41.

That evening, Terri was particularly agitated. The lasagne she had removed from the freezer that morning didn’t interest her. Her wine tasted bitter. She couldn’t even settle to watch her favourite soap. It had been a reasonably productive day, the most fruitful for weeks, in actual fact. Biddy had revealed some new information and her form, yet again, was good.

‘What the hell is wrong with me, Bertie?’ Terri asked her companion, as he helped himself to the untouched lasagne which sat on a tray at her feet. Bertie glanced up momentarily, but his mistress’s leftovers were of more interest to him than her problems. Terri shook her head and smiled. ‘You eat, my boy. One of us might as well.’ She paced around the cottage, wandering from room to room, stopping every so often to drum her fingers on a window ledge or an item of furniture. Finally she returned to the living room, where Bertie lay sprawled on the rug in front of the hearth. He tilted his head and looked at her through one opened eye. ‘A bath,’ she announced. ‘That’s what I need. A big, bubbly bath, candles and some music. And another bottle of wine. This one is off.’

As Terri relaxed in her bath and hummed along to the Greek music playing in the background, the source of her pent-up agitation gradually dawned on her. She’d known for weeks that she had let herself become more personally involved with Biddy than with anyone else she had ever dealt with, apart from Derek Davidson, of course, who was still an important person in her life – so that wasn’t the issue. In London there had always been several clients on her books at the same time, and a host of other exciting projects which kept her busy in between her clinics. But here, there was only Biddy. It wasn’t that she was bored with her. Far from it. She was properly fond of the girl; fascinated by her, in fact. It seemed that Biddy had become her personal crusade.

She wanted to emancipate her, free her from the shackles of a stunted childhood which still imprisoned her. It wasn’t too late for Biddy to live her life, and she wanted to make damn well sure that she bloody well did. Perhaps, she thought as she sipped her more agreeable wine, it was easier to connect with Biddy because she wasn’t an official client. She wasn’t being paid by anyone to assess the girl’s state of mind, or to help sort her life out. She didn’t have to submit an official report to anyone, or recommend a treatment programme, or attend meetings with several other health care professionals to discuss her case. But it wasn’t just that. It was so much more. She realised, with a shock, that the discomfort which had been growing inside her wasn’t purely because she was anxious for Biddy’s life to begin, but because she didn’t want to spend the rest of hers sorting out the lives of other people. Moving back home was supposed to put a stop to all that. It was supposed to signal the start of her own new life, to heal her own pain. Clearly, it hadn’t. Oh, she loved Cove Cottage, and she didn’t resent Biddy for a second. On the contrary, she was so very glad that Charlie had asked her to help. Truly. Helping Biddy, however, had made Terri realise that it really was time now to help herself. Just as Derek, dear, sweet Derek, had set her off on this journey, Biddy must be the one to end it. And as the CD played the last melodic chords of the final track, evoking a sudden, glorious memory of a certain Cretan sunset, she knew precisely what she must do.