There was a gorgeous smell coming from Annabel’s kitchen.
‘Banana bread,’ Annabel explained when Laura asked. ‘I baked a quick batch just before you came.’
‘Lovely,’ said Laura, but the longed-for offer of a slice never arrived, not even after Laura told Annabel about the accident and how she’d nursed that poor broken boy. She could remember a time when Annabel used to bring her tea and home-made cakes and biscuits, but she’d been becoming increasingly distant recently, which only made Laura more needy. It sometimes seemed to her that, no matter what she did or how hard she tried, she would always be on the sidelines of other people’s lives.
The smell of home baking was like a physical ache in Laura’s stomach, a reminder of a life she’d never had.
‘I used to bake with Mummy,’ she said. ‘She was the most wonderful cook.’
That was an exaggeration. Her mother had been a competent cook, nothing more. But Laura enjoyed the idealized version of her mum she’d created in her own head.
‘And when I was still nursing and living in the shared house with Tania and Nat and the other girls, we’d bake all the time.’
This was also a lie. It was true that Tania and Nat used to cook together sometimes, sequestering themselves off in the kitchen with Amy Winehouse playing at full volume and erupting in peals of laughter that would tail off when Laura went in to see what was going on. But Laura had rarely made anything. So little point cooking for oneself.
‘I’m thinking of going back to nursing, actually.’
There. That got Annabel’s attention all right. Laura could tell by the way the other woman sat upright in her armchair and the new focus in her wide-set eyes. When Annabel spoke, however, it was in her usual measured tone.
‘But what about your plans? You felt you were really making a difference at The Meadows. Remember we sat down together and made a list of all the people you felt you could help?’
That was better. Laura felt mollified. But then Annabel spoiled it by asking whether Laura felt she had a commitment problem. She reminded her of how, before she got so into yoga, she’d devoted her spare time to studying Eastern philosophy and before that meditation. And now the hypnotherapy as well.
‘That was your idea!’
Laura was cross. She was sure the hypnotherapy had been Annabel’s suggestion, and now she was being made to feel flighty. Anyway, what was wrong with diversifying? As far as Laura was concerned, life was like papier mâché: you layered it on, one piece over another, one experience over the next, blessing upon blessing, until you had something richly textured and vibrant.
‘All I mean is that perhaps it’s time to stick at something. Honour your commitments.’
She sounded so stern. It was all right for Annabel. She’d never be able to understand how people like Laura, who’d grown up the way she did, might feel they were incapable of stability, might even feel unworthy of it. But now Annabel surprised her by saying:
‘Do you think there might be an element of self-sabotage? That when people start to like and appreciate you too much, you feel you don’t deserve it?’
That was the thing about Annabel. You thought she didn’t really get it, and then she said something so astute it took your breath away.
‘Can I use your loo?’
Annabel hesitated for a moment before replying. ‘Of course.’
Outside in the narrow hallway, the smell of cake was almost overpowering. There was a guest loo under the stairs, always spotlessly clean but so tiny one felt as if one was in a tiled coffin, so Laura ignored it and crept up the stairs instead, past a row of framed academic certificates. Upstairs, she padded along the landing, glad she’d removed her boots in the living room. The first doorway on the left was ajar and she peeped in. A pale green painted bedroom with a neatly made-up double bed. There was a cream duvet cover on the bed and a pair of tan sheepskin slippers tucked underneath it. Nothing to give anything away about the person who lived and slept here, whose head dreamed on that smoothly blank pillow.
Dissatisfied, she pushed open the door on the right of the landing. Annabel’s study. A bookcase running along the nearside wall was packed with well-thumbed academic books, while, directly opposite, a white desk sat underneath the single, mean window. Like everything else in this strange little house, the desk was clear of clutter, boasting only an open laptop, with a document up on the screen.
Well. No harm in looking, was there?
Treading as lightly as she could, Laura crossed the room to get a better look at what seemed to be a title page.
The Power of …
‘What are you doing in here?’
Annabel snapped the laptop shut like a clam. She’d come up so silently Laura hadn’t heard a thing. Why was she creeping around like that?
‘I just thought I’d use the upstairs bathroom. More private.’
Annabel folded her arms. For a short person, she could look very forbidding.
‘We’ve talked about this.’
Laura’s mouth felt dry, but she made herself sound confident. ‘Well. If it’s that much of a problem for you, I’ll use the one downstairs.’
She turned around and started down the stairs.
‘Laura!’
Annabel’s voice sounded loud and sharp. Laura stopped but didn’t turn around.
‘Laura,’ Annabel resumed, moderating her voice so it more resembled her usual, measured tone. ‘We’ve had this conversation before. Why do you find it so hard to respect boundaries. My house. My life. They’re off limits.’
‘I thought we were friends.’
Laura was aware of the whine in her voice but unable to stop it. Straight ahead of her, above the academic degrees, in her direct line of sight, was a small, framed photograph she’d missed before, of Annabel as a younger woman, holding hands with a small blonde girl with similar, flat features. A lump formed in Laura’s throat so it hurt to swallow.
‘That’s just it, though, Laura, isn’t it? I’m not your friend. Or your mother. I’m your psychotherapist.’