Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Mick
T he padded orange chairs and colourful abstract paintings look like afterthoughts shoved into the oversized consulting room to camouflage the dirty beige walls and equally drab carpet. As do the collection of travel books and luxury car magazines scattered across the small coffee table. A sign of where the exorbitant fees go, perhaps?
The room’s a lot cheerier than the place the police force insisted I visit after what went down with Davo. But they share one thing in common: an unusual odour—a blend of antiseptic, air freshener and fear—that taunts the memory cells and sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine.
The marriage counsellor, Nigel Bankton, peers through his thick glasses at us from across the large, grey desk. With curly black hair and the loudest shirt I’ve ever seen outside a Hawaiian theme party, he’s not what I expected. At all. It’s like he, too, is overcompensating to draw attention from the depressing bleached bones of the room. Besides the desk, chairs and coffee table, there’s also a full-length couch. I thought that was something you only saw in movies.
Nigel pushes his glasses up his nose. “It’s good to meet you both. ”
Jules mumbles under her breath. She wanted to visit the same psychologist Claire sees, but Doctor Amy was booked out for the next three months. We can’t wait that long. It might be too late. And so we’re stuck with Mr Hawaiian Shirt. I can sense Jules is readying herself to bolt. I’m not far behind her. But we need to see this through.
“We’re glad to be here,” I say.
Nigel taps a few keys on his keyboard, then settles into his seat. “Where would you like to start?”
I cross my ankles. Grip my thighs. I swore I’d never set foot inside a shrink’s room again, and yet here I am. I clear my throat. If I mention Jules’ drinking first, she’s likely to storm out. But I can’t bring myself to mention the pub incident. Not first up. “Things have been a bit tense.”
“I see.” Nigel tilts his head as if I’ve said something fascinating instead of dancing around the real reason we’re here. “In what way?”
“I caught my husband in a compromising position and lost my shit,” says Jules with a deadpan face.
My chest caves in on itself. Great. She’s in one of her ‘take no prisoners’ moods.
Nigel’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze darts to me and back to Jules. “What do you mean by compromising?”
“He works late every night.” Jules lifts her chin. “But then I find out he’s really out with female ex-colleagues at the pub.”
God, give me strength. “I work long hours. That’s true. And …” I glance at Jules, my throat muscles contracting at the negative energy rolling off her. “I stayed out late one time for drinks. One. Time.”
“How does that make you feel, Jules?” asks Nigel.
There’s a huff of air from Jules’ lips and a silence like the calm before a storm. I swear this guy must have graduated at the bottom of his class. “How would it make you feel if you caught your partner with someone else draped all over them, looking like they were one breath away from fucking in public?”
Nigel’s eyes widen resembling a cartoon character. He flinches and wobbles, almost toppling off his chair.
Heat rushes up my neck. “I told you?—”
Jules raises her finger. “And I said I believed you. But it doesn’t mean it’s easy to erase that picture from my mind.”
She’s right. If I’d seen Jules in the arms of another man, I’d probably be languishing in a jail cell. “I’m sorry.” That’s all I seem to keep saying these days.
“Tell that to Riley.” Jules’ voice drops to a whisper. “You’re rarely home before she goes to bed anymore.”
My fingers dig into my quadriceps. I’m not sounding like husband or father of the year right now. But at least the focus is off what happened with Melissa. “I know. And it’s not fair to either of you.”
Nigel’s head bobbles up and down. “That’s good, Mick. When we recognise the problem, we can do something about it.”
“But he doesn’t,” Jules snaps. “He just keeps working and working and working.”
I tug at my hair. “I’m trying to cut back, but it’s not easy.” Not when work is my sedative of choice.
“Then try harder.” Flames dance in Jules’ eyes, although they’re muted by fatigue.
Nigel clears his throat and tugs at the collar of his ugly shirt like he’s uncomfortable dealing with arguing spouses. How did this guy qualify to be a marriage counsellor? “Can you get home early one or two nights a week, Mick?”
I lift my head to the ceiling. My boss is old school, preferring to see everyone at their desks. But if I take Jake up on his request to help with the Leadbetter investigation, my travel time would be much shorter. At least for a while. “I could ask.”
“Would that help, Jules? ”
She stares at the floor. “Maybe.”
Nigel nods. “Is there anything else worrying you both?”
“No,” says Jules.
“Yes.” I quirk an eyebrow at her. Is she going to talk about the wine?
Jules crosses her arms. Then her legs. Her bottom lip wobbles. “I might be drinking a little too much.”
A little? On average, she’s throwing back a bottle of wine a day.
“And why do you think that is?” asks Nigel.
“I don’t know.” She clasps her hands in her lap. “I guess I get lonely sometimes.”
My stomach lurches. I’d blame the uncomfortable sensation on gas, but it’s all because of A-grade guilt.
Nigel strokes his jaw. “Any thoughts on what you could do about it?”
“I’m not sure.” Jules hugs herself tighter.
Nigel bounces on his seat, completely oblivious to Jules’ flat tone. “I recall you mentioning in your preappointment questionnaire that you have tertiary qualifications. Could you look for work?”
Jules stiffens. If it was possible for smoke to come out of ears, it would be pouring out of hers. “I have a degree in archaeology and would love nothing more than to use it.” She scrapes back her chair and slaps her palms on the desk. “Do you know how many jobs exist in Sydney for specialists in Egyptian archaeology?”
