The House on the Cliff (14 page)

I smiled back. “Well, you seem to have done most of the work by yourself.”

“Not really. It was important having you here to talk to.” He paused. “But now I realize I’ve got to do this next bit on my own. I’ve got to find out what the dream was all about. I think I must have witnessed an accident. Maybe even . . .”

His sentence hung in midair. I waited, but he didn’t finish it.

“There’s nothing wrong with me now,” he went on. “I was definitely traumatized by whatever happened back then. But now I’ve begun to remember what happened, it’s as though a great weight’s been lifted off my mind.”

“And the button phobia? What about that?”

“Oh yes.” He frowned.

“Has that resolved as well? As a result of . . . getting to the end of the dream?”

“Not entirely. No.” He paused. “But I’ve decided to take your advice about that. I’ve arranged a course of treatment.”

“Oh?” I couldn’t help feeling a little hurt that he hadn’t booked in with one of my colleagues on the floor above, as I’d suggested.

“Yes. Somewhere nearer home.”

“That makes sense.” I paused. I wanted to find out more, but I felt I’d asked him enough questions. “Well, then . . .” It was time to bring the session to a close.

Gwydion got up from his chair, and I stood up, too, to bid him good-bye.

“Good luck. All the best.”

I held out my hand. But to my surprise, instead of shaking it, he took it in his, and held it for a moment.

“Good-bye, Jessica,” he whispered. He moved toward me and kissed me lightly on the cheek. As he did, I caught the scent of his body, his hair. It smelled warm, intimate, familiar, like the top of a baby’s head—a baby of your own, that you’ve loved intimately, passionately, ever since it was born. I realized I’d been subliminally aware of it from the minute he’d walked into my consulting room for his first session. Pheromones, they’re called. Sexual, maternal, primal, biological sort of things. You can’t mask them with scent, deodorant, shampoo. They don’t smell bad, or good, for that matter. They just smell like themselves, unique to that being, whoever or whatever it is. And whether they come from a baby, a potential mate, or a mortal enemy, you can’t help responding to them, like an animal.

“Good-bye, Gwydion.” I wondered for a moment which one he was, deep down in my psyche. A child. A lover. A potential threat. Or perhaps, most potently, a mixture of all three.

A sudden dizziness overcame me. I closed my eyes, trying not to rock back on my feet. As I did, I felt his lips brush across my cheek until they reached my mouth. I could feel his breath, warm and sweet, on my face. My heart began to thud in my chest. I knew that if I moved toward him, even infinitesimally, we would begin to kiss. But I didn’t move a muscle.

We stayed like that, neither of us moving, as though suspended in time. Then I felt his hand slip out of mine, and when I opened my eyes he was walking toward the door, his back toward me. I watched, half in relief, half in regret, as he opened the door, walked out into the corridor, turned the corner, and was gone.

10

The following weekend Bob and I took the girls out west, to Pembrokeshire. We always go to the same spot, renting a small bungalow that overlooks the beach, with a breathtaking view over the sea. We’d stayed there many times before, and the children had always loved the place. I’d often wondered whether they actually preferred it to our own house, festooned as it was with fake barometers, china flower baskets, and homemade pinecone decorations, most of which seemed to feature hedgehogs dressed in human clothing. But now, of course, I reflected rather sadly as we walked in, they were getting a little too old to enjoy that kind of thing. Nella hadn’t wanted to come at all. The house, and the beach below, were no longer much of a draw for her—she was growing up, and leaving such simple pleasures behind.

That said, Bob and Rose seemed happy enough to be there. They both love surfing, and the moment we arrived got into their wetsuits, picked up their boards, and disappeared off down to the beach, keen to catch the last waves of the season, while the sea was still relatively warm. It was far too cold for me, though, so I stayed behind in the house. Nella, never much of a sportswoman, stayed with me. Most of the time she mooched about in her room, practicing her singing, or sat in a chair by the window, wrapped in a duvet, texting her friends on her mobile phone, her headphones clamped over her ears. Meanwhile I made myself busy, making beds that didn’t need making, laboring over the simplest of meals. And when there was nothing more to do, I sat beside her at the window with a book, or gazed out at sea, watching the two small black specks of my husband and younger daughter bobbing in the waves below.

