London, the Nineties
There was a message on the answer machine. It was a few days after Clive had left and Artemis had just got home from dropping David off at school.
‘This is Dr Blackman. I wondered if you could call me when you get this message. My number is 071 …’
She scribbled down the details on a pad she kept on the side table in the hall, not recognising the number beyond the London area code. Why was a doctor calling? Her first thought was David. What if he had been ill and Clive had taken him to see someone without telling her? It’s possible that he didn’t want to worry her. But then why would she be addressed in the message rather than Clive, if he had been the one who—
Her thoughts were cut off by a woman’s voice. ‘Good morning. Dr Blackman’s office.’
‘Oh hello, this is Artemis Witherall. I had a message from Dr Blackman,’ Artemis said, her voice tense.
‘Please hold, Mrs Witherall. I’ll see if he’s available.’ There was a pause and then she came back on the line, ‘I’m going to put you through now.’
‘Mrs Witherall, thank you for calling back.’ The voice at the other end of the line was convivial, as if speaking to an old friend rather than someone he had never met. ‘I am an old friend of Clive’s; he’s been in touch, from Asia—’
‘Is he sick?’ Artemis was struck by a wave of guilt. She hadn’t considered for a moment that it might be Clive who was ill.
‘No, no, nothing like that. Please don’t worry. Actually, it was you he was concerned about.’ The doctor paused, letting his words sink in.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Clive tells me you’ve been struggling.’ He said it as a matter of fact, not requiring either confirmation or denial. From his manner it was hard to believe he had never even met the person he was talking to, but this level of self-belief, this unwavering certainty in what he was saying, was a trait she had noticed in so many of the people in Clive’s life – her life, now. From the teachers at David’s school, who spoke about her son as if it was they, not she, who had raised him, to the friends who came to the soirees he insisted on hosting at the house, denouncing the Prime Minister’s ability to govern on the basis of his accent; they all seemed to have an opinion, on everything. And their confidence in their own assertions was such that there was no point trying to persuade them otherwise.
‘It would be much better if we spoke face-to-face,’ Dr Blackman rattled on. ‘You could come to my office next week. I have an appointment available on—’
‘Look, I’m not sure what Clive has told you, but there must be some confusion – I’m not sick,’ Artemis interjected.
Dr Blackman paused. When he resumed, his voice had a patient authority. ‘I understand. And nobody is saying that you’re ill, necessarily. But with trauma can come long-lasting consequences, and sometimes it’s best we seek help for these. There’s nothing shameful in it. I think if we’re honest, the concern here isn’t just for you – it’s for David.’
‘David?’ Artemis held a hand to her head, trying to make sense of what was being said.
‘Now look, it’s much better to speak face-to-face. I’ll hand you back to Daisy at reception and she will book you in with an appointment, OK? I’m just on Harley Street, very central, easy to get to. I look forward to meeting you, Mrs Witherall.’
Artemis dropped David at school the following Monday and headed straight to the tube station, letting her mind go blank as the wind surged through the train carriages, the rattling motion of the Northern Line soothing her as she waited to get off at Euston, where it was just two more stops to Oxford Circus.
She was early for her appointment. She had hardly slept the night before and she stopped at Benjys, ordering a takeaway coffee which arrived in a cup so large she had to hold it with two hands as she walked towards Cavendish Square. On the other side of the square a couple of school-aged girls smoked cigarettes on a bench, screeching with laughter. There was a dishonesty to their display – no girl of fourteen or fifteen truly felt that free and at ease – and there was something saddening about watching them, wondering what they were hiding, from themselves and from each other. One day David would be their age. For a moment Artemis wondered whether she had instilled enough goodness in her son that he never became the reason girls like these cried in their beds at night. She closed her eyes and breathed in, picturing his eyes, the flecks of amber against a darker brown, the way he tipped his head back when he laughed so that his neck was exposed. David was good, of that she could be sure.
Dr Blackman’s office was on the ground floor of one of the townhouses that lined Harley Street. There were bars on the windows, and as she was buzzed in she wondered if they had been designed to keep people in or out.
‘Artemis, thank you for coming to see me. Do take a seat,’ Dr Blackman said, indicating one of the chairs that lined the office.
Artemis hesitated for a moment before perching at the edge of the chair. The room was neutrally furnished, without so much as a bookcase to reveal anything about the inhabitant.
‘I don’t really know why I came,’ she said.
Dr Blackman concentrated on her face with a neutral expression.
‘Is that so?’ He waited a while, to ascertain that she wasn’t going to offer anything else, sat, hands interlinked on his desk, making no attempt to fill the silence. She focused on his upturned nose, the spectacles that might have been for show – he struck her as that sort of man. He didn’t flinch under her assessment and she looked away first.
Almost a minute passed before he said, ‘I think you do know. I think you came because you love your son very much and you would do anything to make sure that you are the best version of yourself so that you can be the person he needs.’
Artemis said nothing, looking down at her fingers.
‘I understand you’ve never spoken before, about what happened to you.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Still she didn’t look at him.
‘So maybe now you’re ready to talk?’
‘I don’t see the point.’
Dr Blackman cleared his throat. ‘But you came here today, so maybe part of you does see a point?’
‘I came because I was curious, because I was concerned that my husband is talking about me to random psychologists without my consent—’
‘I’m not a psychologist, Artemis. I’m sorry, I should have explained. I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well I think my point remains.’
Dr Blackman breathed evenly. ‘Clive came to me because we have known each other a long time. He is worried about you, about David.’
Artemis looked back at him for the first time, a fierceness in her voice, ‘I’m sorry, what are you suggesting about my son?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything about David, other than that a child responds intuitively to a parent’s emotions. If a mother is struggling then it stands to reason that their child …’ Seeing her expression, he changed tack. ‘There is nothing shameful about struggling, Artemis. From what I’ve gathered, you had early trauma and, undealt with, that trauma lingers. I can’t make you do or say anything, but I can tell you that I can help you. If you let me.’
‘Why didn’t Clive come to me first?’ She was asking herself more than him, but he replied.
‘Maybe he felt you would respond better to a professional. These things can be just as hard, in a way, for the family. For partners, for children …’
Why did he keep bringing up David? She tightened her fingers around the base of her seat.
Sensing her reaction, he continued, unabashed. ‘There is no shame here, Artemis. If you hurt your foot, you go to a doctor – you do not limp on because you are too embarrassed to ask for medication. It’s no different when the wound is internal.’
‘You want to put me on pills?’ Artemis said.
‘Not necessarily,’ Dr Blackman replied evenly. ‘Sometimes it can help, in the short term.’
‘What sort of medication?’
‘It depends. There are a number of different anti-depressants, depending on what suits various factors in your life. There are things if you’re having trouble sleeping …’
Defensively, Artemis touched her hand to her face. She knew she looked terrible. The toll of endless sleepless nights was evident in the puffy lids and the dark rings that circled her eyes.
‘Nothing is set in stone. Nothing has to be permanent. Sometimes in life we all need an extra hand, until we are strong enough to hold the weight alone.’