What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (17 page)

I arrive before Tom and wait in the foyer. The New Town office is ostentatiously plush, from the scarlet embossed wallpaper to the huge chandelier that shimmers in ornate splendour above our heads. No wonder the fees are so high. Hamish arrives next and he kisses me on both cheeks, then says, ‘Don’t feel you have to do any of the talking. I will speak for you unless you particularly want to comment. I expect they’ll begin with a complaint because we’re asking to make changes to the agreement but remember that you’re perfectly within your rights, so don’t feel even remotely bullied. I can assure you I am relishing the opportunity to draw up a fairer contract.’

The door opens and we both look round. It’s Tom and his solicitor and I’m relieved to see that there’s no sign of Leila behind him. His solicitor is what my dad would describe as ‘go-getting’. His name is Andre Rivoul and he has the eyes of a hawk, piercing and shrewd. I instantly decide that it’s to my advantage never to catch his eye.

Both Tom and Andre are dressed in expensive, bespoke suits, while Hamish wears a more modest cloth and I’m in jeans. The last time I saw Tom was two days ago when I was lurking in the driveway of Maybanks, terrified of being caught out. But I needn’t have worried because I was invisible to him, his eyes were all for Leila, and now he barely glances in my direction, nor me in his. Long gone are the days when our eyes lingered on one another and the brief glance I send his way reminds me that while there’s no denying that he’s handsome, there’s a hardness to his stance and a meanness to his expression that I’ve never liked, and now those traits appear magnified. We say abrupt hellos and move into the meeting room.

The table is large and highly polished, the wood a reddish brown, I’m betting Canadian maple. We sit down, solicitor opposite solicitor, husband opposite wife. The solicitors lay out their papers while Tom and I wait, our postures mirroring each other, hands clasped on the table in front of us, eyes down.

Hamish guessed correctly as to how they would begin. ‘Firstly, my client would like to register his disappointment,’ Andre says. ‘We have spent several months and several hundred pounds drawing up this agreement and Mrs Linford has waited until the eleventh hour to change her mind.’ He pauses for effect, and I feel him staring at me. I look at Hamish and he gives me a small nod of support. Andre continues to talk, claiming his client’s integrity and flexibility, and his client’s wish to expedite the matter as soon as possible.

When he finally stops talking Hamish dives right in. ‘As I stated in my letter, Mrs Linford is keen to move back into the family home. She is making arrangements to facilitate this and we would appreciate Mr Linford making way.’ He goes through the finances while Tom and Andre share a rolling of eyes and frequent sighing as if it’s all incredibly tiresome. When Hamish is finished, he looks at them both sternly, a headmaster to two indolent sixth-formers who have broken the rules one too many times. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to contact me again when you have read through our terms.’ He slides two sheets of paper across the table and stands up. ‘Ellen?’ He turns to me and smiles. ‘Shall we go?’

I’m on my feet at once. ‘That was quick,’ I say as we walk out together. ‘Should we have given them the chance to reply?’

‘Absolutely not. The less you let them talk the better. Solicitors of Rivoul’s character should know better but it seems as if Tom is pulling the strings. Rivoul will know perfectly well that the law is on our side and I would have thought they’d want to avoid the expense of court.’

‘I expect Tom will stop short of court,’ I say. ‘In principle, he doesn’t like to waste money.’

‘You might be surprised at how many otherwise sensible people lose their heads when it comes to divorce.’

‘Ellen, wait!’ We both turn and see Tom coming after us down the stone steps.

‘You don’t have to speak to him if you don’t want to,’ Hamish says into my ear.

‘Thank you, Hamish, but I think I’m up for this.’

Tom is walking towards me, arms swinging, a frown on his face. He stops in front of me, his stance wide, hands on hips. ‘Are you planning on keeping this up?’

‘What?’

‘Maybanks.’

‘I put body and soul into Maybanks, Tom. You know I did.’

‘You moved out of Maybanks, Ellen.’

‘You know why I had to do that. You were living there, in the spare room, happily planning the rest of your life.’ I fold my arms. ‘And when I left, you promised me you were putting the house on the market.’

‘I made that promise in good faith,’ he acknowledges. ‘But circumstances changed, and now Leila and I are making a home there.’

‘And what Leila and Tom want, Leila and Tom must have.’

His eyes narrow. ‘So this is about spite? I find a way to keep the house and you don’t like it?’

