I swing Jeremy’s car into the gravel driveway and turn off the engine. The air conditioning ceases to afford its protection and I’m ravenous and thirsty. The mercury topped thirty degrees today. England isn’t built for heatwaves. My home is a Georgian-fronted haven of apparent tranquillity, and other people’s problems pay for it. Misery makes money. The street is leafy and shaded and affords some escape from the heat. It’s private and secluded, though a stone’s throw away from the centre of Cambridge. Desirable real estate. I sit and contemplate what awaits me. I want to clean the inside of my head with a cool cloth.
It had been Jeremy who interrupted my session with Carrie. Dora is easily swayed by him. When sober, Jeremy is warm and persuasive. But I rarely get to witness him abstinent anymore. It’s gone five o’clock and I know he’ll be steadily on his way to a stupor by now, having done nothing all day apart from google successful psychologists and pretend to research his thesis. I know his passwords on my Mac computer, and I see how much work he does in a day. I know what he watches.
As I drove home, I passed hundreds of people sitting on the banks of the river Cam, drinking beer or wine, having picnics, laughing and carefree, safe in their joy. We used to do things like that: an afternoon drink, a punt on the river, or a bike ride with the kids. I wonder what Carrie Greenside will be doing tonight in her childless mansion. Her freedom to take lovers, swim naked, and book holidays in exotic places taunts me.
My breakthrough with Carrie today comforts me a little. She released some of her rage. The belief that endless talking about problems somehow repairs them is now old school, and cutting-edge trauma work is all about re-visiting and re-feeling. It’s tough, but Carrie has what it takes. I take a minute to consider the horrific abuse Carrie suffered as a child, and maybe that’s what I need to do: calm down before I go inside; destress and declutter all the information from my job. I concentrate on the seven-year-old girl, terrified and brutalised. Carrie’s father, violent and damaged himself, took his wrath out on his daughter, as her mother stood by and watched. The wounds are deep. Children from such backgrounds often rise to the top of their fields, but equally they also end up under bridges injecting heroin. Carrie is a woman of extremes; highly emotionally intelligent, clever and inquisitive, but infected with crippling vulnerability. She doesn’t just want to know how to get better, she wants to understand the process and take ownership of it. And for that, I admire her.
My moment of purging doesn’t work. I still feel burdened by the suffering of others.
I don’t want to go inside the house. It might fall down, even though it’s made of stone. The children are likely off with friends, or at various clubs until dinner time, so for now it could be just Jeremy and me. I want a cool glass of rosé in the garden, alone. A dive in the pool. But suddenly the thought of water makes me feel as though I’m swimming underneath the surface. At the bottom is the mortgage, the kids’ school fees, the family cars and the Waitrose delivery: all of it threatening to drown me in a blurry watery grave. My body feels tired and I force myself out of the car. The fierce heat of the day has withered the grand peonies in the pretty pots outside the door, and they beg me for water, screaming their need, like everything else in my life. They’re lucky I don’t swipe their heads off.
The reason for Jeremy’s rude interruption, however, was legitimate, and we have something serious to talk about. The police want to ask some questions about a friend of ours who’s gone off the grid. Monika is married to a good friend of ours, and they live just a few miles from here. It’s not the first time she’s taken off, and I’m not in the least bit surprised, so at first, I didn’t understand why he’d made it official this time, until Jeremy told me it was his idea to call the police. My only explanation for this is that the drama Monika has managed to create is likely something that will enable Jeremy to imbibe more numbing gel tonight.
The police must investigate, to a point. Monika is an adult and is entitled to drop out of reality occasionally. After all, that’s all anyone is after when they watch a movie or surf the internet mindlessly. Missing is an adjective and subject to interpretation.
I drag my files out of the car, along with the shopping, and waft my hair at my neck. My body is sticky and I need a shower. I’m put off diving into the pool because I don’t know what I’ll find underneath the surface. The air is muggy, and the temperature is twenty-eight degrees. After the relief of Jeremy’s air-conditioned car, my body is engulfed by a fresh layer of sweat. The heatwave is due to last all week.
