The paper lies on the table between us. I try not to look at it.
‘And you have no idea who sent this?’
When Dr Roberts frowns, I realize how rarely he does it. He is all about show, it strikes me now. All teeth and good hair. He doesn’t like to appear troubled or irritated and, when he does, he looks instantly five years older.
‘I could take a guess,’ I say, leaning away from the table so I don’t have to see it. It’s a photocopy of a scan photo. I think it’s a generic one taken from the internet, although, of course, last night I’d convinced myself it was Emily. I can still taste the bile in my mouth.
‘But why would this woman be doing this?’ Roberts asks. ‘What does she want from you?’
‘Revenge? After Danny chose me over her, she had a miscarriage. At least no one can accuse me of making it all up now.’
I don’t know what I’m looking for. An apology, maybe. Roberts fixes me with those cold blue eyes, saying nothing, until I say it for him.
‘You are kidding me, aren’t you? You really think I could have sent that to myself?’
Roberts holds up one of his perfectly manicured hands in an infuriating placatory gesture.
‘I’m not saying for one minute that you did anything, Hannah. However, I should point out that it isn’t unheard of for a patient to go to sometimes quite extreme lengths to establish evidence that corroborates her own version of reality. Tell me, Hannah, how secure do you feel now in your relationship with Danny?’
I stare at him while my drug-fuddled brain scrabbles to catch up with his sudden change of direction.
‘Hold on. You think I’m making this up to win back my husband and turn him against his ex-tart?’
‘And are you?’
‘I don’t need to win back my husband, Dr Roberts. He made a choice, and he chose me. And, actually, more to the point, I chose him. I chose to allow him a second chance, and he was bloody grateful.’
‘It’s only that he seems to be uncomfortable with the idea of you being here. I don’t mean The Meadows specifically, but any place like this one. Would you say that was accurate?’
‘Of course he’s uncomfortable with it. Who wouldn’t be? How’s your wife, Danny? Oh, she’s in the nuthouse, thanks for asking.’
‘It seems clear, Hannah, that your pseudocyesis was triggered by the situation at home. You were struggling to conceive and then your husband got another woman pregnant. Until you’re prepared to address the underlying issues at the heart of your relationship, we’re not going to be able to fully understand what happened to you and prevent it happening again.’
I’m angry now. I don’t want to be told that we have ‘issues’ in our relationship. I don’t want to be reminded that the marriage I believed inviolable turned out to be made of paper.
‘Was there an autopsy?’ I ask.
The question takes us both by surprise.
‘What do you mean?’
‘For Charlie? Surely there must have been some sort of inquest.’
Roberts sniffs. ‘There was a post-mortem. And there is to be an inquest, although the date has not yet been set. However, judging by the results of the post-mortem, there will be no surprises. Charlie killed herself, Hannah. And I think we now need to start looking at why you’re having so much difficulty coming to terms with that fact.
‘I wonder if, perhaps, you identified so strongly with Charlie, to the extent that you now see her fate inextricably bound up with your own. When you arrived here, you were a mother-to-be who’d just had her baby snatched away from her. All those nurturing hormones were still racing around your system.
‘It wouldn’t be unreasonable to try to replicate the familial hierarchy you’d been expecting. That trinity with you at the apex and on the two other points the needs of a new baby and the maternal wisdom of your own mother.’
I shake my head, but he continues as if he hasn’t seen, warming to his theory.
‘Just think about it for a minute. Stella is the one you’ve given your nurturing to, and Charlie was your mother figure. You were very much emotionally invested in Charlie. Little wonder you can’t accept what she did.’
‘And Sofia? Was I emotionally invested in her as well? I know Sofia didn’t kill herself. She wouldn’t have done that to her children. I never saw anyone with so much courage and determination to stick it out.’
‘That’s just it, Hannah. For people like Charlie and Sofia, every day requires courage and determination. It’s like running a marathon that never ends. Depression is a relentless enemy. Sometimes you just don’t have the energy to fight it any more.’
‘Sofia wasn’t depressed.’
‘You’re right. Sofia had other issues, which I can’t go into with you for confidentiality reasons. But still, it wasn’t easy for her. Life with long-term mental-health issues is an endurance test. Not everyone makes it.’
Later, I’m furious with myself for letting Roberts off the hook. Every time I try to challenge him he slips through my fingers. I fold up the scan photo and stuff it into the front pocket of my jeans.
Mum and Danny are supposed to be visiting, but when I get to the day room only Mum is there, sitting on the chair nearest the door. She sees my expression.
‘Sorry, darling, Danny couldn’t make it. Don’t look like that, because it’s actually a good thing. There’s something I really need to talk to you about.’
Disappointment makes me sullen. ‘So? Talk then.’
Mum looks around the day room. Joni is at the oval table, filling out some of the interminable paperwork all the nurses complain about. Judith and Frannie are on the sofa, reading magazines. I once asked Frannie what she wants to do when she gets out of here. She looked at me, startled, like I’d asked her to strip naked and run around the room. ‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually. ‘Be quiet somewhere?’
That was the height of her ambition. To be quiet.
‘Could we go somewhere else? Your room maybe, or out for a walk?’
Now I look more closely, Mum looks weird. Her hair is tied back in a kind of knot at the back of her head with wispy bits escaping – and not in an artful, casual-not-casual way either – and her black jeans have toothpaste drips down one leg. Also, one of her eyes is doing this kind of flickering thing in the corner.
We put on our coats and go outside. Though it’s mid-morning, the light is grey and soupy, with that kind of damp cold that seems to come from the inside out.
Mum digs her hands into her coat pocket and makes a short, sharp exhalation to watch the cloud of her breath. Normally, her skin is clear and relatively unlined, but today it’s as grey as the day itself and there are two deep vertical scores in her cheeks. I’ve done this to her, I realize suddenly. Worrying about me has made her ten years older.
‘I think you should discharge yourself,’ she says at last.
‘What?’
I must have misheard her. Or else my brain must have processed what she said the wrong way. I know Mum wants me home, but she also wants me well. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s assured me I’m in the best possible hands.
‘Hear me out.’
She tells me a convoluted story involving a psychiatric clinic and a discredited professor and a younger version of Dr Roberts who was mentored badly and made terrible mistakes. She tells me about three women. Girls. Who suffered horribly and then were let down by the people who were supposed to help them. The threat of legal action that never happened. And the clinic manager who stole their files.
‘Hang on, you drove to Oxford? To visit this alcoholic with a grudge? And to look at people’s private records. Is that even legal?’
‘Ex-alcoholic. And she blacked out the phone numbers and addresses.’
‘Oh, so that makes it all right then.’
‘I wanted to reassure myself that you’re still safe here.’
‘And now you don’t think I am.’
She takes a long pause. ‘There’s something bizarre about the records, Hannah. Something that has really frightened me.’
Icy fingers tippy-tap on my spine. I hear her out.
‘There were photographs of the girls attached to the files. I think Geraldine thought that seeing their faces would make their story more human for me, make me more inclined to dig deeper into what happened at Westbridge House.’
‘For your fictitious journal article?’
Mum ignores my sarcasm.
‘There was something about one of the girls, Hannah. The youngest one. I didn’t recognize her but I kept going back to her picture. And then, last night, it hit me. I don’t know why I hadn’t spotted it before.’
‘Spotted what?’
‘The necklace. She was wearing a cat necklace. Hannah, the youngest girl was Stella.’