Chapter Ten

Islington High Street bustled with last-minute shoppers, a sound system played George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’ through the air, and frosty sunshine lit rosy cheeks and glowing eyes. Beatrice inhaled the spicy scent of the café’s Christmas cookies and for an instant she was overcome with a rush of affection for London. Sentimentality, of course. Had she still been a resident, she would have cursed the man with the awkwardly pointy John Lewis bag on the Tube and rolled her eyes at the giggling office workers with tinsel in their hair tumbling out of Zizzi’s.

She sipped her coffee and wondered why on earth she had felt such urgency last week. Everything was fine. She was fine. When James asked the reason for her hastily arranged appointment, she would feel a fraud. Even worse, if he asked about her mood-stabilisers, she would have to tell a small untruth. Overall, she did take them regularly. She’d just had a lot on her mind and forgotten a few times. She checked her handbag, knowing as she did so the packet was still in the drawer in her bedside table. No matter. She’d be home tomorrow and would definitely take one then.

The clock read three-fifteen and the festive decorations adorning the street glowed a little brighter as daylight began to fade. She finished her drink, picked up her gloves and bag, left a tip for the waitress and crossed the street to James’s practice. After her session, she would have half an hour to get to Westminster to meet Dawn after work. She smiled to herself, picturing the pair of them in The Speaker with a bottle of wine, sifting through the latest internal police politics. Maybe that was all she needed. Just a little trip to London and she was back on an even keel.

James did not tut or sigh deeply when she announced the complete absence of any reason to be there. Instead he asked her to describe her feelings when she had made the emergency appointment.

“Oh, the usual panicky stuff like nerves before a big event you’re dreading. As if it would only take one more thing to push me over the edge.” She explained about the death of Vaughan Mason, preparations for Adrian’s wedding and her own buoyant mood since arriving in the capital.

James lifted his gaze from his notes. He looked directly at Beatrice and then his focus changed, to a picture on the opposite wall. She knew it well, a print of Beach at Low Tide by Degas.

“Would you say that since you moved to Devon you associate being in London with satisfying a need? Not only your counselling sessions here but personal therapy on more than one level?”

“I suppose I do,” Beatrice considered. “It’s Me-Time, when I get to be my old self again.”

“I see.” He made a note on his pad. “How would you describe your progress in these sessions since your move?”

“Well, it’s not really a question of progress, is it? The way I see these appointments is more like a check-up. Just making sure I’m still balanced and not going wobbly again.”

“More a question of standing still than moving forward?” James gave her a gentle smile, his pen resting on his chin.

“Yes, standing on my own two feet, with the support of my stabilisers. That would be you, my medication and Matthew.”

He wrote rapidly, far more than her latest statement seemed to deserve. Finally, he looked up, his focus on the ivory gauze curtains veiling the window. “That concept of stabilisers is an interesting one. Some would say you don’t need stabilisers to achieve stasis. It’s only in motion extra support is required.”

The word ‘stasis’ stung Beatrice. “There’s been plenty of movement, James. I have coped remarkably well with all the recent changes in my life. You make it sound like I have been slacking!”

“My job, as we chose to define it, is to guide you. I lead you to examine and understand your own behaviour and patterns of thinking. It is reassuring to hear that you are not in reverse gear due to your retirement, move, wedding planner status and the emotional support you’re providing to your partner in a bereavement situation. That said, I would be ‘slacking’ as you put it, if I lost sight of the aim of our meetings. We need to move forward, Beatrice. Just coping is not enough. As a matter of fact, I wanted to raise the matter with you in our next scheduled session.”

Beatrice frowned, a sense of foreboding darkening the mellow room. “What do you mean?”

James placed his notes on the desk and leaned forward, clasping his forearms and holding her gaze. “My feeling is that in order to make the necessary progress, you need to step outside what has become a comfort zone. The association between your therapy and where you used to live conflates two very different emotions. This will be counter-productive in the medium to long term. Managing your mental health is daily diligence, homework, a commitment to doing the hygiene. Regarding that as part of a weekend jolly tells me you are simply treading water and not learning to swim. I think it might be time to find you a new therapist, someone local to Devon. I did some research and would like you to try a person who comes highly recommended.”

Over the years in James’s office, Beatrice had cried, yelled, sulked and apologised more times than she could remember. He’d seen her naked. Not physically, but mentally, and that was by far her ugliest aspect. Whenever he probed her tender spots and slammed the gates on her escape routes, she’d told herself she should change therapists. What did this pretty blond thirty-something know about what it was like to be her? Yet she had stayed, returning week after week, month after month, coming to see this man as sanctuary, this process as healing. He’d seen her at her worst and refused judgement. His and hers. Now, after all these years, he was rejecting her. She couldn’t find her voice.

