The House on the Cliff (3 page)

“Thanks.” I put the card in my bag. “Well, good to see you again.”

“And you. Take care.”

I got into the car, nodded at him through the window, and moved off. As I drove through the gates I saw him turn to watch me, and then walk slowly back toward the school.

That evening, as a treat for Nella, I made the children’s favorite supper: hamburgers and chips. We ate it sitting in front of the television. The hamburgers were actually venison—less saturated fat—but I’d never told them that; the buns were whole wheat; and I’d made the chips myself, in the hope that they’d be slightly healthier than the bought variety. I also put a small salad of lettuce, tomato, and watercress on each of their plates, though I knew Rose wouldn’t eat any of hers. But even if she didn’t, at least I could console myself that I’d done my best. As Merle Haggard, Bob’s favorite country singer, put it—Mama Tried.

After we’d finished supper and cleared away, Rose went into the kitchen to practice her clarinet, while Nella went upstairs to do her homework. After a few minutes, I knew, loud music would begin to emanate from her room, interspersed with quiet spells, when she’d be on her mobile. I’d recently decided not to intervene any more—after all, she was sixteen now—so, instead, I went into Bob’s study and switched on the computer. Then I walked over to the door, shut it firmly, and returned.

I typed a name into the search engine: Curtain Call Casting. I hesitated for a split second, wondering whether I should really be doing as my new client had asked, and then clicked onto the site. I scrolled down a list, found his name, and then clicked onto his page.

At the top of the page was a publicity shot. The lighting was dark and moody, and Gwydion was standing face-on to the camera, wearing a tight white T-shirt and black joggers, worn low on the hips so as to reveal not only the waistband of his designer boxer shorts, but also a glimpse of muscular stomach beneath. His hair was tousled and his eyes were half closed, as if he’d just gotten out of bed.

Beside the shot was a column headed “Quick details.” I glanced down at it and read off his vital statistics, or whatever they’re called if you’re a male actor. Playing age: 25. Height: 6 feet 1 inch. Weight: 13 stone 2 ounces. Hair color: brown. Eye color: hazel—no, they weren’t, they were green. Build: medium. And that was it.

Underneath the publicity shot was a list of his acting roles. Apart from his role in
The War of the Dragon Kings
, and two cameos in films I’d never heard of, most of his appearances to date seemed to be in obscure Welsh television shows, including the redoubtable
Down in the Valley
. There were also credits for radio and TV commercials. I scrolled down further. As yet, there seemed to be no mention of the forthcoming part in the period drama.

Music began to thump from Nella’s room upstairs. I decided to ignore it.

Underneath the vital-statistics column was a link to another site, so I clicked on it. It turned out to be an Internet movie database, giving more details on
The War of the Dragon Kings
, along with another shot of Gwydion, this time dressed in little more than a loincloth. The film was an adaptation of one of the stories from the Mabinogion and, judging by the paucity of reviews, not a particularly successful one. I scrolled down to a message board at the bottom of the page, to look at the recent posts discussing his role in the film. Sadly, there was no mention of his acting skills. Instead, the first message, from a person called shelleewellee, posed the question, “Isn’t Gwydion a total dish?” to which there was resounding affirmation from all and sundry, in no uncertain terms. The only comment that could possibly have been construed as an endorsement of his acting was from someone called gigigirl: “that guy is well fit, what a grate film, the end was so sad I was reeching for a box of tishoes. . . .”

The music from upstairs got louder. I wondered whether I should go upstairs and intervene after all. But once again I decided not to. It was time Nella learned to do her homework without my supervision, and suffer the consequences at school if she couldn’t discipline herself. Besides, I had work of my own to do.

I began to feel a bit of a fool for having joined, however briefly, the cyber-community of Gwydion’s half-witted schoolgirl (and boy) admirers, but instead of closing the page, I found myself scrolling up to a heading marked “Trivia,” which told me: “Trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA).” At the end of this piece of information was a link marked “More.”