Mostly I thought about Gwydion and what he’d told me during his last session. It seemed likely to me that, as a young child, he’d been on the boat when Elsa met with her fatal accident, and as such was a witness. It also seemed possible that Evan had caused the girl’s death. If that was indeed the case, I wondered what I ought to do about this explosive new information.

As a psychotherapist, my legal position was fairly clear. A client who tells you, in confidence, that he or she is about to commit a murder must be reported immediately, and if a client threatens suicide, you may also need to take action. Otherwise, you’re perfectly at liberty to keep shtum, whatever lurid tales your clients may tell you. Gwydion had talked to me in very general terms about an incident that had occurred years ago. No one was about to get the chop in the near future. So, in formal legal terms, there was really nothing that I needed to do.

As a citizen, though—a good citizen—wasn’t it my moral duty to inform Gwydion of certain facts concerning his past that he didn’t appear to know about? That, perhaps, his parents were keeping from him? The main one being that when he was a small child, a teenage girl, Elsa Lindberg, who had been his au pair, had drowned in the bay right outside the house, possibly on a boat trip she’d taken with Evan. Moreover, that I’d spoken to Solveig Lindberg, the girl’s mother, and she was convinced that the Morgan family were lying about the circumstances of her daughter’s death.

On the other hand, telling Gwydion this information would mean revealing that I’d been nosing around in his past without his knowledge. If I admitted that I’d been talking to people behind his back—people like Mari Jones and Solveig Lindberg—he might, quite understandably, feel angry and betrayed. And I didn’t want that.

Of course, as well as the revelations about his past, there was the way we’d parted to consider. As I sat gazing out to sea, I imagined what it would have felt like, had his lips touched mine, had I made that tiny movement toward him, responded to his advances. More than once, as I watched the waves crash on the shore, he held me in a passionate embrace, pressing his body against mine and . . . and then . . . Well, I tried not to feel too guilty about what I imagined next. Fantasizing is a healthy, normal part of our sexual lives, isn’t it? An essential part, as far as most of us are concerned. Nothing wrong with that. But in this case it was accompanied by a foolish, adolescent daydream about him falling madly in love with me, and me falling madly in love with him.

Just an emotional reaction to what had happened with Bob and the translator, I told myself. A way of getting my own back. And a response, perhaps, to the taste of freedom that I’d experienced in Stockholm. It would pass soon enough. What was confusing the situation, of course, was that Gwydion had been my patient. And that, through my encounter with him, I’d now become embroiled in the Morgans’ murky past, in trying to discover what exactly had happened to that young girl out in the bay all those years ago.

It didn’t help that the cottage where we were staying was only a few miles from the Morgan place. I was only too well aware that it would be easy enough for me to pick up the phone, say that I was in the area and casually suggest that I drop in for a visit. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat at the window, looking out to sea, in a state of indecision.

On Sunday morning I decided to act. The Elsa Lindberg mystery was still on my mind, and I knew that, if I paid a quick visit to the Morgans, I might be able to find out more. It seemed foolish not to take the opportunity now that I was so near; so I took it.

I got up and dressed casually, but carefully, in brown cords and a dark green, cable-knit sweater, fixing my hair, Land Girl–style, with a kirby grip to one side. Nella was in bed, and I knew she would stay there until midday at least. Bob and Rose were eating breakfast, waiting for their wetsuits to dry and planning their next sortie into the waves. I made an excuse, saying I was going to the village to get some provisions, and that I’d come back to cook lunch later on. Then I got into the car, swung out onto the road and headed over to the Morgan place.

On the way I stopped and called ahead. Arianrhod answered the phone. I told her I just happened to be in the neighborhood and wondered if Gwydion was there and whether I might drop in for a quick chat. I could be there in about fifteen minutes. She sounded surprised, but said that, yes, Gwydion was at home and they would both be happy to see me. She seemed reasonably friendly, but all the same I couldn’t help feeling nervous as I drove along the country lanes toward the house. I knew I was going to have to talk to Arianrhod about what had happened, maybe even confront her with the fact that she’d lied to me—well, not lied, exactly, but withheld the truth—and I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to go about it.

