Chapter 14
It’s Monday, but because we were supposed to be in Paris, I don’t have any patients and no reason to go to the office. On the one hand, it gives me one more day before I have to face the clinic – and Rich – but on the other, I could really have done with the distraction.
Mark’s return is a complication I didn’t need. And any hope I might have nurtured that we could be cool with each other was extinguished last night.
My therapist brain urges me to have compassion for him. He’s coming from a place of grief. He lost his only brother. The idea of losing Yan makes me want to retch. But Mark’s been living with this wound for fifteen years. How can it not take a toll?
It explains his reaction last night, but I’ve got my own shit to deal with. I haven’t got the emotional bandwidth to be the target of his anger.
Not that I checked my anger particularly well.
Most of it he deserved, but the one thing I regret is telling Mark he was like his dad.
For all Mark’s faults – and he has plenty – he’d never lay a finger on a woman.
And I guess I must have known that even when I was sixteen, or I’d never have dared slap him.
Rather than going round in circles about last night, I decide to tackle my book proposal.
I came across some advice about overcoming writer’s block and I’m determined to put it into action. The trick is to tell yourself you’re only going to read what you’ve already written – no new words required; just ease back into the project slowly, and without any pressure.
I open the Word document and start reading.
During my time as a couples’ counsellor, I’ve seen hundreds of patients who seek professional help because one partner has been unfaithful. Experience has taught me that cheaters generally fall into one of five categories:
1. They need it for their ego
2. They need an excuse to get out of their current relationship
3. They’re addicted to the risk
4. They don’t think the normal rules apply to them
5. They do it to get their partner’s attention
I’d so blithely written about how to spot the types of cheaters, never thinking I needed to take my own advice.
What sort of cheater is Rich?
None of the answers are great, but the one I’d find easiest to forgive is number five. Because however misguided the cheater might be, they’re not motivated by selfishness.
Did Rich feel unloved and ignored? Had I become complacent? Was it a way to save the relationship rather than blow it up?
I catch myself mid-spiral. Of course I’m finding the book hard right now, the subject matter is too close to home; the hurt is too fresh. I’m not in the right head space, so maybe I need to be kinder to myself.
And the universe obviously supports my decision, because downstairs, the television starts blaring old-time Greek music which means Mum is catching up with her favourite Greek soap, an activity she can seemingly only do with the volume at eleven.
No one could be expected to work through that.
I try reading my Kindle, but after twenty minutes, I’m paying more attention to the goings-on in a tiny mountain village hideaway at the turn of the twentieth century where Mr Kassianos, the butcher, is shouting at a rascal shepherd boy for looking at his precious Eleni with lust-filled eyes when everyone knows he’s arranged for her to marry Mr Panayiotis the notary, on the first Sunday after Pentecost. I suspect, however, that a telling-off isn’t going to do the trick, seeing as the show is called The Shepherd and the Maiden.
I find Pen, who’s also trying to study in her room.
‘You okay with all this noise?’
She shrugs. ‘I can usually tune it out, but when I can’t I go and work in Ealing library.’
‘How about I take us there, now? And then afterwards, treat us to a nice lunch?’
Her face lights up. ‘That would be great, Nell.’
Sometimes, I forget how young Pen is. She still hasn’t learnt to drive, and she opted to stay at home for her first year at uni.
The poor thing hasn’t had the best of starts to her accountancy degree.
She failed her first-year exams, and she’s having to study over the summer so she can retake in September before they let her start the second year.
‘How are you feeling about the exams?’ I ask, once we’ve parked and are walking towards the library.
‘Not too bad. I already feel way more prepared than I did in June, and I’ve still got eight weeks before the resits. With any luck, I’ll be able to join my friends for the second year.’
‘I’m proud of you, Pen. It shows real character that you’re facing this head-on. If ever you need to talk, you know I’m here for you, right?’
‘I’m okay, Nell. There’s a counsellor at college who I’ve talked to a couple of times. Loads of students experience exam stress – she’s used to dealing with it.’
We pass a hairdresser’s on the way to the library. ‘Are these guys any good?’ I ask. ‘I’m due a trim.’
She smiles. ‘You should do the clichéd scorned woman thing. A sexy makeover so that when Rich sees you tomorrow, he’ll fall to his knees and weep.’
I laugh. ‘Spoken like a true TikTok feminist. Fine, I’ll start with a blow-dry and take it from there. But I’ll be doing it for me, not to get back at Rich.’
Pen tilts her head to one side; she doesn’t believe me.
‘Okay, I admit it,’ I concede. ‘Any coincidental grief it causes Rich won’t be entirely unwelcome.’
I get my hair done and my glossy-haired reflection puts me in such a good mood that I whizz around the shops and not only do I buy a sexy bra-and-knickers set, but also a pair of indecently high red suede heels that look like the Manolo Blahniks I’ve been coveting on Net-a-Porter, but for a tenth of the price.
The retail therapy has done wonders for my self-esteem.
Maybe the TikTok feminists are right after all.