28. Guest v. Finbow Day Five
GUEST V. FINBOW: DAY FIVE
EVENING
In the recording, we are back in Jean’s living room in Rome.
I recognize it from the long cream sofa, and the carpet that was so thick, you left footprints in it.
On the ottoman between us, there is Jean’s infinite supply of tissues and a warm teapot.
The heavy curtains are drawn, something she used to insist on during our later sessions.
At the time I didn’t notice it, but they acted like blinders on a racehorse, keeping my focus in the room and concealing the passing of time.
At first, there is a giggling sound; the camera’s on but I’m not yet in shot. Instead, you hear me calling to Jean from the kitchen, asking what there is to eat.
“Anything.” Jean’s voice comes from behind the camera. “Help yourself.” Then the frame fills. I walk into view.
“Whoa,” I say, raising my hand like a film star. “Paparazzo! Is that an actual camera? I thought we just did audio?” There is food in my mouth, which I chew playfully.
“You don’t mind?” says Jean. “It’ll be helpful.”
I sit down heavily on her sofa, with my plate of focaccia, and look directly into the lens. “Just not me eating.” I grin broadly. “I’m a pig.”
There’s something in that grin—in its silliness, its joyful trusting—that makes me want to scream.
It’s not my vulnerability that upsets me, but how confident I seem.
At the time, I felt so insecure, but I see now that I came across differently.
I marvel at how I just walked into Jean’s living room—a sure-footed, big-booted, lanky lope, dressed in some old purple suit that Mary had probably complimented at some point, one hand plunged deep in my trouser pocket.
How trusting I was then, just throwing myself onto the sofa, right into the center of the camera frame; how brave I was, to tilt my head backward and talk.
Abruptly, the video cuts, and there I am again, coyly shuffling some sheets of paper and passing them over to Jean.
“These drawings are so embarrassing,” I say, glancing at the camera. “I’m supposed to be an artist.”
“You’re coming up with homes again and again. Interesting.”
There is a silence. Noisily, I swallow tea. Then we both laugh, acknowledging the awkwardness. It is a terrible sound.
“Was home a lonely place, Gus?” Jean asks, in a soothing tone. She supplies that detail so swiftly that I feel my hackles rise.
“I suppose so. It’s hard to remember how I used to feel—”
“You’re very protective of your parents, Gus, considering what they put you through. To my mind, they were toxic . They make me want to do this.”
Although she is behind the camera, I know that Jean is cradling her arms. She’d often demonstrate these soothing gestures when I spoke of my home life. I liked how she’d flinch and shiver. Soothing herself was more proof that I’d suffered.
“I wonder why you protect them? Do you still feel ashamed of how they let you down? You do realize how seriously they let you down, don’t you?”
My face darkens at Jean’s suggestion, but then I start nodding.
“What did you think about the reading I sent you?” she continues.
The book was called Strength to Heal and had been written by two American psychotherapists in the late 1970s. It contained lists of physical and mental symptoms that were supposed to indicate buried trauma in the mind and body: Jean’s little bible.
“Quite eerie, actually. It made a lot of sense.” I nod. “Thanks.”
“The pages I folded over for you, the checklists. Did you see much of yourself in those?”
“It was, like, every single one.” I laugh in a rasping way. “Except the bed-wetting.”
“Why don’t you read out some of the statements you identify with?”
“Um, sure.” I pick up the book and begin reading: “?‘I have a great deal of unused capacity that I have not turned to my advantage. I feel unable to protect myself in dangerous situations.’?” My voice wobbles at the last: “?‘I feel that there is something wrong with me deep down inside, that if people really knew me, they would leave.’?”
Jean’s arm leans across the ottoman toward me. Though only her wrist is visible, I notice the brand of her watch: far more expensive than I’d ever realized. My stomach begins to hurt.
I shut the book theatrically. “And that’s the end of the story!” I try to laugh again.
“Is it?” she asks, with calm authority. “Not unless we first forgive ourselves for these thoughts. Shall we go back to when they might have started? You see, our memory functions a bit like this video I’m taking of you.
Or a roll of film. It’s all in there, we just have to spool backward and locate it. ”
There is a pause. Jean stands up then and helps me into the position she always had us lie in. Eagerly, I let her arrange me. The slow head massage begins.
“Let’s rewind the tape, Gus,” she whispers softly.
Imogen Carr leans over for the remote control and presses pause. I cover my eyes, unable to bear the sight of Jean’s fingertips greedily stroking and pressing upon my hair, as though she were polishing a rare piece of jewelry.
“Augusta,” Ms. Carr says gently. “Augusta, are you all right?”
The video is too excruciating to watch in full.
It is like seeing myself without skin. I lower my forehead on the table so that it rests on the barristers’ chambers’ stationery: a pad of paper and two sharpened pencils that were set out for every chair around the glass table of the conference room.
I had sent Anna’s legal team the email only a couple of hours ago, requesting the withdrawal of my evidence, but my vacillation only brought on their charm offensive.