I slam the car door with my foot and see that Jeremy has had mine cleaned. It’s negligible encouragement. I go around the back of the house and see evidence that the children have been in the pool. Discarded towels, toys they say they’re too old to enjoy, empty glasses and turned over lounge chairs litter the space.
The kitchen door is open.
Jeremy is sat at the bar, looking forlorn. At least he’s dressed. And we have something to talk about tonight: where Monika might be. The sight of him makes my clothes feel too tight, and I brace myself for a spikey exchange. In here, I’m no doctor.
‘Long day?’ he asks.
I nod. There are dirty pots in the sink, and the dishwasher hasn’t been on. I throw open windows in a futile attempt to get more air in. My wedding rings are too tight.
‘Kids out?’
It’s his turn to nod. Years ago, an empty house would have been our opportunity to run upstairs and get naked, jumping on each other like deprived lunatics, tearing at each other’s bodies and finding each other’s mouths hungrily. There was a time I found him surprisingly hypnotic, and rampantly beddable, but now the thought of intimacy with him fills me with physical aversion. It’s a self-preservation response that I counsel my married clients in, but I don’t practise myself. The chancellor advises austerity, but he still skis in Verbier every year.
I walk to the fridge and unpack food and milk. There’s a scrap of wine left in the bottom of a bottle and I pour it into a glass and drain it, glad I didn’t poison it after all.
‘Another one chilling?’ I ask him.
‘There’s some outside, I’ll get it,’ he says.
Jeremy goes to the pool house, where we have an outdoor kitchen, mainly for parties, which we no longer have. When he comes back, I’m sat at the breakfast bar, scrolling through my phone, seeking mindless connection where there is none. I’ve turned into a teenager without the tight skin and years of potential ahead of me. An amateur psychologist would say that Jeremy and I are experiencing a mid-life crisis, but this is infinitely more disappointing and enduring.
He tops up my glass and we sit in silence, the point of what we intended to talk about forgotten.
‘Did you take Ewan to the range?’ I ask.
What I’m really seeking is confirmation of whether he was in fact sober enough to drive his son. It’s immature and I feel petulant. It’s been a long day.
‘Yeah, I dropped him at a pal’s after. We put his new bike in the boot so he can cycle home later.’
Even bikes are enablers for Jeremy’s drinking habits.
‘How’s Lydia?’
It’s a daily question. Our options are limited. Lydia isn’t responding well to counselling, but ethically neither I nor Jeremy can treat our own daughter. One might think that doctors of clinical psychology would make decent parents. Not so. Maybe we’re all screwed because we’re psychologists, like James likes to tease me. It’s clever and humorous when he says it, though.
I gulp my wine.
‘Did you talk to her?’
He bristles. His hands tremble, and it’s not the first time I’ve noticed it. I’m attacking him. I have no filter.
‘It’s not that easy. If she doesn’t want to talk, then I can’t force her,’ he says, defensively. His words are slurring slightly.
Jeremy has never practised psychology, though he’s fully qualified to do so, but he has plenty to say on the subject, mainly hidden in secret documents on my computer, which he thinks will one day be sold for millions, and which he believes are protected with passwords.
I watch him refill his glass and it puts me off my own. I cover it with my hand when he goes to do so.
‘Did you at least try?’ I can’t let it go. He’s glaring at me.
‘I had other things on my mind today, like Tony and Monika.’
Ah, that’s what we were supposed to be talking about. Guilt washes over me, but not too much. It’s not just Monika who is missing; we’re all shadows.
‘Sorry, how is Tony? Did Monika just wander off again?’
He drains another glass. He’ll blame it on his nerves.
‘God, Jeremy, steady on. How much have you had?’
‘Don’t you dare moralise to me! You’ve no idea how utterly dejecting it is to be married to a successful high-flying and decorated psychologist and have to pick up the pieces at home.’
It comes out of nowhere. My mouth opens but no words come out. I thought we were supposed to be talking about Tony and Monika. His eyes are red and he glares at me with loathing. I don’t feel fear, just pity.