Nigel jumps at the sound of flesh hitting wood. “I’m guessing not many.”
“You’d guess right. None. Zero. Fuck all.”
Jules flops into her seat. I squeeze her arm. Instead of rejecting me, she clasps my hand and squeezes back. It’s the first time she’s initiated contact in a long time.
“Perhaps you could do something else … get a part-time job?” says Nigel .
Jules deflates. “Yeah. That’s all I’m good for now.”
What’s wrong with this bloke? Can he read people at all? No wonder we were able to make an appointment at short notice. This is why I stopped doing counselling when I left the force. Lots of talking and no real listening. In the end, these professionals excel at helping you empty your wallet and little else.
“Hey.” I cup Jules’ chin, half expecting her to turn away, but she doesn’t. “Since when did you stop being a fighter?”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She shuts it, then opens it again. “No one wants a wannabe archaeologist with no experience.”
The guilt steps up a notch. We’d agreed that Jules would be a stay-at-home mum until Riley went to school. Was that a mistake?
We continue to chew the fat, going round and round. After seeing the hopelessness in Jules’ expression, I’m tempted to tell the guy he’s an idiot and walk out, but I clamp my jaw shut. We have to give this a go. Ugly Shirt has a lot of impressive credentials, so surely, he knows what he’s doing.
Jules fidgets beside me as Nigel bores us with a monologue about the importance of communication. I steal a glance. A ghost of a sparkle has returned to her eyes. Huh. Maybe this guy’s finally making sense to her. All I’m hearing is kerching kerching or the crackle of flames as our money goes up in smoke.
A mobile phone on the table starts vibrating. Nigel pauses midsentence and picks it up. “Apologies. I need to answer this. I won’t be a moment.” He scurries out of his office.
The silence is like basking in the light of a full moon after the nasally twang of Nigel Ugly Shirt. I take a moment to appreciate it. I’ll never yell at Zola for barking ever again. I’d sooner her growls and yips to the monotone my ears have been subjected to for the last fifty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Am I counting? Yes. Yes, I am .
I turn to Jules. “How do you think it’s going?”
She shrugs, her lips pressed into a thin, straight line. It’s a nothing answer.
“Are you?—”
She gives a zipping motion across her mouth as the door swings open and Nigel returns.
“We’re out of time, Mr and Mrs Williams. But we’ve made good progress. I’ll give you some guidelines regarding communication. Also, I’d encourage you to write down how you felt when you got married and what excited you about each other. I look forward to continuing at our next appointment.”
Nigel shoves a bunch of brochures into our hands. No doubt he thinks he’s hit a gold mine. If Jules is impressed with him, then I guess he has. And doesn’t that thought shrivel my eardrums.
Jules giggles like a teenager as we settle at a table in a nearby café.
My damaged ears perk up at the unusual, joyous sound. Thank Christ. I half expected her to rip my head off after the debacle of a counselling session. “What was with that guy’s shirt?”
“He lost a dare?” She snort-laughs and slaps her thigh. “It was hard to take him seriously once he stopped pissing me off. It was impossible to look past all that orange and yellow and the huge flowers.”
Maybe there’s something to this therapist stuff after all. Now, we have a common enemy—the deadbeat psychologist. “Yep. He was definitely the oddest shrink I’ve ever come across.”
Jules rests her elbows on the table, her expressive eyes searching mine. “You’ve met a few? ”
I shrug, trying to show it’s no big deal. “I had to meet with them after certain incidents when I worked for the police.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing I can talk about.” I lower my gaze. “They just want to ensure you’re okay after you’ve experienced something traumatic.” So they can tick the box to say they did their due diligence. Prove they’re not at fault when you fail to recover.
“Like a bad car accident or murder?”
“Yeah.” Or like seeing your partner shot.
I don’t tell her that. Or that fucking shrinks, and the drugs they prescribed, failed to stop the images from scrolling on repeat in my head or purge the all-consuming guilt that it was my fault Davo died. The only thing that stopped me from spiralling out of control was finding Jules and my daughter. Having a reason to live.
Our coffees and sandwiches arrive, and I’m grateful for the distraction. Jules inhales the steam wafting off the top of her latte before sipping it. I swallow my espresso in one gulp.
I should tell her about Jake’s request because it could be the answer to one of our problems. But I’m not ready. Talking about the police makes my scars itch. Which makes me wonder whether I’m capable of working with them again on any level. “So, should we continue the marriage counselling?”
Jules moves a stray piece of lettuce around her plate. “We could see what shirt Nigel wears at the next appointment. Or arrange to have root canal surgery together. That would be more fun than another hour listening to him.”
I burst out laughing. “I can’t imagine they’d have two dentist chairs side by side.”
Her lips twitch. “There’s always a first.”
God, it feels good to talk. To smile. To not argue.
“How about we book in with this Doctor Amy and put ourselves on a waitlist? You never know. There might be a cancellation.” As much as I shudder at the thought of counselling, I hate the thought of losing Jules more. And this is the most we’ve connected in months, so it’s obviously helped despite the ineptitude of Nigel Crazy Shirt.
Jules’ eyes shimmer, and she dabs at them with a napkin. “Thanks for making the appointment. I appreciate you trying.”
“I love you, Jules.”
She looks away and stands. “We should get going.”
A tiny part of my heart withers at her lack lustre response. What if it’s too late to save our marriage?