Chapter Eighteen
I feel strangely nervous, arriving at my third therapy session with Edward on Monday.
After Friday’s dinner party revelations, I know he will want to talk about Justin – about Orla – and I know I should tell him the truth about it all.
The truth about what Sam and I got up to on Saturday.
But I am – of course! Obviously! Duh! – very embarrassed.
I know how dysfunctional my behaviour has been – is being – and I don’t want to feel or hear his judgement about it.
And then there is also the other thing making me nervous.
‘Good morning, Olivia,’ he greets me cheerfully, as I soft knock and enter. ‘Nice to see you, come and sit.’
I do, unable to look at him directly. I think again of what Arshiya said at the dinner party the other day.
That thing about the tension between me and Edward.
About him having a thing for me since our university days.
I need to know what she meant by it. Was it just one of those silly things women are socialised to do: bonding via inane and well-intentioned baseless gossip?
Or was it something else? Maybe she’d had a couple of drinks before coming over? Maybe she was tipsy.
Except of course, Arshiya doesn’t drink.
Tipsy on life? It doesn’t seem likely.
So where did that come from? Why did she say that?
‘Friday was fun!’ I leap in with the first thing I can think of as I plump cushions beside me on the sofa.
He frowns. ‘I was going to keep church and state separate,’ he comments dryly. ‘But since you brought it up, can we talk about Justin and the new girlfriend?’
Goddammit.
He is looking at me intently. ‘Or, more accurately, can we talk about how you feel and how you’re reacting to Justin and his new girlfriend?’
‘I would rather not,’ I say honestly, and he nods.
‘I understand that, but I do think it’s something that’s obviously weighing heavily on you. I think it might help you to talk about it.’
He waits, and I sneak a look at his face. He has incredibly even features. He’s always so well-groomed and clean shaven. I wonder if he ever lets his stubble grow out.
Is there any chance – any chance at all – that what Arshiya said was true?
Let’s consider it. Okay, so maybe it’s possible Edward used to have a thing for me.
Maybe back in those busy days when we were all having group sessions, working towards our qualifications.
I will allow for the possibility that maybe he’d had a tiny crush back then.
We were all in our early twenties! Everyone had a thing for everyone!
We were bags of soft tissue, frail psyches with the massive horn.
So, sure, maybe Edward would’ve gone there.
It’s possible, isn’t it? And maybe from that vague old long-forgotten crush, Arshiya has extrapolated some kind of nonsensical and non-existent ongoing sexual tension.
Because even if – even if! – Edward liked me now, you know, like that, he wouldn’t exactly be confiding in her, would he?
Would he? He’d never casually gossip about who he fancied within the group, not with his colleagues.
It’s sooo not Edward. He keeps his cards close to his vest – or is it chest?
– with even small inconsequential stuff, so there is no way he’d let on about an in-house crush.
So there, it’s definitely nonsense. It’s Arshiya being a shit-stirrer. She’s been spending too much time with Sam; she’s turning into a drama lover.
Edward is still waiting for me to speak, and I try to focus on the session and what he’s asked me.
I can’t tell him the truth, I just can’t. I’ll tell him… something else. I’ll tell him about Sam and her wet washing.
I open my mouth to prevaricate, but something stops me.
Instead of flatmate irritations, I blurt out the truth.
‘We went to see her – me and Sam.’ I feel the spike of shame hot on my cheeks, but his expression doesn’t change.
‘The new girlfriend, I mean. Orla. She hosts a podcast, and we went to watch her record one live in a bookshop.’ I swallow.
‘And we talked to her afterwards.’ I sigh. ‘She seems really nice.’
He nods sagely, like he knew this all along. Like this is not a pathetic thing to have said – or indeed, done.
‘And how did you feel seeing her, speaking to her?’ he asks in a neutral, non-judgemental tone.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. Weird.’
He leans a micro-fraction closer. ‘Close your eyes,’ he instructs, and after a moment, I do. ‘Take some long, deep breaths, and give yourself a full body scan. How do you feel and where do you feel it?’
I frown, then do as I’m told. Deep breath, deep breath, and then I mentally pat myself down. I can feel the beginnings of a migraine, nagging at the back of my brain. I haven’t had once since before Justin dumped me. My stomach hurts a little. I try to tune into what emotions are coming up…
‘Sad,’ I say quietly, my eyes still closed because it’s easier. ‘Rejected, abandoned.’ I swallow again. ‘I feel angry that Orla is so perfect and nice and successful and pretty. I feel… jealous.’
‘You feel like she’s been chosen over you, somehow,’ Edward offers, and my stomach pain gets worse.
‘Yes,’ I say simply. ‘And not just by Justin, but by the world.’