I was about to click on the link when I stopped myself. Although Gwydion had given me permission to google him—in fact almost implied that it was my duty as his new therapist to do so—I felt I’d found out quite enough for the time being. He would need to tell me his own story in his own time, in his own words, and it wasn’t fair to him to jump the gun like this. Or to me, come to that. It would be easier for me to help him, much easier, if I didn’t arm myself with too many preconceptions about him.

The door opened and Bob came in. He’s a big, well-built man, and he’s always a presence, a strong presence, when he enters a room. He still had his coat on, a proper tailored black topcoat, and there were drops of rain sparkling on the shoulders. His curly hair was slightly disheveled, his specs pushed up into it, and there was an enthusiastic, boyish smile on his face. Whenever he came home he brought with him a scent of cold, fresh air; of unknown, far-off cities; of an exciting, eventful life lived outside the confines of our domestic world that made my heart jump. Not this time, though.

He was carrying a black paper bag with silver edging.

He walked over to the desk where I was sitting.

“Here,” he said.

I took the bag and peered at the contents. Inside, nestling in a cocoon of white tissue paper, was a potted gardenia.

“Thanks,” I said. I could smell the scent from the waxy flowers, but I didn’t put my head down to sniff it, as I normally would have done. Instead, I put the bag down on the floor beside my feet.

“You’re back then,” I said.

When he heard the flat tone in my voice, his face fell.

“Yes. No delays, for once.”

To cover his disappointment he gazed absentmindedly over my shoulder at the computer screen. I followed his gaze, wondering how I was going to explain what I was doing. But when I looked back at the screen, I saw that Gwydion’s photo had been replaced by the screen saver, a holiday snap of the family in wetsuits, standing in descending order of height like a ridiculous row of penguins, somewhere on a windy beach in West Wales.

3

Jean, my first client of the day, was being boring. Very boring. It was a trick she pulled from time to time, especially when we’d been getting somewhere in the previous session. She would arrive and, after the most cursory greeting, begin to discuss some minor domestic problem in detail: a blocked drain, a bath plug that didn’t fit, an odd noise coming out of the vacuum cleaner. Today, it was a faulty curtain rail.

“You see, you can’t just mend the broken bit.” She sighed in exasperation. “You’d have to find someone to make a completely new one. It’ll cost a fortune . . .”

I nodded, but not, I hoped, in an encouraging way. I’d had enough of the curtain rail. We’d spent the best part of the session on it.

“And then there’s the fitting, of course . . .”

I thought back to the paper I’d read on complicated grief. Complicated grief is when, after more than a year, a person continues to behave as if their loss had only just occurred. I’d been reading it in the hope that I could somehow help Jean move on, but it didn’t seem to be much use.

“I’ve no idea where I’ll be able to find a man to fit it . . .”

My thoughts began to wander. A picture of Gwydion drifted into my mind. He was sitting on a horse, dressed in nothing but a skimpy loincloth, with a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. He was gazing into the distance, his tanned body slick with sweat. There was a smear of earth across his shoulder, as if he’d recently been tumbling in the dirt.

“I’ve looked in the Yellow Pages, but . . .”

He turned his head, his green eyes narrowing when he saw me . . .

“I can’t find the right sort of person. Should it be a draper? A carpenter? . . .”

He pulled the horse round, and slowly rode toward me. I watched his muscles move under his skin as he came closer, until, finally, he bent down, reached out his hand, and . . .

“You’re not listening, are you?”

Jean stopped talking.

It took me a moment to realize I’d been miles away.

“Of course I am.”

I was appalled at myself. What on earth was the matter with me, daydreaming—well, no, fantasizing—in the middle of a session? I’d really have to stop this nonsense and get a grip, I told myself, especially as Gwydion—the real Gwydion, that is—had decided to start therapy with me, and was going to be coming in directly after Jean’s session.

Jean sniffed. “I suppose I must be very boring.”

There was a silence.

“No.” I chose my words with care. “But perhaps it would help if you could talk more directly about your feelings.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.” She spoke with real anger in her voice.