It was only when I drove up to the imposing iron gates and pressed the buzzer that I began to wonder whether visiting the Morgans that day was such a good idea after all. If there was going to be any kind of confrontation between myself and Arianrhod, being on the family’s home ground would definitely put me at a disadvantage. I might have done better, I reflected, as the gates opened and I drove through, to ask Gwydion, or Arianrhod, or both of them, to come and see me in my consulting rooms, although that would perhaps have seemed a slightly odd request. But it was too late to change my mind now. I was here, and I was going to have to face the music. Or the Morgans were. Unless, of course, I sidestepped the whole issue and pretended I was just here to pass the time of day and discuss the joys of holidaying on the Pembrokeshire coast. Which would have been odder still.

I parked the car on the gravel pathway, making sure to avoid Evan’s preferred spot. Once again, one of the peacocks strutting about on the lawn came toward me, head jerking, emitting a shrill cry. I got out, banging the car door, and watched it scuttle off. Then I turned to see Arianrhod emerging from one of the flowerbeds beside the lawn.

“Welcome back.” She came over to me, a wide smile on her face. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

I smiled back. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not in the least. Just a bit of weeding.” She held up her hands. They were covered in dirt. “I could do with a break. Come on in.”

We walked over to the front door and she pushed it open with her elbow. I followed her down the dark hallway to the kitchen. Once we were there, she sat me down at the kitchen table, went over to the sink and started to wash her hands.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Coffee, then.”

I watched as she dried her hands and arms on a towel. She looked flushed, her hair slightly disheveled, and she was wearing a scruffy gardening jumper that was fraying at the wrists.

“Gwydion will be down in a minute. Do you want something to eat?”

“No, no. I haven’t got long. Got to get back to the family and cook lunch. We’re staying just down the road from here.”

We chatted amicably about the nearby villages and beaches, which were the best places to stay, which the ones to avoid, while she busied herself with getting the coffee. Then she brought it over, two cups and a cafetière, with a bottle of milk and a packet of digestive biscuits.

“All I’ve got today, I’m afraid,” she said. She sat down opposite and began to pour me a cup.

I took a biscuit and, when she passed over my cup, dipped the edge of it in the steaming liquid. I noticed, when she took hers, that she did the same. This time, it seemed, she was treating me in a more informal way, with the bottle of milk and the packet of biscuits on the table—more as a friend than as Gwydion’s therapist.

For a few moments we munched our coffee-soaked biscuits in silence. I was sorry to have to break the moment of relaxed intimacy, but eventually I did.

“Arianrhod, there’s something I need to ask you.”

“Hmm?” Arianrhod took a small tube of hand cream out of her pocket and squirted a little of it onto her palm.

“The Swedish tourist who drowned. The girl you mentioned last time I was here. When we were standing on the cliff top looking out at the bay.”

She nodded slowly, looking a little baffled as to where this was leading, and began to rub the cream onto her hands.

“I found out . . .” I paused again. Still no reaction. “That she was working for you that summer as an au pair.”

“Really?” she said. She looked up, a puzzled expression on her face. “Was she? I don’t remember that.”

“But you must remember.” I kept my tone level. “The girl was working for you and then she drowned. That’s not the sort of thing anyone forgets.”

“No, of course not.” She paused. “I suppose it’s possible that she might have been here at one time. Before the drowning, I mean.” She worked the cream into a rough, calloused patch on her forefinger. “But we had so many au pairs in those days. There was always some girl or other here, helping out.”

She stopped rubbing and put the top back on the tube of cream. I noticed her hands were trembling slightly.

It seemed clear to me that she was lying, and I wondered if she was doing so to protect Evan in some way, possibly to do with the scandal. But I decided, for the moment, to let it go.

“How’s Gwydion?” I said, changing the subject.

She looked up at me. “He seems a bit better,” she said. “But not terribly communicative at the moment, I’m afraid. To me, anyway.”