‘Is this a familiar feeling? A familiar pain?’ he asks softly, and I open my eyes to look at him quizzically. His face is kind and sympathetic.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, but the pain in my stomach has turned to nausea. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you remember when you’ve felt this way before? Where does this feeling take you?’
I shake my head, fighting it. The sickness is in my throat now.
We fall silent and when he speaks again, his voice is even softer.
‘It sounds like you didn’t have the best relationship with your parents, when you were growing up,’ he says, and I nod carefully as he continues, ‘Did you feel abandoned and rejected around them, when you were a child?’
‘I don’t think they liked me very much,’ I tell him quietly.
‘I think my mum was angry with me for existing. She would constantly talk about how much she’d sacrificed for me, and the life she’d missed out on because of my existence.
’ I pause. ‘There was a lot of guilt whenever I was living my life or being happy. Actually, the only time she seemed pleased with me was when I was doing well at school – when she could show me off. I had to be perfect or, y’know, I’d ruined her life for nothing. ’
‘You felt like you were responsible for your mother’s emotional state,’ Edward comments and I nod in agreement, though it wasn’t a question.
He continues, ‘It felt like it was your job to make your mum happy. To be the good girl.’ I shift in my chair.
This is starting to feel quite hard already, but I know only too well that he’s only just getting started.
‘What about your dad?’
I shrug. ‘Well, he wasn’t really around enough for me to know how he felt about me or about being a parent.
’ I swallow. ‘He left when I was at nursery. I’d see him occasionally, but he was mostly completely absent.
’ I laugh bitterly. ‘Mum never left, but she might as well have done. She was absent emotionally. I would go to my grandparents’ house after school every day and most weekends. It was nicer there.’
Edward pauses, breathing slowly. ‘Emotionally immature parents can be very damaging.’ I nod again at this, not trusting myself to speak.
He clears his throat. ‘Maybe anger wasn’t a safe thing for you to express when you were young?
Maybe your emotions were ignored or dealt with badly?
Or maybe saying how you felt to people who were supposed to keep you safe didn’t get you anywhere? ’
‘Yes,’ I say with a touch of impatience.
‘But I’ve dealt with this. I know my parents were useless, I know I didn’t have the best childhood.
I’ve been low contact with both of them for a long time.
I used to have a slightly anxious attachment style, where I worried about abandonment and sought constant reassurance, but not anymore.
I haven’t done that in ages! I’ve dealt with this. I’ve totally dealt with this.’
He takes a moment. ‘I’m not sure you can ever fully deal with feeling unloved as a child.
That sits with you. It can sit with you physically and emotionally, for a lifetime, and as adults we keep having to address it.
Otherwise, it’s in danger of controlling us.
We’re often held hostage to emotions we felt as kids, but we don’t have to be. ’
I smile playfully. ‘All right for you to say, with your perfect mum making perfect cakes for you every week.’
He smiles back. ‘Nothing is ever as good as it looks from the outside. My family has its issues too, believe me. You should see the enmeshment and parentification going on with my brother and our folks.’
I blink at this tiny bit of new insight, seeing Edward in a different light. He’s a real person, I realise again. It’s starting to sink in. He’s more than just a two-dimensional walking suit. I don’t know if I like this new development or not.
Maybe a human version of Edward could have a little crush.
I gather my things as we finish up, my head spinning. ‘Are you doing okay?’ Edward asks me nicely, and when I glance up, I can see that he has relaxed into a different mode. Edward the therapist has gone. This is just him, just Edward.
‘It’s a lot,’ I admit quietly. ‘The whole thing. There’s a lot that I need to think about.’
He nods. ‘I know. And I know thinking about it can be difficult. But I really do believe it will help you in the long run – painful as it probably feels right now. You’re a good person, Olivia, you really are—’ He stops short, like he has remembered himself.
He clears his throat, turning away, then turning back.
‘And I know you don’t want to, but we really should talk about Morning Tea at some point soon—’
‘Not yet,’ I interrupt, shaking my head, grabbing for my coat and yanking arms into sleeves. I feel angry with myself for wearing it. The July sun is too warm for a jacket.
As I leave Edward’s office I let his words wash over me. There was so much there; so much we talked about.
In general, I try not to think about my parents too often, but the feelings that came up in there, in Edward’s office, prove that maybe I haven’t processed as much of my pain as I thought. As I need to. But the stomach pain has gone, and the threatening migraine has receded a little.
I reach for my phone. I’m going to do it. I’m going to belatedly take Edward’s advice. It’s too late to not stalk poor Orla to her place of work, but I can now start as I mean to go on. I open Instagram and look up both profiles. One by one, I block first Justin’s profile, then Orla’s.
Then I hold my finger down on the social media app, and I hit the magic words. ‘Remove App’. And then I let out the biggest sigh of relief.