‘So, what should I do with this list, once I’ve made it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, should I show it to Nate?’
Rachel tipped her head to one side. ‘What do you think?’
She often does this, batting a question straight back at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. Sixty pounds an hour, I paid her. Couldn’t she tell me what to think?
She cleared her throat; my time was nearly up. Age-wise, I’d put her at thirty tops. What could she possibly know about marriage and love? ‘The important part is putting it all down,’ she replied, ‘in writing.’
And that was that. As far as Rachel was concerned, as long as I’d written the darn thing, it didn’t matter what I did with it: I could use it to line a budgie’s cage – if we had one – or set it on fire. I handed her my debit card, which she popped into the slot of her little machine. In went my pin number, as if I’d just done a grocery shop. I almost expected her to ask if I had a Nectar card.
That was hard-earned money I’d just spent. A whole day’s earnings in the shop, come to think of it. It could have bought new trainers for Flynn, the ingredients for a week’s worth of dinners or – what the hell – several bottles of industrial cheap white wine from Londis, the kind Nate calls ‘lady petrol’. ‘Fancy a fine vintage from L’Ondice tonight, darling?’ he used to ask in a faux-plummy voice, in the days when we still joked around …
When we still laughed and had fun …
When I still loved him madly and regarded him as my best friend in the world. Nate Turner, my soulmate: the brightest, kindest, funniest – and sweetest – man I had ever met.
And now?
I know he’s a hardworking man, and a good dad; we function together, but that no longer feels like enough. How can I be expected to love him when he barely registers my feelings?
Rachel had turned to her laptop and tapped something quickly. ‘Gosh, I’m busy next week. Could you do Thursday, Sinead? Same time?’
‘That’d be great,’ I replied, flashing a smile as I trotted out of the therapy room in her warehouse flat, as if we’d just got together for our regular coffee and it was the highlight of my week.
It was Flynn I was thinking about on my drive home, and what he’d make of me seeing a therapist (I still can’t quite believe I have one. It feels as bizarre as if I were to say ‘my butler’). I’ve been vague about it, muttering about staying late at the shop to help out Vicky, my boss – not that he’s particularly interested in what I get up to. But I know he’d be shocked if he knew where I’d really been going.
I realise it’s indulgent, and that when I describe my life, it seems like I have everything I could possibly want. I am forty-three years old, with a husband, a son and a job that doesn’t stress me terribly – and of course people have it far worse than I do. Hesslevale is a popular, family-oriented town – the kind of place where people get together and create vegetable gardens on waste ground, for anyone to enjoy. You can barely move for artisan roasted coffee and poetry readings, and I’ve found myself being wrestled into screen-printing workshops and giant community knitting projects, virtually against my will. Thankfully, our town still retains a slightly shabby edge, which prevents it from toppling into unbearable tweeness; there’s a couple of burger joints, and a noodle bar (‘Canoodles’) that no one I know has ever ventured into. It’s been a wonderful, supportive and friendly place in which to raise our son.
The trouble is, somewhere along the way I have stopped loving his dad.
Write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with …
Did Rachel really mean all of them, or just the big stuff? I’d switched on the car radio in my temperamental Skoda, trying to decide whether the whole therapy business was a colossal waste of time and money. I’d spent £360 so far, and she’d basically told me to make a list. The whole drive home, I started to think of specific reasons why I was unhappy, and where on earth I’d start if it came to writing it all down.
As I’d parked up, another disturbing thought had hit me: my mother-in-law, Judy, was dropping by that evening. The realisation caused me to leap out of my car, hurry to L’Ondice at the end of our road, and virtually hurl myself at the wine fridge at the back.
‘Oh, you’re lucky to have caught me,’ Judy announced, eyeing my clinking carrier bag as I strode into our hallway five minutes later. ‘I’m just leaving, love. What a pity …’
‘Such a shame,’ I agreed. ‘I’m so sorry!’ We hugged briefly, and my gaze met Nate’s over her shoulder. He was wearing the nervy expression I’d become accustomed to seeing after I’d had a session with Rachel. I caught him scanning my face for clues. ‘I thought you were staying for dinner?’ I added, greeting Scout as he hurtled towards me.
Judy shook her head. She wears her silvery hair in a pixie crop, and was kitted out in her go-to attire of chambray shirt and navy chinos. As rangy as a racehorse, she exuded no-nonsense chic. ‘I’d love to, but I really don’t have the time. Still so much to do before the trip.’ She frowned. ‘Shame I’ve missed seeing Flynn …’
‘Yes, he’s out at the cinema with friends.’ I paused. ‘I hope you have a fantastic trip. Has Raymond been hill-walking before?’
‘No – but he’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. Having divorced Nate’s late father when Nate was a teenager, Judy is partial to setting tough physical tests whenever she starts seeing anyone new. You’d never guess she is seventy-two; her face is virtually unlined, her blue eyes bright, her figure enviable. ‘Anyway, how was your … appointment?’ she asked as she pulled on her jacket.
‘Appointment?’ I frowned, confused. Surely Nate hadn’t told her about Rachel?
‘Nate said you had an appointment after work.’ She studied me, unblinking. ‘Nothing … worrying, I hope?’
‘Oh, no, not at all!’ I felt the blush whoosh up my face.
‘Not … ill are you?’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a glimmer of hope.
‘No, no – I’m absolutely fine.’
Her stare was piercing. Right up to retirement, Judy was a science teacher, and I bet no one lit their farts with a Bunsen burner in her classes.
‘I, er, just had a massage,’ I fibbed.
‘A massage?’ she gasped, as if I’d said ‘colonic irrigation’.
‘Yes, just a little treat for myself …’
‘Oh, I do admire you, Sinead. I really do …’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.
Her mouth flickered with amusement. ‘Putting yourself first like that. It’s very commendable, I have to say …’
‘Well, er, I—’
‘… Although I could never justify spending that sort of money on myself. I’d feel so guilty, so decadent, that it would cancel out any enjoyment I’d gained from the massage …’
What would she have thought if she knew I’ve been forking out – weekly – to have my head