PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (15 page)

“No
it is, Charlotte.  We must face things.  We have been avoiding each other of
late.  Even on your birthday I could barely bring myself to talk to you.”  For
the second time today I do not know which world I am living in but I am sure it
is not my own.  “And then in the drawing room.”  He waits, reflecting on his
animal behaviour.  “I am sorry.  What I did was inappropriate.”  I wanted to
tell him that it was the first time I had felt wanted and a part of his life as
an equal since before the accident.  I didn’t say anything for fear of his
judgement, but also because I found the fact of being groped like that and being
so pleased by it a sad prospect.  Was there nothing any better in our life
together than being felt up like a cheap whore? 

“I
would just like to try and move forward together, Gregory.  We have other
things to think about now.  The baby.”  I see his head drop a little, a weight
on his shoulders, an extra worry he could do without.

“Yes. 
The baby.”  He takes a sip of his coffee and a small bite of a crustless tuna sandwich. 
He doesn’t really eat like a man.  He eats like a ballerina might eat, all fingers
and attention to detail.  He places the sandwich back on his plate and looks
up.  “I must say it was quite a shock.  But, you are now pregnant, and, we will
deal with it according.”  I feel like he is arranging a dinner menu and has
just found out that he has a missing ingredient, or a drain pipe has burst and
he will deal with the problem.

“I
don’t feel that you are happy about the baby, Gregory.  You didn’t come to the
hospital.  You don’t want to tell any of our friends.”

“And
you missed your appointment with Dr. Abrams this week, Charlotte.”  He lets
that idea just hang over us for a moment before carrying on.  “I can’t help but
feel this baby is a distraction that will lead you astray, down a path that you
shouldn’t be on.”  He thinks I missed it on purpose.

“I’m
sorry I didn’t go.”

“Did
you miss it on purpose?”  It’s a reasonable question.  I have long complained
about seeing Dr. Abrams. 

“No,”
I lie.

“Please
tell me the truth.”

“I
said no.  I know the appointments are important.”  I actually do know this. 

“I
can’t go through it again, Charlotte, I just can’t.”

“I
said no.”  The final words to leave my lips were sharp edged and taut.  I was
sick of people assuming that without one weekly visit to the psychiatrist I
would suddenly return to craziness, descend into madness, loop the loop or
whatever else people have said about me over the last six months.  So what, I
think to myself.  I tried to kill myself.  Get over it.  It’s done.  I failed. 
I’m still here.  Stop choking the life I have left out of me by pressuring me and
hating our baby. 

People
assume, and particularly Gregory, that I have no insight into my reality.  They
think,
oh, she’s insane, we must make her understand and see what happened.
 
They think that I cannot see the abnormality of my actions.  They think that I
believe that it was acceptable to become obsessed by my father’s death.  They
believe that I thought it was acceptable to sink our boat.  They believe that
when I told Gregory that I wanted to join my father at the bottom of the lake
that I actually believed we would be reunited and sit together, talk about the
years since his passing.  They take everything so literally, as if my words are
to be interpreted as actual events in reality.  I had hoped that the taking of
my life would prove a private matter.  I had been considering it for some time,
and had certainly given my method of choice a degree of internal debate.  I
knew it had to be in the lake, for it was the only place and method that would
satisfy my needs and serve to avenge my survival years before.  And yet there were
many considerations.  Rowing boat?  Hired boat?  Gregory’s boat?  Weighed down?
Drugged?  Drunk?  All of the above?  I had used up a lot of time.  A lot of conscious
and sensible thought.  A lot of planning had gone into my death, but clearly
not enough, for I still am here talking about it now.  I have heard enough, and
this conversation is over.  What began quite pleasantly has come to a sudden
end.  Much like that day on the lake.

“Shall
we leave, Gregory.  I have to see Marianne before she leaves for the weekend.” 
Marianne was in all truth avoiding me.  I saw her once through the window and I
know she saw me but she ignored me, ducked her head, and quickly went back
inside.  Perhaps she was ashamed.  It’s much harder to judge a crazy person
when they know you too have been touched by the same affliction. 