I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy how quickly Bernard’s car pulled up next to me by the Tube station, with all the suaveness of a spy in some television drama.
As a key witness, I knew they couldn’t afford to let me panic and flee London.
There was an offer of a more luxurious hotel room to spend the weekend in, too, so that I would be well rested before my evidence.
They fussed around and got me a pizza for dinner.
Then I was brought into Ms. Carr’s brightly lit conference room for a serious talk.
“I know this recording is confronting,” she says soothingly, as I eventually lift my head.
“But it’s fantastic evidence, Gus, and we’re so glad you located it for us.
It’s just a reminder of the importance of what you’re about to do.
It’s exactly why you must be brave now and speak up for the truth.
Look at the way she touches you. The way she puts ideas into your head—”
“They weren’t all her ideas. We were discussing my life!”
“She must be stopped.”
I glance at the screen, then away. However crooked Jean’s analysis was, a large part of me still wishes I were back there, basking in her attention and the comfort of that apartment. My mind wrestles with the yearning. It wasn’t hers , I tell myself. It was rented. Her whole life was rented.
“What about Lawrence?” I say, folding my arms. “What about the way he touches people?”
“Gus,” Bernard warns. “You know what we said about bringing him up.”
Beneath the table, my foot stamps. “I don’t see how he gets to carry on living his charmed life in his atelier, while we’re all forced to go through this.”
Ms. Carr glances at Bernard. “I take it you have warned her about courtroom libel?”
Bernard clears his throat. “You can’t just go in there making accusations about random men, Gus. You need to be really careful.”
“He’s not random.”
“No,” Ms. Carr agrees. “He isn’t random.”
“I told you, other students are speaking against him!”
“So let the story come out! They aren’t your accusations to make.
The truth is, whatever happened with him and Mary, this is still a vulnerability that Ms. Guest has exploited.
If it wasn’t Lawrence, there would be some other wound she’d be prizing open for her own benefit.
” I shiver and she proceeds more carefully.
“Which is why your account of how she coerced you is so important.”
It irritates me how glibly Ms. Carr describes my experiences as an account .
“But it’s not that easy,” I snap. “Look at Oriel. Look at what happened to her.”
“Exactly, Gus,” Ms. Carr snaps back. “Think of Oriel and all the other lives this woman will destroy.”
There is a heated pause. Bernard tops up my glass of water. For a while, I gaze forward, unwilling to face the full significance of what Ms. Carr has just said.
“But there’s other things I want to make clear,” I venture quietly. “Jean’s not all bad. She also made me feel better.” I turn slightly, to appeal to Bernard, but he won’t meet my eye. “You don’t understand how caring she could be.”
Ms. Carr removes her glasses. “She encouraged delusions in you for her own gain.”
“Yes, but she also gave me hope.”
“That hope bred a dependency that she exploited.”
“It was still hope.”
Frustrated, Ms. Carr and Bernard eye each other warily, then she nods at him.
Bernard removes his phone from his pocket and places it on the table.
“You’ve got the weekend to think it over now, Gus.
No one can force you to do anything.” He hesitates.
“But perhaps this might help you to see straight.”
He turns the handset over. On the screen, there is a map with a pin in the middle of it. My mouth turns dry. “This is Mary’s last known location.”
A tense quiet falls over the room.
“You’re saying I can visit?” I ask, breathless. It has been so long since I’ve known of Mary’s whereabouts.
Ms. Carr releases a sigh of disapproval, gets up from the table, and looks out of the window. “If it helps you understand how critical your evidence on Monday will be, then, yes.”
“Are you sure she’s there?”
“Not certain, no,” Ms. Carr says. “This is our best estimate.”
“Go there,” Bernard says simply. “See if she’ll talk to you. If not, just take a look at how she’s living. A pregnant woman. The state Jean’s got her in.”
I hurry to copy the location down. “Thank you,” I stammer. “You don’t know how much this means.”
Ms. Carr faces me with folded arms. “Giving evidence is a civic privilege, Gus. Everything you say under oath is a serious matter. We are trusting you with this information. But can we trust you on Monday?”
I murmur some acknowledgment, but, in my mind, I am already back with Mary.
I begin to pack my coat and bag, now guided by a strange purpose: She might listen to me.
If we spend real time together, like we have before, I can try to get through to her.
The two of us can discuss what we’ve been through. We can give Jean up together.
Ms. Carr repeats her question more urgently, bringing my attention back to the room. “We are trusting you to keep this address to yourself. But Monday morning, Augusta. Your evidence. There is nothing more you’re keeping from us, is there?”
I shake my head, but my mind is running away with itself. Anna had looked at me with such loathing at the Carnival party, but what if I got her everything she wanted? What if I was the one who could break the spell and bring Mary home? Would I finally be forgiven?
“We’re depending on you, Gus,” Ms. Carr repeats. “Your evidence must be rock solid. Can we trust that you’ll be there?”
By now, I am standing by the open door. I give them both a quick nod, but I cannot deliver any real assurance. Why should I be asked to make promises when no one bothered to keep theirs to me?