me or engages. He’s a smart guy. He uses selective hearing with a “this doesn’t apply to me” attitude.’

‘So what’s the point in him coming?’

‘Good question. He needs to be seen to be doing something. But he’s not ready to give it up yet; believe it or not, he doesn’t believe it’s a problem. As others do, he uses it to fill many voids, you see.’

‘You’re kidding? Not a problem? I thought I had a drink problem. So what did you talk about?’

‘Willpower, how addictions of any guise cannot be defeated with willpower alone. We talked of stresses, coping skills, sleep cycles and unfulfilled needs; all being fed by the alcohol. The thing is, he tackles his bucket of stress with inflammatory alcohol. But as it’s a depressant too, talk about inappropriate legions. It’s also a chronic disturber of sleep, a booster of cortisol. He wonders why, despite knowing he can’t possibly feel better or even consider a life beyond it.’

‘So if it can’t be beaten by willpower?’

‘More often than not, it’s the expectation of what the addictive behaviour provides rather than the actual behaviour that keeps the person addicted. The brain is coerced by the behaviour to feed lies. For the addict, the expectations are then always positive and rewarding, the harmful reality of the behaviour is boxed away.’ I look at Ruan, swinging his leg, taking it all in. ‘The truth is ignored.’

He nods. ‘Yeah, makes sense. Who wants to think about the bad stuff?’

‘Exactly, so the lies need to be uncovered, acknowledged, then challenged. But it’s almost impossible if the individual refuses to accept responsibility, doesn’t want to see the lies. Refusing to consider the reality of misuse, not what it gives them but what it takes away.’

‘So many addictions are fought on willpower, though, aren’t they? If you think about it. Even all these weird diet clubs. It’s always willpower.’

‘Hmm, but willpower can rarely succeed against lies, against little pots of hope and expectation. The doctor knows this really, but he’s not ready to hear it or ready to accept it. I wonder how far he has to fall before reality hits.’

‘Why would you? You know, lie to yourself like that?’

‘Life, Ruan. Sometimes people get themselves into situations. Before they know it the boundaries between lies and truths are too blurred. Telling lies to get to the truth, whatever that is. We’re not here to judge, though, are we?’

‘Me? Never.’

‘Did you have any joy, by the way, with that name I gave you, Milly’s mum’s boyfriend?’

‘Oh, yeah, I knew I’d something else to tell you. Sounds like he’s quite a local dodge pot. Mevagissey’s answer to Mafioso, by all accounts.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing online, I could find. But my mate’s mate’s mate’s dad – well, he runs The Black Sheep pub in the town. He knows of him all right. In fact, he barred him last year.’

‘Go on?’

‘Let’s just say, he has things in common with the kiddy catcher, or the Pied Piper, or the—’

‘Okay, Ruan, I’m getting the gist. He’s bad news.’ I look at the clock on the wall. ‘This will have to wait.’ I’m aware of my heart quickening. ‘I need a few minutes before my next one, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure thing.’ Ruan retreats to Reception, leaving me to think some more about the envelope. Before long, I’m snapped away from my daze at the sound of the front door, opening and clunking shut. I freeze; I’m five years old again. I’d really expected a no-show. Actually that’s not true; I’d hoped for a no-show. I hear Ruan acknowledging him, as a deep masculine voice hums in response. I strain to decipher the tone of his voice but the walls are just too thick. Is it you? Direct confrontation was not your style. Certainly not with an unknown audience. At least it didn’t used to be. I creep across the room to listen from behind my slightly ajar door. Shunted up against the bookshelf, I urge my feet to step forward, but they don’t respond. I hear my heart thumping, feel my mind haze, but I can’t move my feet.

Eventually, Ruan peeps around the door. Arching his eyebrows, he whispers, ‘What are you doing, Eve? He’s here, your next appointment. Why you hiding behind the door? You okay?’

‘Shhh.’ I gesture for him to come in and shut the door behind him.

‘What’s up? What are you doing?’

‘Who is that?’ I ask, jerking my head in the reception direction.

‘What d’you mean? You know who it is. Your next appointment, William Adams. You know, the PTSD referral, the one—.’

‘Yes. I know who he says he is. I mean, who is he? What does he look like?’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ A look of puzzlement shapes his face. ‘Oh, God. D’you think it’s him? Jack’s dad?’

I don’t respond. The words snag in my throat. Why didn’t I cancel this appointment? Because, I didn’t think you’d actually have the nerve to come, because I pushed it to the back of my mind, but also because I don’t know it is you, do I? I could be making a complete fool of myself again.

Ruan regards me, clearly concerned, obviously not knowing how to help. ‘Look, he’s just a normal-looking guy. Kinda does look like an ex-soldier, to be fair. Tallish, darkish, biggish build, I suppose. Quite softly spoken. What else? D’you want me to take a photo then come and show you?’

‘This isn’t a joke, Ruan.’

He moves further away from the door, lowering his voice. ‘What is it about him anyway? Why d’you look so frightened?’

I breathe in deeply through my nose, realising how ridiculous I must look. I shake my head, then usher Ruan out of the room, and prepare to follow in his footsteps. I’m probably just being stupid and it isn’t you anyway. The only true connection I have is that he is from Warwickshire. That’s not a lot to go on. He’s referred under a different name, but that doesn’t mean anything; I wouldn’t put a name change past you. I’ve changed Jack’s surname, after all; from Austin to Sands, before we moved to Cornwall. You’re also a pathological liar, so anything we’ve already been told doesn’t mean anything. Ruan’s description fits you well, but then it would also be appropriate for many other men. And, given it’s Ruan’s description, he could actually be small and blond. Then, a quiet, softly spoken voice – no, you had a commanding, sardonic voice. But then, you could be, it could be, whatever you wanted it to be, in any given situation.

Counting to three, I step out from the security of my room, forcing the fixed, unnatural beginnings of a smile, into the open reception. The man has already stood up and made his way over to the far side. He stands nonchalantly, hands in pockets, looking out onto the street. Is this because I’ve annoyed him, keeping him waiting? Or is it because he doesn’t want me to know who it is just yet? He doesn’t want me to see, recognise his face? He’s planned this moment, wants to be in total control at the point he decides to reveal himself. He will only turn to face me when the instant is right for him. For you. I take in his physique, his stance; a perfect shadow of you stands before me. A gush of sickness upsurges from my roiling stomach as I hear the words fall inelegantly from my anaesthetised lips.

‘William?’ I request of his back. I secretly will him not to turn around. Why am I playing along with your game, calling you William? I imagine you simpering at the window. I urge him to answer me whilst still facing the outside world. My legs begin to subtly quiver; someone has removed the muscles. My pen slips from my sweaty, unsophisticated hand. It drops, but I dare not move to pick it up.

Ever so steadily, he coils towards me. At full twist his dark eyes seek immediate contact. A look of knowing satiates them. Blood drains from my limp body. I notice how his shoulders capitulate. An impression grabs me.

He has found who he is looking for.