I backed up into the kitchen, circling around and behind the island unit, my body shimmery with embarrassment and unease. Bracing my hands against the edge of the countertop, I summoned a watery smile as Donovan closed and locked the door to the garden. When he turned and saw me, I felt myself shrink.
‘Lucy? Are you OK?’
The door to the basement was just a few metres away to my left, at the end of the run of kitchen units against the far wall. We kept the pedal bin in front of it because we rarely had any need to go down there. It was where Sam now stored most of the DIY tools we’d used during the renovation.
But that wasn’t the only reason the bin was there. It was also a kind of safety barrier for me. A psychological one.
‘You’re going to think this is strange,’ I said.
‘Try me.’
He sounded so composed. So calm and patient. Again, it made me ask myself if he had a medical background. A good bedside manner.
‘I can’t go into the basement.’
I said it fast, like ripping off a plaster.
‘OK,’ he replied slowly.
‘I’m claustrophobic,’ I explained.
‘Oh, right. So when I mentioned going down into the basement just now . . .’
He indicated the door and I pulled a face, bending slightly at the waist and clutching my side as if I had stomach cramps.
‘Sorry. It’s just, even thinking about it freaks me out.’
‘That bad?’
I nodded, cringing, but the reality was even worse.
I could already feel a dimness seeping in from the corners of my vision, shadows invading my mind. I knew from the decorating work Sam had done and the photographs he’d shown me that it wasn’t dingy and unlit down there. I knew there was ample light and air, and that Sam had spent days clearing the space out, painting the walls, sweeping and vacuuming the tiled floor, installing a tool bench and storage. I knew all that, but somehow a part of me didn’t believe it. When I thought of the basement, all I could picture was blackness and dampness and fear.
‘I’m the same with lifts. Or tunnels. Even underground car parks. It’s just the idea of no windows and being confined and—’
‘It’s OK. I get it.’
But he didn’t get all of it. I wouldn’t tell him that much.
It’s all in your head.
You can control this.
These are just thoughts you’re having and these thoughts will pass.
I could almost hear Sam saying those words to me. He’d coached me through enough fledgling panic attacks in the past, rubbing my back, stroking my hair. One of the things I loved most about our relationship was that I could be vulnerable with him, trust him to be there for me in a way I hadn’t been sure I could trust anyone again after what happened with my ex, though sometimes it made me worry that I wasn’t much fun to be around.
I’d said to Sam more than once that it had to be frustrating for him that his fixes had never quite stuck with me. I knew they’d worked for lots of the people who’d attended his support groups because I’d seen the thank-you cards and gifts in his study that many of them had sent him.
Sam, though, just smiled and told me it was fine. My case was just more complex and stubborn than most. And while I knew that on one level he was right – I understood probably better than anyone that my phobia was compounded by the trauma I’d suffered – I still couldn’t help feeling as if I’d let him down.
It took me a moment to become aware that Donovan was stroking his jaw, looking between me and the basement.
‘So here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘If I’m honest, one of the big selling points for me with this place is the basement I saw on the plans. I have some gym equipment and weights that I wouldn’t want cluttering up any house I buy, and the details said your basement is finished, so . . .’
‘It is finished.’
‘Right. So really, it’s sort of perfect for me. Down there. And I would like to see it if I can.’
‘Oh, absolutely! But would you mind waiting until Bethany gets here?’
‘Sure, I guess. Why not? Are you OK to show me the upstairs instead?’