‘How have things been, Adriana?’
It’s Thursday, two p.m., and I’m sitting across from Dr Martin in his office on the King’s Road. It’s a bit of a trek in an Uber from Hampstead, but I don’t mind. It gets me out of the house, to a different part of London I’ve always loved. It also gives me the chance to do a spot of shopping then have lunch at Bluebird – one of my favourite haunts and where Charles took me on our first date. Unlike Oxford Street, a chaotic hubbub of traffic, people and shops I don’t much care for, the King’s Road is more intimate, less frenetic. I don’t have to battle marauding crowds that stress me out or worry as much about getting pickpocketed or accosted along the way. I know it sounds a touch snobby, and that if it wasn’t for my marrying Charles, I may well have found myself working in a shop on Oxford Street, let alone being able to afford to go shopping along it – I didn’t exactly shine in my degree and hadn’t a clue what to do with myself after graduating with a 2:2 so I hardly had a glittering career ahead. But I can’t help who I’ve become, nor my naturally wary disposition. It’s always been crucial for me to feel safe. To not feel frightened or intimidated by my surroundings or put myself in a situation that might induce the panic attacks I suffered in my teens. Frightening episodes that made a comeback fifteen years later, after I thought I’d seen the back of them. And so, I do whatever I can to maintain a calm state of mind. And that includes having routine and set places I restrict myself to. It’s also why I see Dr Martin privately every other week on Dr Adams’s recommendation. Not because I’m some rich, pampered widow who can afford to see him. But because he makes me feel safe. Secure. Since Charles died that’s something I’ve craved more than ever. While I’m here I also intend to ask him about Dr Adams. I was all set to visit him on Monday afternoon, keen to know what it was that was so important he couldn’t discuss it over the phone, but when I checked my inbox on Monday morning there was an email from him sent late Sunday evening saying something urgent had come up and he therefore needed to rearrange but would be in touch ASAP. It seemed a slightly odd time to be emailing, and I did wonder why he didn’t just try calling or leave me a voicemail, particularly after he’d sounded so eager to speak to me. But in any case, I wrote back telling him not to worry, that I understood completely and would be happy to rearrange whenever was convenient to him. But I’ve not heard anything since, which is unusual for Dr Adams as he’s normally so prompt to respond. I just hope he’s OK. That nothing bad has happened to him.
‘OK, I guess,’ I say in response to Dr Martin’s question as to how things have been. I could lie down on the couch if I wanted to, rather than sit facing him across his desk. Dr Martin told me the first time I came to see him that many of his patients prefer to lie down. To close their eyes as they unburden themselves. That they find this less intimidating than having to make eye contact with the professional assessing them. But I am not like other patients, and lying down is the last thing I want to do. Not without the aid of sleeping pills that is, despite my pie-in-the-sky desire to wean myself off them and sleep naturally. The truth is, lying down induces painful flashbacks of my childhood. Memories I repressed for so long until Dr Adams got me to confront and overcome them. Before that terrifying night happened fifteen years later, when they all came flooding back, and I found myself yielding to their vice-like grip once again. And so, when I sit up and see Dr Martin across from me – a safe and friendly face who I know only has good intentions – it calms me, gives me someone solid and reliable to focus on. Someone I can trust. There are very few people I’ve felt able to trust in this world. I can count them on one hand, and Dr Martin is one of them.
He sits back in his chair, rests his elbows on either armrest then steeples his hands beneath his chin, waiting for me to continue. He always appears so composed and together, but today there’s a brooding look in his eyes. As if something weighty is troubling him.
‘I’ve been tired, lacking in energy, sleeping a lot more than usual since Ethan died,’ I say. ‘I was exhausted on Sunday. Spent most of the afternoon in a daze.’
It’s true. Sunday afternoon passed in something of a blur. I’m not sure why, but I felt completely shattered and must have drifted off after lunch. I didn’t come to until around five. Then went to bed at ten.
‘It’s understandable, you went through quite an ordeal. Finding his body on the ground like that, it would have been a shock for anyone.’
I think back to my conversation with Seb on Monday morning and feel a twinge of guilt for not being entirely honest with him about Ethan. Alluding to his possible depression but failing to mention our argument the night before he fell.
The thing is, and what continues to bother me, is that Ethan had come home high before and never gone up to the roof. Not in the entire two years he lived with me. And so I can’t help wondering if he was still upset about our row. I had every right to be mad with him after what he did. To be honest, he’d been acting strangely for some time. He’d seemed distant, preoccupied, which was so unlike him. As if something was playing on his mind. I asked him what was wrong – up until then we’d had such a solid, honest relationship, or so I thought – and he’d admitted to speaking to her next door at number 6. She put ideas into his head. Ideas about things that were no concern of his, or hers. Not only that, he told me he’d found something; something private of mine he shouldn’t have gone looking for. I felt so furious, so violated, when I discovered what it was, that I told him I wanted him out of the house by the end of the month. But now, looking back, I realise I may have been too harsh on Ethan. The firm he worked for was known for running its trainees into the ground, and he’d mentioned to me on several occasions that he wasn’t sure if he could hack the pace. It breaks my heart to think that our row – my casting him out – could have pushed him over the edge. That he went up to the roof with the intention of taking his own life. Even though the autopsy confirmed that the copious amounts of alcohol and drugs found in his system were almost conclusively to blame, and so it was likely he wouldn’t have known what he was doing when he fell. That it was, most probably, the cruellest of accidents. I guess we’ll never know the truth for certain. But that in itself is driving me crazy.