‘You and Leila can live anywhere! It doesn’t have to be in the home where we raised our family. I don’t know why you can’t see what a slap in the face that is for me, and for Ben and Chloe.’ I shake my head at him. ‘Just be generous for once!’

‘Generous?’ He laughs. ‘Ellen, I’m a barrister.’ He brings the flat of his hand to his chest. ‘I could run rings around you. I could use the law to bury you in red tape that necessitates endless, expensive delays you could never afford to fight.’ He gives me a tolerant look that raises the temperature of my blood. ‘I am being more than generous with you, but, as ever, you are too blinded by your own self-importance to see that.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I try to breathe. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You have always sold yourself as the perfect homemaker, the perfect mother to our children, and yet Chloe was pregnant at eighteen. Our daughter
pregnant.
’

Chloe wasn’t wrong when she brought this up with me a few days ago. Her pregnancy has always stuck in his throat as if it was a deliberate personal slight against him. ‘And yet look how everything has turned out. Jack and Chloe are a loving couple and Molly is—’ I pause to reflect on what my granddaughter brings into our lives. Words cannot do her justice and I settle for ‘—an absolute delight.’

‘That’s hardly the point.’

‘So what
is
the point, Tom? Because it seems to me this is about
your
expectations,
your
judgemental attitude, your
ego
.’ I move in closer and point my finger at his chest. ‘Your ego squatted in the centre of our relationship, in the centre of our
family
, like a slimy, fat, greedy toad that needed to be constantly fed.’ I drop my voice to a whisper so that only he can hear me. ‘I want my home back. Do you hear me? I want it back. And I don’t give a shit about what you and your new woman want.’ I move in closer still until our faces are kissing distance apart. ‘Fuck you, Tom Linford, and fuck her.’ I hold his eyes for a couple of long, malevolent seconds, then I turn away. ‘Hamish?’ Hamish inclines his head and I take his arm. ‘Let’s go.’

If there was ever any doubt that I’m doing the right thing by fighting for the house, then it’s well and truly gone. Tom has blown all my reservations out of the water. I’m not the one who’s blinded by self-importance. He’s talking about himself – and her. Always her.

I’m going after the house and I’m going after her.

Most people would look at Maurice and see him as a benign, avuncular figure. He’s wearing a camel-coloured cardigan with a shawl collar and chunky brown buttons. He has a full head of white hair, half-moon specs and a walking stick. (He’s awaiting a hip replacement.) Anyone foolish enough to judge him by his appearance would be surprised to discover an astuteness and attention to detail that is razor-sharp. He is already over eighty but he shows no signs of slowing down. Whenever I see him I feel my spirits lift because – to put it simply – he gets me. He is without doubt the most skilled therapist I have ever met.

His house is not dissimilar to Maybanks although it’s situated in another part of town, south of the City with a view of the Pentland Hills. The room is larger and less modern than mine but the chair I sit in is deep and comfortable and, were I able to relax, it would hug me securely.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Maurice.’ I touch the back of my skull where the darkness lingers. ‘I’m here because I’m afraid.’

He nods. ‘Tell me what you’re afraid of.’

‘Alex is back in rehab,’ I blurt out. ‘I found him almost unconscious on his bed. I don’t know what drugs he’s been taking but I know he could end up hurting himself permanently.’ I try to sink into the armchair but my body is unbending. ‘I’ve tried my best with him. I’ve made sure he has everything he needs – a good education, opportunities, a home to invite friends to – I even chose Tom with Alex in mind. I hoped that they would bond but they haven’t yet. They don’t seem to like one another, or to be more accurate, Tom more or less ignores Alex, and Alex is scathing about Tom.’ I pull my sleeves down over my hands. ‘I don’t know where to go from here. I’ve been feeling agitated and frustrated and just …’ I trail off then catch hold of another thought. ‘If there’s one thing I’m normally sure of it’s that I’m good at my job, and when everything else goes tits up at least I have my work, but now that’s slipping too. I ended up shouting at Alison and Mark this afternoon.’

‘The couple who are deciding whether or not to adopt?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t just sit there and listen to them complaining and moaning and missing the fucking point without wanting to smash their teeth in.’