“I don’t want to attempt to influence your decision, because it must be you who decides. All I ask of you is to attend a couple of trial sessions with Gaia with an open mind and see how you get on. This folder has all her details and all email conversations I’ve had with her about your case. I want this transfer to be totally transparent. It’s a big step, which I understand is unsettling after all your recent changes, but I am convinced this could realign your commitment to constant vigilance and modification of behaviours that make you unhappy. Perhaps you’d like to think this over. Or if you have questions right here and now, I am ready to explain my rationale.”

Beatrice shook her head, her gaze on the floor, her throat tight. “No, I ... no. This requires some thinking time. I’d better get on. I’ll be in touch, probably in the New Year.”

“Beatrice, hold on a minute...”

“Merry Christmas, James, and thanks for everything.”

She grabbed the file and fled out into the sleety evening. Tears blurred her vision as she made for the Tube, her chest tight and one phrase echoing through her mind.

He doesn’t want me anymore.

By the time Dawn had shoved her way through the throng of smokers huddled outside The Speaker, Beatrice was on her second glass of white. She raised a hand and despite her grim frame of mind, managed a smile at the sight of her friend. She stood up for the greeting hug, Dawn’s cheek cold against her own wine-warmed face.

“New hairdo?” she asked, reaching for the wine bottle and filling the spare glass.

“Yeah, thought I’d have some highlights done in a pathetic attempt to stave off old age.” Dawn shrugged off her coat and glanced at the half empty Sauvignon Blanc. “You been waiting long? I thought you were seeing James this afternoon?”

In lieu of a reply, Beatrice lifted a glass. “Cheers! Here’s to girls’ night!”

“Cheers!” Dawn chinked her glass and took a sip, her steady grey eyes on Beatrice.

“So fill me in on all the gossip. What’s the latest at Scotland Yard? Who’s doing what with whom?”

Dawn shook her head with a vague frown. “In a minute. When we spoke at the weekend, you couldn’t wait to see James. So how did it go today?”

“The counsellor-client relationship is confidential, you know that. It’s not something I can talk about.”

Dawn placed her glass on the table and sat back with her arms folded. “Beatrice Stubbs, you are an unbelievable hypocrite. When it suits you, you’ll talk about your therapy sessions till my ears fall off. And in any case, I’m not asking for a blow-by-blow account. I just wondered why you got here so early. Did you or did you not see James?”

“Yes,” Beatrice muttered. “But I won’t be seeing him again. He’s dumped me.”

Dawn gazed at her in silence and waited for her to continue. Beatrice should have known her calm and sensible friend would not rise to the bait of melodrama.

“He thinks we’re not making any more progress and I’m using him as a crutch. He wants me to see another counsellor, in Devon. After all these years, he wants to pass me on to some tie-dyed flake from Totnes who makes dream-catchers, wears crystals and will want to interact with my inner child. It must be against some kind of medical ethics to chuck out clients whose mental health depends on their counsellors.”

“It probably would be, if that is what he’s doing. But it sounds to me like he’s got your best interests at heart. It would be more convenient to see someone local, and a change could be exactly what you need.”

Beatrice tutted in exasperation. “And now you’re siding with him. Is there no loyalty left in this world? It was incredibly difficult for me to see a counsellor in the first place. Many people never find someone they can talk to openly and honestly. I got lucky with James and he has proved a lifesaver. And I say that literally, without fear of exaggeration. How can he just end it all, after everything we’ve been through?”

“Talking of exaggeration, how do you know the new counsellor is... what did you call her? A tie-dyed hippie? Have you already met her?”

“No,” Beatrice admitted. “But he told me her name.”

“Which is...?”

“Gaia.”

“Gaia?” Dawn repeated.

Beatrice took a large slug of wine. “Exactly. I think that tells me all I need to know.”

“Good gracious, you’re absolutely right. I don’t blame you in the slightest for building a wall of prejudice and judgement based on the simple fact of her name. Giving her a chance by actually meeting the woman would be foolhardy in the extreme. Far better to fume and rage at James for randomly picking some name out of the ether with no consideration for whether you would be a good match. Typically cavalier and unprofessional of him.”

Beatrice glowered at her from under her eyebrows. “You’re not making yourself any friends here, you know. He gave me a file of their correspondence and some background information on her to read and consider.”

“Let me guess. You took the file, stomped out of his office and spent the last hour winding yourself up into a state of self-righteous pity rather than reading it in order to make an informed decision. Top-up?” She poured them both another glass with a knowing smile.

“I’ll read it tomorrow. Tonight I want to drink wine and feel sorry for myself.”

“In that case, that is exactly what we should do. Then when we’ve raged against the injustices of the world and condemned everyone in it, can we get a curry?”

With some reluctance, Beatrice gave in to a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”