Dr Adams is the only one I’ve mentioned the argument to. That, amongst other things. I told him last Thursday because the guilt was eating away at me. I felt I’d known him long enough to trust he wouldn’t think any less of me or assume my sharp tongue drove Ethan to his death. Which he didn’t. In fact, he was as understanding as ever. Despite asking some questions that threw me a little. I feel bad for keeping Dr Martin in the dark. But the truth is, he doesn’t know me as well as Dr Adams and the last thing I need is to draw attention to myself, or give him the impression that I may have inadvertently caused Ethan’s death. I can’t bear the thought of him deeming my actions cruel or unfeeling. It’s a self-esteem thing, I suppose. I’ve never had a lot of it, and in many ways it’s held me back in life. Even so, I give a faint nod in response to Dr Martin’s comment, grateful for his empathy. It’s something I’ve always craved: the empathy of others. Kindness. It’s why I think Seb will be good for me. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. There’s something so familiar about him. He reminds me of a younger Charles, I guess. Calm, understated, level-headed. Not in the least bit full of himself the way Ethan could be, even though his confidence was partly what attracted me to him. Ethan was exciting, charismatic. And after five years of living alone I found his energy and exuberance refreshing. He reminded me of an old friend of mine. Someone who had been the opposite of me – confident through and through, full of life, of get-up-and-go. Someone a bit naughty, prepared to take risks, notwithstanding the costs. Looking back, I realise what a bad influence he was on me, but at the time I thought he was the bee’s knees. Because I was a child, and children can be so naïve. They only see what they want to see.
‘Yes, thank you, it was a shock. And I suppose that’s why I still find myself having nightmares about it.’
Dr Martin frowns. ‘And you’re taking the antidepressants I prescribed?’
‘Yes.’ I hesitate.
Dr Martin frowns again, the way a teacher might when confronted with a disobedient child. ‘What is it?’
‘I just want to feel in control again. Like I did when Charles was alive. Before that, even, after I went to stay with my aunt and uncle and Dr Adams helped me get a handle on my depression, with occupational therapy and weekly art classes. I’m frightened of going back to how I was in my teens and had all those panic attacks. Recently, I’ve, I’ve just felt a bit off-kilter, a bit out of it, as it were. And so, I’m wondering if now’s the time to come off the medication, so I can clear my head, make a fresh start. You said yourself the antidepressants can have an adverse effect after a time. Can even cause hallucinations and so forth. Maybe if I try and wean myself off them, the nightmares will stop. And I’ll feel clearer-headed.’
I’m such a hypocrite for saying all this. For trying to blame everything on the medication Dr Martin prescribed. The fact is, I haven’t been totally upfront with him. Not just about Ethan and our argument, but about the one glaringly obvious factor I know in my heart is impeding my recovery. That horrific night a decade ago. Something I shall never be able to tell anyone about. Not while I live and breathe. Not even Dr Adams. I almost told Ethan one night, when we’d drunk a bit too much wine, and started exchanging stories. He opened up about his childhood, how his father could be a bit pushy, how he always expected him to shine at everything and that the pressure was sometimes so great he felt suffocated, like he wanted to run away from it all. I’m sure that’s why Ethan drank, took drugs. It was an escape. And having shown me his vulnerable side, a side he rarely let anyone into, I guess he felt entitled to ask about my own childhood. I was almost on the verge of unburdening myself to him. But then I stopped myself in time, thank God. Managed to distract him in other ways…
But he wasn’t stupid. And I’m guessing he clued up on my reluctance to talk about my past, got the bit between his teeth and started asking questions. Questions I didn’t feel comfortable answering. Because I knew it had the potential to open up a can of worms I’d be unable to contain.
‘It’s possible,’ he says. ‘But I’m not sure you’re strong enough to come off them yet. We can certainly halve the dose. What do you think? Perhaps take one early evening, rather than just before bed. Just to settle your nerves, help you drift off later. That might stop the daytime sleepiness. Although I’m not convinced the medication is causing that. I specifically prescribed a low dose, just enough to take the edge off. To be honest, I think it’s more the depression that’s making you tired.’
‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘yes, of course, you’re probably right. OK, let’s do that.’
He nods, makes a note. ‘And how is the hunt for a new lodger going?’
I smile. ‘Good, actually. I’ve found someone. He’s moving in on Friday.’
Dr Martin suddenly looks concerned. Not the reaction I expected.
‘What’s wrong? Aren’t you pleased for me?’