I don’t want any more wine, and I look in the fridge for inspiration for dinner. There is leftover lamb from Sunday’s BBQ.
Tony and Monika came over.
For a few hours, over several bottles of booze, and in and out of the pool, we put a band-aid over our lives, like all parties do, and we smiled and chatted about summer holidays, and skiing next year.
Now Monika is AWOL, and I feel an idiot for not spotting something. I remember that the police want to talk to me, but I know it’s a waste of time. Monika follows her own agenda.
The Thorpes’ marriage is volatile and sometimes everybody needs a breather. With no children, they often take themselves off, separately, for a break. They met on a cruise, along the Danube River. Monika is a Latvian ex-model, who scooped our friend coming out of a messy divorce. Tony went away with a broken heart and returned with a new wife. One who happens to be young and beautiful. It also turns out that she is capricious and flighty.
‘There’s probably some perfectly ordinary explanation for a fallout.’ I skip over his explosive anger from moments ago. It’s the booze talking, not the man I married.
I look in a cupboard and find tortilla wraps, deciding that fajitas will be a good dinner tonight, with the lamb. I distract myself by chopping vegetables and salad. Jeremy sits at the kitchen bar, brooding. My hands are grateful for the occupation.
I’m relieved to hear the front door slam. It’s Ewan.
‘Hey, buddy. What the hell?’ Jeremy says. He puts down his glass, which has been stuck to his hand, and rushes to his son. Ewan’s face is sweaty and bruised. His chest heaves up and down and he’s shaking.
‘What happened?’ I stop what I’m doing, putting down the knife, and I go to him. Ewan tries to speak but he can’t. I understand enough to know that he’s been attacked again, and his new bike has been stolen.
‘Do you know them?’ Jeremy bellows.
‘Jeremy…’ He ignores me. Ewan is desperate to get away, his face burning with shame.
‘Jesus Christ! That bastard Brandon Stand!’ Jeremy shouts. Ewan flinches and his eyes widen.
‘It’s all right, Dad! It doesn’t matter!’
‘It does matter! I’m sick of it! I’m phoning the headmaster,’ he slurs.
Brandon Stand is the son of the headmaster of Ewan’s school, which sets me back almost twenty grand a year. It also means that Ewan’s tormentor is untouchable.
‘No! Dad! Please don’t.’
I hold Ewan close and he lets me. I smell his fear, and his pain. He’s living in hell and I can do nothing about it. I examine his face. What I thought were bruises wipe away in my hand. It’s mud.
‘We’ve got to phone the school, Ewan,’ I tell him. His face crumples and he begs me not to make a fuss. Jeremy is still ranting in the background, but he’s gone back to his wine.
‘For God’s sake, Jeremy!’
I feel an elastic band snap in my head, and so does Ewan, who leaves the room. I could punch my husband. I know we’ll need the plastic sheet on Ewan’s bed tonight.
‘You need to ball your fist up and punch him straight in the face!’ Jeremy shouts after his son.
‘He’s gone.’
Lydia walks in from outside, removing her headphones. I had no idea she was there. Neither did Jeremy.
‘Hi, Mum. What’s going on?’
She wears a bikini and has been sunbathing. She looks like she might snap. I hold out my arms and give her a hug. I imagine crushing a meringue for Eton mess.
‘Hey, beautiful. How was your day?’
‘Was that Ewan? Is he all right?’ Her brow knits.
‘Same stuff.’
‘Oh. Will you call the police?’ she asks.
‘Yes. I must. They’ll have to log it. They took his bike. Maybe you could talk him into giving a statement?’
‘I will, Mum,’ she says, going to the stairs.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yeah, I ate already, I had a big lunch,’ Lydia lies. As she disappears, I see how bony her back has become. I can pick out every single muscle group in her body, because it looks as though they are sat just under the surface, protected only by a paper-thin layer of silk. I’m no longer interested in finding Monika. I want to find out where my own children have gone, and who took them apart, and how.
I turn back to Jeremy. But he’s gone. Outside, on his phone.