Jean had a point. If I’d been concentrating I’d have realized she was expressing her difficulty in remaking her life after her husband’s death (“you can’t just mend the broken bit”); her anger at her straitened economic circumstances (“it’ll cost a fortune”); her fear that she would never find a new partner (“a man to fit”); and, underlying it all, her despair at being suddenly widowed at the age of sixty-five. It was my job to crack her codes, help move her on to the real issue at hand, and I hadn’t been doing it.

She was in a huff now. She began to pick at the bobbled fabric of her zip-up top. It was navy-blue polyester, and she was wearing matching navy-blue trousers. The type they call “slacks” in those catalogues full of smiling, healthy-looking elderly people with dull clothes on. Except that Jean wasn’t smiling or healthy-looking. Her skin was blotchy and lined, and her hair was dirty, thin, and badly dyed.

“Well, as it happens, I’m really upset today. Not that you’d care . . .”

My ears pricked up. Now we were getting somewhere.

“Upset?”

“Yes. And tired. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Do stop repeating everything I say,” she snapped. There was a pause. “The thing was, I dreamed I saw Derek.”

This time I kept quiet. Derek was her late husband.

“He looked awful,” she went on. Her voice began to tremble. “So thin. Like he was when . . .” She broke off and began to sob.

There was a box of tissues on the coffee table between us. I leaned forward and pushed it in her direction. She took a tissue, wiped her eyes, and went on.

“He was begging me to help him.”

I glanced at the clock. Sure enough, our fifty minutes were up. In fact, we were slightly over time.

Damn, I thought. She’s done it again. Jean had a habit of bringing up important material just as the session was coming to a close. Although the clock was in full view, she seemed entirely unaware of her pattern of behavior.

I waited as she blew her nose, tucked the tissue into her sleeve, and settled back into her chair. She was about to continue when I interrupted her.

“I’m sorry, Jean.” I spoke softly. I tried to make my voice as kind and sympathetic as I could. “We’ll have to stop there for today, I’m afraid. Our time is up.”

I’d hoped to take a break before my new client, Gwydion, arrived. I like to have a few minutes to myself between sessions to jot down notes, check my messages, go over my schedule, nip to the loo, perhaps make myself a cup of tea if I get time. Or just sit and stare into space, ponder for a while, watch the shadows of the trees play on the ceiling. But on this occasion, I didn’t get the chance. Because by the time Jean had composed herself and I’d escorted her out, Gwydion was sitting outside in the waiting room. She was late, and he was early.

It was the kind of situation I prefer to avoid. I don’t like my clients meeting each other. They get jealous, and nosy, and start asking questions. The idea that I have other people to attend to never seems to occur to them until they actually bump into one another and have to face that reality. And when they do, they tend to take it out on me, one way or another. Of course it’s all grist to the therapeutic mill, and shows me how clients deal with competition—sibling rivalry and all that—but, on balance, it gets in the way, and always makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

When Jean saw Gwydion she turned to me with a hurt, accusing look, before saying good-bye in a somewhat huffy manner; while Gwydion, for his part, gave me a sympathetic grin, as though to commiserate with me for having to deal with such a dreary-looking woman. To mollify Jean somewhat, and put Gwydion in his place, I touched Jean’s shoulder solicitously as I said good-bye to her, then glanced at Gwydion and politely asked if he would mind waiting until the time scheduled for his appointment before coming in.

Back in my consulting room, I picked up my bag, scrabbled through the contents, and brought out a lipsalve and a hairbrush. I couldn’t find my powder compact, so I applied both without using a mirror. Then I walked over to my chair, sat down, and looked up at the white-on-white relief on the wall, determined to meet him with the composure he would expect from me.

The circle was sitting, as ever, in its rightful place among the squares. But as I gazed at it, I began to notice that it was throbbing very slightly. The movement was almost imperceptible, but it was there. I’d never seen it before. The circle had always rested quietly in the middle, its serene stillness emanating into the squares around it. I told myself it was merely a trick of the light, but even so, it unnerved me. And then I began to feel an intense heat rising up from my chest into my neck, onto my face and along my arms.

Just then there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Gwydion walked in. This time he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Underneath it, I noticed, was a white T-shirt like the one I’d seen him wear for his publicity shot.