ten

The text from Troy Martell came through twenty minutes later. Unsurprisingly, our meeting was off.

Jim caught me as I nipped to the loo in between clients. “I heard the news, Kim. I’m sorry. Are you holding up?”

“There are days when I absolutely detest this job.”

He looked at me with kind eyes, and rested a hand lightly on my shoulder. “We all do.”

As soon as I was behind the safety of a locked door, I bawled my eyes out—for Mimi, for the waste of a young life that had barely got cracking and had ended in decrepitude. I also cried a little bit for myself and wasn’t proud of it. Tempted to increase my dosage of pills—I could take up to 60mg although not desirable—I resisted and urged myself to calm down. Splashing my eyes with cold water, I patted them dry and repaired my face with the special make-up I used to conceal the scarring. Then, fortified with coffee, I worked through the rest of the morning, lost myself in it, too numbed to string together any coherent thoughts about Mimi. Five minutes before the end of my last session with Imogen, a girl with dead white skin, a history of self-harm, and who had uttered three fuck you sentences in almost an hour, Cathy tapped on my door and popped her head round.

“Someone to see you.” Spirits lifted, I thought of Troy Martell. Then, with apprehension, Stannard.

“Who?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

I said, “Wouldn’t?” I thought she?

“It’s supposed to be a surprise, I think.”

My stomach snagged at the thought of Mrs. Vellender. No, foolish, it couldn’t be. “But I’m not expecting anyone.”

Cathy rolled her eyes. “That’s why it’s a surprise.”

“Young, old?” As Imogen was disinclined to utter another syllable, I saw nothing wrong in using up the last five minutes. It would be a relief to both of us and maybe my client would follow my example, even catch on to the subtle art of conversation.

“Hard to say,” Cathy replied, “possibly in her sixties.”

Oh no. Olivia Mallory, Kyle Stannard’s possessive mother. Had to be.

“Sorry, Cathy, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position but, unless this woman gives a name, I’m not seeing anyone.” And I was most definitely not doing battle with Mrs. Mallory.

“I quite understand,” Cathy said. “It’s been a sad morning for all of us.”

The saddest, I thought.

“Leave it with me,” Cathy said.

And I knew I could. Cathy Whitcombe’s mild and charming manner disguised a will of cold rolled steel. As fiercely protective of staff as she was of residents, if Cathy couldn’t sort out my unnamed visitor, nobody could.

I turned back to my client and forced a bright smile. “I appear to have done all the talking.” Which wasn’t strictly true. Most of the hour had been spent in silences I couldn’t read. “You said you wanted to work on overcoming the urge to binge. Have I got that right?”

Imogen dropped her gaze and took an avid interest in the carpet.

“Good,” I said, stilted, “we’ve made progress. I’ll see you next session and we can talk some more.”

She nodded furiously, eager to bolt.

“In the meantime, jot down any notes in your record book about how you’re feeling, your mood, and attitude to your body, particularly when you want to purge. Can you do that for me?”

Imogen issued a fake smile. Contained and clutching her secrets tightly inside, she scarpered. I updated my records on the computer and tidied my desk. Cathy returned, only this time she closed the door behind her.

My eyes met her troubled gaze. “What is it?”

“The woman outside in Reception.”

“Yeah?”

“Her name is Monica Slade.”

As if tectonic plates had shifted beneath my feet, revealing a death-defying plunge into a sinkhole, I all but gasped. Giddy, I peered at Cathy. “No, that can’t be right.”

“Kim,” Cathy said, with finality. “She’s definitely your mother.”