I pull up my sleeves and scrutinise my nails. I don’t speak for a full two minutes. It feels good to control the silence, to let it shorten and lengthen, swell and recede. Silence is more than just a lack of sound. Silence can speak volumes. Silence can inform and deceive. As a therapist it’s important not to drift off when the client has lapsed into silence. It’s important to remain engaged, to wait and to be attentive to what the client is trying to communicate. Therapy can be as much about what is not said as about what is said.

‘Do you remember my brother?’ I say at last. ‘My family circumstances?’

‘I remember.’

‘He’s in town. I’ve seen him a couple of times during the last few days and he calls me on my mobile, a lot, too much. He’s been seeing a therapist himself – I don’t know who; he wouldn’t give me her name – and he wants to get everything out in the open.’ I rub the base of my skull. ‘And that begs the question – how does it make me feel? Well … when someone wants to kick me, I want to kick them right back. Harder. I can’t help it. And I’ve been thinking – is it displacement? Or is it not?’

I glance up at Maurice. His eyes are with me.

‘I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it is displacement. Maybe David wants to destroy me. Maybe I want to destroy him. Or maybe it’s Gareth he really wants to destroy and I … I want to destroy my mother.’ I look down at my shoes and see a tiny fleck of blood on the outside edge of my right shoe, close to the toe. Bird blood – Mrs Patterson’s cat. Fucker.

‘It’s so much easier to sit in the therapist’s chair,’ I say. ‘To understand what the client is experiencing and to feel a way forward for him or her, to listen and to guide.’

He nods. ‘You have those skills. It’s what makes you a very good therapist.’

‘But with myself? I know … I think … I’m unable to bring that understanding into my own life.’ My mouth is dry and I take a drink of water from the bottle next to me. I savour the liquid in my mouth, running it over my teeth, allowing it to pool in the spaces underneath my tongue before swallowing it. ‘Gareth has come into my head again but there are holes punched in my memory. When I think about him, I can’t really remember what he looks like. I can conjure up a fractured image – one grey eye, the tip of his ear, a dented cheekbone – but I can’t see him clearly any more.’

‘Do you want to see him clearly?’

‘No, no. I don’t. I really don’t. But David has said he wants to meet up with him. And I don’t know why he would want to. Why would he want to?’ I laugh. ‘The man was a bastard to us. He effectively killed our mother and he would have killed us too if he could have got away with it. David wants everything to be transparent. Everything out in the open.’

‘Do you feel threatened by that?’

‘I feel threatened … and afraid … and victimised, but worse than that – I feel betrayed.’

‘David putting his interests first betrays you?’

‘Yes, exactly. That’s what I feel. We had an agreement. We promised each other that we’d never talk about what we’d done, what we’d had to do for the sake of survival. And he’s breaking that promise.’ I take a tissue from the box on the table and spit on it, then try to clean the blood off my shoe. The stain is stubborn and I have to rub and rub before it’s gone. ‘I’m meeting him tomorrow and I don’t know what I’m going to say to him because I’ve yet to work out how I can change his mind.’ I sit back in the chair and bite at the edges of my nails.

Maurice lets the silence grow for fifteen seconds. I know this because I’m counting. I’d be doing the same thing if I were him; allowing a significant pause before responding. ‘Perhaps it might be better not to try to change David’s mind,’ he says slowly. ‘Perhaps it might be better to try to understand his motivation.’

That’s exactly what I don’t want to hear so I pretend that it suddenly feels overwhelmingly important to share my dreams. As a Jungian therapist Maurice will find this hard to resist. ‘I’ve been dreaming about David. These past three nights have been all about David. He’s at the table with us having a family dinner. Tom is there and Alex and myself. We’re all talking and laughing, everything is going well and then David announces why he’s come to visit. I wake up at that point and I’m sweating, my pulse is racing. I feel like I’m in danger.’

Maurice nods slowly and I think he’s taken the bait, but he hasn’t. ‘Imagine David is here now, Leila. What would you say to him?’

‘I’d say – stop this! Forget about our childhood. Move on with your life. Be happy! There is nothing to be gained from dredging up all this stuff.’

‘And what would Leila the therapist say?’

‘She would say …’ I try to breathe. ‘She would say …’ I shake my head. ‘It’s not relevant what she would say, and I’ll tell you why.’ I hold up my hand just in case he decides to speak. ‘David’s not motivated by his own growth and development as a person. David is doing this because he doesn’t want me to be happy. He came to my house, you know? I was out, but Katarina let him in. He’s only done that once before and that was when I’d been living with someone for a year.’