“Charlotte,
please just promise me that next week you will keep the appointment.”  I was
already standing up, picking up my bag and fixing my gloves.  “It’s very
important for us.  For you.”

“OK,
OK, don’t panic.  I’m not about to jump off a cliff, Gregory.”

“It’s
not the cliffs that scare me, Charlotte.  It’s the water that is much closer to
home.”  And yet he brings me near it.  I consider taunting him with this fact
for a second or two but instead, tired to fight and tentative of my situation,
I say this.

“I
will go.”

The
journey back home was quiet and I used the free time to consider my meeting
with Marianne.  I was keen to get to speak to her before she left for the
weekend, and before Mrs. Wexley returned home.  Our first trip out together had
been very successful for me.  Finding out that she too had a requirement for
anti-depressants was a big result.  It brought her closer to me without even
trying.  It gave me knowledge, which everybody knows is power.  I was building
up a nice picture of her instability, and during my waking moments I had spent
some time considering what John Wexley might have told her about her turning down
the pictures around the house.  I wondered if he had forbidden her from doing
so again, and if when he went to work she still did it.  I wondered if he knew
that she was clinically depressed or if it was news to him.  Perhaps he knew
and had realised how close he was to the fire and my information was just added
fuel, a fresh breath of oxygen for the flames to grow again.

As
we pull up outside our house, the road as quiet as the air between us, Gregory
seems distracted by our previous conversation.  He fidgets with the keys, turns
off the engine and shuffles about in his seat.  I attempt to get out of the
car, but I feel his apologetic fingers grappling at my arm and he clearly has
something that he wants to say.  I am conscious of the time, and know that
Marianne will be leaving soon.

“Charlotte,
please.  Just a moment.  I want to talk to you without Ishiko in hearing
distance.”  I bet he does.

“Why?”

“Because
it’s important that some things are said in private and I do not want to
discuss your medical history with our housemaid.”  He is happy to get her in
his bed though.

“What
do you want to say?”

“Charlotte,
it’s the fundraiser tonight.  You know this is important to me, and The Sailing
Club.  It has been arranged for several months, and I was hoping that we might
be able to spend a pleasant day together and then attend the fundraiser
tonight.  I had rather hoped that we could remain on pleasant terms.”  Now I
understand.  The public version of Gregory and Charlotte has an engagement
tonight and we have to put in an appearance.  We will be expected to attend and
smile along like we always do when there are important strangers to impress. 
He was hoping that this morning would butter me up for a pleasant and easy
evening.  He wants me to be the good wife that he had hoped he was marrying
when he stood there and promised to love me forever.  There are expectations to
meet as Gregory Astor’s wife, and being crazy and post suicidal was never on
the list.  He loves The Sailing Club, even though he no longer owns a boat.  He
is unlikely to buy a new one.

“We
will attend the fundraiser and everything will be as you expect it to be.”  I spot
Mrs. Sedgwick in the corner of my eye staggering up the brow of the hill to our
driveway.  “I will behave,” I say, a little more sarcastically than intended.  “You
have my word.”

“It’s
at The Sailing Club, Charlotte.”  He has already said this, but he feels the
necessity to reinforce the fact, knowing full well that the last time I was
there was........eventful. 

“I
said you have my word.”

“You
realise we will be by the water?”

“It’s
a sailing club, Gregory.  And I have been there before, remember?”  Dana is
waving at us with one hand, and the other is resting on her knee which I think
she needs surgery on but that is just my own assessment.

“No
strange behaviour?  No staring out at the lake?”  He really wants to tell me
not to
give them any reason to gossip about me.  They already suspect you to
be crazy, don’t make it worse
.  Most people who attend The Sailing Club go
along with my accident being exactly that.  Maybe they even believe it.  Who
knows.  Who cares?

“Yes,
Gregory.”  My words are flat and dull, petulant like a teenager who just wants
the cautionary discussion to end.  We both get out of the car at the same time,
doors slamming behind us just a little too loudly to go unnoticed.  I could see
Marianne in the window of the Wexley's lounge, praying most likely that Dana
would interrupt me and prevent me knocking the door.  I bolt towards The Wexley’s
house and instead interrupt Dana Sedgwick’s progress.

