The House on the Cliff (8 page)

I felt a stab of sympathy for Arianrhod, but Mari was in full flow now and I knew better than to interrupt.

“And then, when she got older, and lost her looks, that was it. She dropped out of sight completely. Stopped socializing, everything. She’s pretty much of a recluse these days, I believe. But she and Evan are still together. And he’s still putting it about, so I hear.” She frowned. “Shit relationship, but somehow it’s lasted.”

“Any children?” I shouldn’t have asked, but my curiosity as to what she’d say got the better of me.

“Just one son, Gwydion. Absolutely gorgeous, like his dad used to be. Sex on a stick. Jesus, I wouldn’t mind . . .” Mari checked herself. “He’s a good actor, too. Could do a lot better for himself, if he used his father’s contacts, but he won’t. Apparently he absolutely hates Evan, because of the way he treats Arianrhod. You can’t blame him, really.”

I didn’t ask any more questions. Gwydion was my client, and listening to Mari’s gossip about his family setup made me feel curiously disloyal.

Sensing my reluctance to pursue the conversation, Mari shrugged, then picked up her cigarettes and her lighter. “Listen, I’m going outside for a fag. Back in a mo. I’ll get you a drink on the way back, if you like. What are you having?”

“I’m fine, thanks. I’m driving.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, take a cab home. Leave the car here. It’s Friday night, isn’t it.”

Leaving her car somewhere and coming back to get it next day was the sort of thing Mari did regularly. Now in her late forties, she was still drinking, smoking, staying out late, getting up late, pleasing herself. She was divorced and her children had left home, but she didn’t seem to be lonely. She was immensely sociable and continued to have various romantic liaisons on the go. In some ways I envied her, but I knew I wasn’t in the least like her. I like socializing, up to a point, but I also need peace and quiet, and time to think. And if I didn’t have a family to go home to at night, I’d definitely be lonely. Very lonely.

“I think I’ll get back actually,” I replied. “I’ll come out with you.”

I said my good-byes, apologizing to Polly that we hadn’t had time for a proper chat, but she didn’t seem to mind. She and Catrin were deep in conversation with Sharon and hardly looked up as we left.

Outside, it was raining. We stood under the eaves of the building, and Mari lit up, inhaling deeply. She held the smoke in her lungs for a moment and then exhaled slowly, with a sigh of pleasure. I watched, envious of her ability to savor the sensation.

“Can I have one?”

Mari looked surprised. “But you don’t smoke.”

“I know. But I’ll have one anyway.”

She offered me the pack and I took a cigarette. She held out the lighter and I bent forward, shielding the flame with my hand.

“Anything wrong?” she said as I straightened up.

“Yes,” I said. I sucked on the cigarette, then blew out the smoke, coughing a little as I did. “Bob’s been unfaithful to me. He’s slept with another woman.”

“Bloody hell. What happened?”

I hesitated. As I’ve said, Mari’s not the soul of discretion. But she’s not malicious, not in the least, and I needed to talk to someone. What’s more, I was still so angry with Bob that, to be honest, I didn’t care who knew what he’d done.

I took another drag on the cigarette, even though my head was starting to spin.

“Well, he went off to this conference a few weeks ago. In Munich. When he came back he was in a weird mood, and then, after a few days, he confessed that he’d had a one-night stand.”

“The bastard.” Mari was outraged. “Who was she?”

“One of the translators at the conference. German, I think. Younger than me, a lot younger. About thirty. ‘Someone of no significance,’ he called her.”

“Has he ever done this before?”

“No.” I paused. “At least, he says he hasn’t. Though I’m beginning to wonder . . .”

Mari didn’t reply. I knew why. She and Bob had never really got on. They’d grown up in the same valleys town together, moved to the city at the same time, but they’d never been close. Neither of them had expressed their feelings about each other to me in so many words, but I was fully aware of their mutual unease with each other. I put it down to a simple personality clash, along with the competitive spirit that sometimes exists between people who’ve come from nowhere and done well for themselves. And also the fact that, beneath her cheerful exterior, Mari was actually quite cynical when it came to men.

