And so I am back, after all, to see the counsellor.
It’s the kind of thing you should do when you can’t stop accusing your boyfriend of cheating on you and you want to be kinder to your best friend and you have a very low opinion of yourself, so I am doing it.
The counsellor is lovely. She has a soft, singy lilt and she appeases me of all guilt. It’s okay to hate Anais for the moment, she says, it’s okay to be angry, it’s okay to feel bitter at the world.
But then …
‘So, you are pregnant’ I say, because her bump now is at its biggest.
‘Could you not try another counsellor?’ said Tom when I told him that Angharad was pregnant, and I had snapped, again, at that.
‘Sure, at seventy pounds an hour, Tom. At seventy pounds an hour when we might need every penny we have to make a baby.’
He walked away; he no longer takes me on when I speak in a certain tone. I sometimes wonder if he’s been reading books, learning how to deal with me.
This counsellor is provided, incredibly, by the NHS. If she were thrusting her bump in my face while laughing, I would still have no choice but to accept her and be grateful.
The counsellor’s hand goes over her stretched middle.
‘As I said last time, we aren’t here to talk about me,’ she says, school ma’am-strict.
She is the fertility counsellor. She should be a safe space. A baby-free zone. But I am a woman and I try not to make strangers feel uncomfortable, so I mutter congratulations and move on. But how, now, can she understand? And how can I speak freely? She’s judging me, I think again – all of the horrible things I have said about pregnant women and their complacency, their smugness … now, they are about her.
She reads my mind. Of course she does, it’s her job.
‘My own life bears no relation to my understanding of yours,’ she says. Yoga teacher replaces school ma’am.
I can’t help it. Despite the politeness, I raise an angry eyebrow.
‘Let’s move on,’ she says. ‘Tell me about your partner. How are things there?’