“Good
morning, Charlotte,” She says to me.  “I was hoping to catch a few words with
your husband about the fundraiser tonight.”  She plods on, not stopping for any
great interaction. 

“Be
my guest,” I offer, arms spread as if welcoming her onto our land.  She pats me
on the arm as she passes me, and gives me a little side smile.  Of all the
people I remember being there after my ‘accident’, she was the one who was
always popping in to visit.  I cannot count the number of meals she had plated
up by her maid and which she brought to me personally.  Of all the people I
know, she seems the least bothered by the presence of a mentally ill person in
her street.

“Will
we see you tonight too?” she asks cautiously as she steps onto my driveway.

“Wouldn’t
miss it for the world,” I say in response.  She smiles at me, all her wonky
teeth showing, brown from her zealous smoking habit and she chortles a chesty
laugh.  She looks and sounds like a donkey.  I spot Gregory in the background looking
in no way reassured that at my attendance was guaranteed. 

I
know that I knocked the door loud enough, but for the several seconds I am
standing there on the doorstep, I wonder if Marianne isn’t going to let me in. 
I haven’t seen her leave the house all week since our afternoon out, and I am
certain that she is trying to ignore me.  But then I hear the chink of the keys
behind the door and realise that she is unbolting it. 

She
cracks open the door, not fully, not allowing me passage into her world.  The
door is a barrier here, and yet I have spent so many hours sat opposite Dr. Abrams
who tells me to
open the door, let me in, be open to new ways to deal with
the pain. 
Marianne is still in the phase where she wants to close the
world out, blockade its entrance.  She is like Hades, the Greek God of the
underworld.  She wants to stop things getting out, wants them buried.  To
pretend that reality doesn’t touch her.

“Marianne,”
I say with a huge toothy grin.  “Where have you been all week?”  I am taking a
chance here because I don’t exactly remember the days between our meeting and
now.  Today is my first lucid vomit free day.

“I
just stayed home,” she says closing the door an inch, covering herself. 

“You
went home?”  I am sure she didn’t.  I am sure she means here, but I cannot let
this small detail go by without some mention.  “Why didn’t you stay here?”

“I
did stay here.”  She isn’t following me.  Maybe it’s the Elavil.  Sometimes it
used to make me fuzzy around the edges too.  Her eyes are squinting.  She is
thinking.

“Oh,
but you said you went
home
?”  I flicked my finger about back and forth
as if making a mental calculation between her house and the one in which she
stands.  “Oh, never mind, never mind.  I understand now.”  I see that she
understands it now too.  I watch as her head drops a fraction as she hears my
words in her head for a second time and finally understands my meaning.  I have
made her feel bad.  Perfect. 

I
move forward with my big smile reattached.  “Let’s have a cup of tea, shall
we?” and before she can suggest otherwise I am through the door and walking
through the hallway.  I take a quick peak in the lounge as I pass through to
the kitchen, scanning to see if there is any evidence of wife-removal today,
but all photographs are clearly displayed as Mary Wexley intended them to be. 
Maybe this is why Marianne looks so blue today.  Maybe this is how she looks
every Friday before she leaves and goes back to her own life.  Maybe the
depression really kicks in on a Friday.  I see a bag at the bottom of the
stairs and realise she has already packed her things.  Her presence in the
house has been reduced to nothing more than an overnight bag and footsteps.

“I
was thinking about leaving soon.”

“There’s
no rush,” I call out from the entrance of the kitchen, although I know in
reality that there is.  “We have time,” I add.  “How do you take it?”

“I’m
not sure we have time for a drink, Charlotte,” she says, nibbling at the skin
around her thumb.   I pull a Ziploc bag out from my pocket and pull out my own
clean mug.  I turn to face her holding the milk and I smile again, pitifully
this time as if I appreciate her concern.  As if I am pleading for her to
relax. 