“He’s feeling terribly guilty,” I went on. “I wish I could talk it through with him, let it go. But I can’t. I keep imagining what she looked like . . . what exactly happened . . . what they did . . .” I stopped.

“I wouldn’t go there, if I were you,
cariad
.” Mari squeezed my arm.

“But why would he do this?” I went on. “After all these years. I thought we were OK together. I thought . . .”

“Was anything wrong between you?”

“No.” I took another puff of the cigarette. It was making me feel giddy, but I soldiered on.

“Sex all right?”

I thought about it. “Well, OK. Nothing spectacular. But quite . . . serviceable, I suppose.”

There was a short silence, and then Mari laughed. “Serviceable, eh? Well, maybe what you both need is a bit of a shake-up.” She hesitated. “Why don’t you give him a taste of his own medicine? Have a little dalliance of your own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I was taken aback. “I’d never do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . well, because I’m just not interested in other men.” I paused. “I used to be, of course. Rather too much, actually. But these days I never think about that kind of thing.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” For an instant a picture of Gwydion in his tight T-shirt flashed into my mind, but I dismissed it. “I’d never dream of risking my marriage. I’ve got the girls to think of. It would be completely irresponsible.”

“No one’s asking you to run off for good, are they?” Mari paused. “And Bob’s hardly in a position to complain. If I were you, I’d take advantage of the situation. You’ve got carte blanche now. Enjoy your freedom. It’s probably the last taste of it you’ll get for a long while.”

I was shocked. “But that’s childish, Mari. Childish and dangerous. Marriage isn’t a power game. And it isn’t just about sex, either.” I realized I was beginning to sound sanctimonious, but I carried on all the same. “It’s about love, and trust. And . . .” I did my best to finish the sentence, but the words didn’t come.

Mari gave a wry smile. “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe things have changed since I last had a husband.”

She shrugged, taking a last drag of her cigarette. Then she threw the butt down beside mine, where it lay soaking in a puddle. Together we looked out at the car park, watching the rain running off the roof in front of us. Then she said, “Come back in for a drink, Jess. I think you need one. Or several.”

“No,” I said. I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m tired. I’m going home. Thanks for listening.”

“Any time.” She put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug. “Let me know how things go.”

“I will.”

She turned to go back indoors, and I ran out into the rain, giving her a little wave as I went. Then I got into my car and drove home, down the dark streets to the house, waiting quietly for me in the rain, under the lamplight.

The following Monday, back in my office, I was waiting for Jean to turn up for her session. She was already half an hour late. Normally she’d have been there early, sitting outside in the waiting room, giving me a reproachful look if I happened to pass by, as though to express her dissatisfaction that I couldn’t even give her an extra five minutes of my time. So I knew it wasn’t like her to miss a second of her session, let alone more than half of it.

I felt irritable, restless. Much as Jean frustrated and bored the hell out of me, I was discomfited at being stood up by her. The trouble is, when my clients don’t turn up for sessions, I never feel relieved, no matter how difficult they’ve been. I feel I’ve failed. That I’m no good as a therapist. And sometimes, of course, I worry that they may have taken a turn for the worse.

That wasn’t likely to be the case with Jean. She wasn’t the depressive type. Too angry, too indignant about the unfairness of her situation—becoming a widow, just as she and her husband had retired, were looking forward to taking it easy. Too furious with me, and my lack of ability to help her. No, Jean’s absence wouldn’t be caused by chronic depression; rather, it would be . . . I thought of what she’d told me, about her husband appearing to her in the dream, thin and pale, as he had been before he died. He’d been—what was it she’d said?—
begging her not to forget him.
Which meant . . . yes, of course. Obviously. That she
was
beginning to forget him. And feeling guilty about it.

I sighed and was just about to turn away from the window when I caught sight of my eldest daughter walking down the street toward the coffee shop. By her side was a man with auburn hair whose face I couldn’t quite see. He was taller than her, a grown man, not a schoolboy. I wondered what she was doing with him, and whether she was skipping lessons. Then, as he turned to open the door of the shop for her and went in behind, I realized with a shock that it was Emyr Griffiths.