He hesitates, then says, ‘Yes, yes, of course, that’s wonderful news. You seem happy. Relieved.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I say. I describe Seb to him and again feel a tug of shame that I can never be entirely honest with my new lodger. Particularly as he seems like such a kind soul. He has no idea how fragile I am inside, because I’m good at putting on a face with strangers, making myself out to be this confident, poised woman in my late thirties, when much of the time I feel like a frightened child. So many of my relationships have been built on lies. So many tarnished by guilt. It’s something that grates at my conscience, but I don’t see that I have any other option but to carry on the charade.
‘Sounds like the perfect choice,’ Dr Martin says.
‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘When I took Ethan in, I never imagined he’d be so volatile. That things could have ended up the way they did.’
Dr Martin has no idea that my and Ethan’s relationship became sexual a year after he moved in. We were never exclusive. He slept with other women, and I was OK with that. Sex wasn’t something I was seeking when I took him in as my lodger, and it wasn’t as if I was completely starved of sex and therefore desperate to get laid, because I did go on dates after Charles died; dates that ended up in the bedroom several times. But I guess with our living in such close proximity to one another, and him being so sexy and smart, as well as an incorrigible flirt, in some ways it was inevitable. He wasn’t timid about telling me that he found me incredibly attractive. That he couldn’t stop thinking about me when he was lying in bed, and would imagine doing all sorts of dirty things to me. Similar to the drink and the drugs, sex for Ethan was an escape from the pressures of daily life, a means to offload all the stress and high expectations weighing heavy on his young shoulders. I can’t ever imagine Seb saying such things to me. He seems too shy. Even though I’m also certain I didn’t imagine the chemistry between us on Monday. I’ve always had that effect on younger men, through no conscious effort on my part, I might add. It seems to radiate off me. Charles used to joke about it when we’d be out somewhere fancy, and he’d notice men’s eyes latch on to me the minute we entered a room. He never felt threatened, though. Because he knew that my heart belonged to him, and him only.
It wasn’t love with Ethan, at least not on my part, although I did come to care for him. It was lust, pure and simple, and I allowed myself to get caught up in the throes of physical attraction, flattered that he wanted me. The thing is, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with sex. It’s something that both disgusts and excites me. Something I resent and yet crave.
I often wonder if Dr Martin suspects there was more to my relationship with Ethan than friendship, though. Just because of how cut up I was about his death. How stressed I’ve been ever since. Neither he nor Dr Adams have any idea that Ethan’s father came to the house shouting abuse at me a few days after he died. Accusing me of toying with his son’s emotions. Of being a lying cut-throat whore rather than the virtuous grieving widow I made myself out to be. At first, I was both shocked and confused by his behaviour, but then I realised Ethan must have told him about his conversation with Stella at number 6. Despite my having tried my best to convince Ethan that what she said couldn’t be believed. And that she was very much mistaken in what she thought she’d seen all those years ago. She was wrong about other stuff too. Things she had no business speculating on. I said all this to Ethan’s father, told him that she was nothing but a sad, divorced lush who never slept, who thought she knew it all, but who really knew nothing and had nothing better to do than snipe and spread malicious lies. But I’m not sure he believed me. He was a grieving father looking for someone to blame and I was the obvious target.
I’m not sure what Stella’s endgame was with Ethan. Perhaps she wanted to impress him, get him on side with her lies. She was always jealous of me, jealous of how in love Charles and I were after her own husband left her for a younger woman. And then later, envious of the fact I had taken in a young, handsome lodger, perhaps even suspecting we were sleeping together. She couldn’t stand me finding happiness again because for the five years I lived alone we were equals in her eyes. We even had coffee together occasionally, despite having nothing much in common other than the fact we were both single. And it’s perhaps why she invented stories about me, stories that gave Ethan the wrong impression because, like I said, she’d seen what she wanted to see and not what was true. Both the green-eyed monster and the booze talking. I tried to convince Ethan of that. Urged Stella to get help for her addiction. But she didn’t want to hear it. Wouldn’t admit she had a problem. And so now we don’t speak any more. And I suspect it’s another reason why she’s tried to create more trouble for me recently. Wasting the police’s time with her delusions about how Ethan really died. Even though there’s still something about him going up to the roof so late at night that feels wrong. But I push the thought aside, because drawing attention to this house is the last thing I need. And it’s why I was grateful to Ethan’s firm for using their influence to clamp down on the whole sorry affair.
‘No, of course you could never have known he’d be so temperamental,’ Dr Martin says softly. ‘And that must have been hard for you. After all, getting a lodger was supposed to bring you comfort and stability, not more anguish.’
I nod. ‘Yes, that’s true. And I think things will be different with Seb. He has a completely different temperament. I already feel brighter, more optimistic.’
‘That’s good.’ He hesitates, and I notice that same preoccupied, almost sad, look in his eyes I saw earlier. I have a feeling he wants to tell me something but for some reason is holding back. Perhaps fearful of my reaction. It scares me.
‘What is it, doctor?’ I ask tentatively.
‘There’s something I need to tell you. Something that’s going to be difficult for you to hear.’
My heart kicks. ‘What is it? Please tell me,’ I say anxiously, despite being afraid of his response.
He lowers his eyes, then looks back up, his expression grave. ‘I’m afraid Dr Adams was found dead at his home in Guildford yesterday.’