“Come
on now,” I say, “how long can a quick cup of tea take to drink?  What time will
she be back?”  No point beating around the bush pretending.  We both know why
our time together here is limited and why she feels like it is wrapping itself
around her neck and strangling her.

“That’s
it, I don’t know.  John tells me to leave by twelve on a Friday.  By midday.” 
She looks up to the clock.  It’s about seven minutes before twelve.  “Imagine
if I was still here?”  I already am.

“Listen. 
I have never seen her back before two."  This is a lie.  "So relax. 
Drink your tea.  There is something I want to talk to you about.”

Before
long I have suggested that the chairs in the kitchen are very uncomfortable,
and she nodded wearily as if she could easily say,
yeah, tell me about it. 
So
I get her into the lounge.  Being somewhat seasoned in what to expect from a
therapist, I am certain that a nice comfortable chair, cushions which envelope
and hug you, and a few strategically placed triggers will get her feeling back
to her chatty self that I had enjoyed so much on Tuesday.  I wrap my feet up under
me as we sit down, my shoes kicked off.  It’s cold in here today.  She hasn’t
been able to light the fire because nobody is supposed to be here.

“Marianne,
about the other day.”  She looks sheepish, her lips pursed, her doubts rising. 
“I’m really sorry.”

“What
are you sorry for?”  She says, her eyes turned inwards making her appear
confused.  An apology was not what she was expecting.

“Well,
where to start?  I got you drunk for one, your car was left in town which was
no doubt a problem for John, and then about the photographs.”

“The
photographs?” 

“I
turned them all back up, and well,” I look away, as if the burden of truth is
almost too much, “John sort of wriggled it out of me.  I hope I didn’t get you
in trouble.”  I sip my tea and wait for a response.

“Ah,”
she huffs, “that’s how he found out.  It’s me that should be apologising.  What
a mess I got into.  I can’t even remember the things I said.”  It is always
most convenient I feel when drunks lose their memory.  “I have been embarrassed
to run into you all week.”

“You’ve
been avoiding me,” I say, winking at her so she realises I am playing with her
on friendly terms.

“No. 
Not at all.  You were very good to me.  You took care of me.”

“Did
you get in trouble?”

She
gulped hard, before shrugging her shoulders.  “You could say that.  He wasn’t
very happy that I had been discussing our relationship.  He is very private.  And
the photos.  He didn’t know about that, so yes, he was very annoyed.  Hurt I
think.”  Her voice was very well controlled now that she was sober, and she
appeared more alert now that I was sat here with her.  There was no trace of an
accent.

“There
is something else too, Marianne.  I want us to be friends, so I can’t start
hiding things from you now.”  She waited, her lips tight, swallowing hard.  “I
saw the Elavil.  I was there when you took it.”

“I
assumed you must have been,” she said trying to look away from me.  She looked
ashamed of her need for such medication.  I have never felt ashamed of being
depressed.  It was just a fact for me.  It must be a lot harder if you feel
ashamed by it.

“It’s
not a problem, Marianne.  You know about my history, and now I know yours.  It
makes us closer.  Friendlier.”  I give her a little smile that shot down to my
shoulder which in turn shot up to my chin.  “Who is your doctor?”

“My
GP looks after me.”

“No,
I mean your psychiatrist.”

“I
don’t have one.”

“Psychologist? 
Counsellor?

“No,
nothing.”  Brilliant.  I feign shock and rub her shoulder with my still gloved
hand with all the sympathy I can muster.

“So
you are dealing with all of this on your own?”  I shake my head left to right
and tut.  “Not anymore, OK?  I’m here now, and I know how depression feels.  I
will look out for you.  You will talk to me when you need to.  I will make sure
you are OK.”  I think for a second she might cry.  There is something welling
up near the corner of her eye that looks suspiciously like a tear.

“Thank
you, Charlotte.  You have been very kind to me.”  She too shakes her head as if
she cannot quite believe it.  I get the impression that Wexley has been giving
her a hard time after her antics this week.  I would have too is I was him.

“I
would have been around sooner, but,” I think for a second before I commit, “but
I was so nauseous that I couldn’t bear it.”