I felt a rush of anger, and my heart began to thump in my chest. I had an urge to run downstairs and accost them in the coffee shop, ask Nella what on earth she was doing bunking off school, and order Emyr to leave her alone.

There was a knock at the door. It was my next client of the day.

A sudden panic came over me as I remembered the story of why Emyr had been sacked from his job, but I managed to overcome it. He hasn’t done anything wrong, I reminded myself. Nothing was proved against him. And Nella’s sensible enough. She can handle the situation. She’s probably discussing Safe Trax with him, or something equally innocent. Nevertheless I stayed at the window for a few more moments, staring intently at the coffee shop, as if my maternal gaze could protect my daughter from afar, until I heard another knock.

I went over and opened the door.

I hadn’t been expecting Gwydion Morgan to turn up for his session. Just three days earlier he’d been lying in bed, face to the wall, refusing to speak to me. But to my surprise, he arrived on the dot, clean-shaven, hair freshly washed. Somehow, he’d rallied, got up, got dressed, and driven all the way up from Pembrokeshire to see me. I couldn’t help feeling pleased, despite my anxiety about Nella.

I waited until he had settled himself. There was an uncomfortable silence, so I broke it.

“So.” I paused, hoping he would initiate the conversation.

“So.” He smiled. He seemed pleased to see me.

I smiled back, in what I hoped was a kind, understanding way. And then, infuriatingly, I felt a sudden warmth rising up from my neck, flushing my cheeks.

“You look well,” I said.

“I’m feeling a bit better, as it happens.” He appeared not to notice the fact that my face was on fire. “Thanks for coming down to the house, by the way.” He ran a hand through his hair in that by now familiar gesture.

I nodded again.

“It did help.”

“I’m glad.” I tried to sound noncommittal.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“If you want to tell me.” I paused. “But not if you don’t. You’re free to talk about anything you like in the session, you know.”

He narrowed his eyes, his head on one side, as though sizing me up. “Am I?” he said. “Right. Thanks.” There was more than a trace of bitterness in his voice.

He lapsed into silence. I thought of going over to the window, on the pretext of opening it to get some air, so I could check what was happening at the coffee shop, but instead I forced myself to think about the matter in hand. I began to wonder what Gwydion’s evident anger was all about. I knew from the photograph he’d sent me—an issue I was going to have to raise with him sooner or later—that he was furious with his father. And then there was the transference, of course. Something to do with the relationship with his mother, Arianrhod, that he was projecting onto me. A notion that he was at my beck and call, at her beck and call, even when we were telling him that he was free to do as he pleased. Something like that . . .

He turned his gaze away from my face and looked down at the floor. “I didn’t like it that you’d been in my room, seen me in that condition.” He hesitated. “It was my mother who asked you to come, not me.”

“Yes.” I said. “Well, I can understand why you might feel angry about that.”

I wondered whether to apologize for the intrusion, but decided against it.

“I don’t feel angry, not really.” He sighed. “Just kind of . . . embarrassed.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I said. I spoke quietly. “We all have our off days.” I paused. “And that’s what I’m here to help you with.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat, as though to indicate that the subject was now closed. “Anyway, I’d like to try and talk some more about the dream.”

I nodded encouragingly.

He closed his eyes. “Let’s see . . . Where did we get to last time? I’m in the box. It’s dark. I’m frightened.” He knitted his brow, as though concentrating hard. “I can hear the shouting, getting louder and louder. A man’s voice, and a woman’s. Then . . .”

He came to a halt.

“Go on.”

“Then . . . there’s a scream. The woman’s voice, screaming. And the man’s voice, deep, rough, angry . . . shouting back.” He pressed his fingers into his forehead. “And then . . . a sudden jolt. The box moves, as though it’s hit something hard. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, hold my breath. I want to call out, but no one must know I’m here . . .”

He put both hands over his face. I could see that they were shaking slightly. Then, to my surprise, he began to sob, great choking sobs that at first shook his shoulders, and then the whole of his frame. I leaned forward over the low table between us and pushed a box of tissues toward him. I would have liked to put my hand on his arm, but I didn’t feel that was appropriate, not in this case.