Chapter 1
SHEENA CARSWELL
‘But, Jeremy, can you see how your need for daily sex could be a pressure for Cassandra?’
Sheena Carswell had very firm values, both in life and when it came to her clients in her couples’ therapy sessions.
As a certified and long-experienced relationship counsellor, it went without saying that she was wholly opposed to violence of any kind, but Jeremy Sinclair’s smug, arrogant face was one, Sheena decided, that she may never tire of punching.
His wife, the lovely Cassandra, had borne him four children, taken care of their family and supported him unwaveringly for thirty years while he built his business, and now that she was at the coal face of the menopause, he was using her dip in sex drive to justify the fact that he’d recently been caught shagging Debbie from Bearsden, a twenty-six-year-old Only Fans model that he met on a sugar daddy website.
Sheena wondered if it would break her code of ethics to pull Cassandra aside, offer to take her out for a glass or six of vino, remind her how fabulous she was and then suggest that she tell Jeremy to go screw himself until his wandering willy fell off into a vat of disinfectant.
Yes, definitely against the relationship counsellor code of ethics, but she could easily be persuaded that it was worth it. It was a relief when his diatribe of self-centred, narcissistic arguments for the defence was interrupted by the ding of the timer that she used to end her sessions.
‘Well, let’s leave it there for this week.
’ As she wrapped up, Sheena registered the weariness in the dark shadows under Cassandra’s eyes and wished that she could see her worth and leave this arse.
Despite her unhappiness, though, Cassandra was too fearful of starting over, too afraid to rock the boat, too worried about what her adult children would think, and she’d been so busy dedicating her life to Jeremy’s professional and personal success that she had neglected to establish her own support system and resources.
Their friends were all couples, her money was in his name, as was their mortgage.
Sheena understood and empathised, but no amount of fear would stop her from taking a baseball bat to Jeremy’s E-type Jaguar and then using his credit card to book a one-way trip to whatever Greek island had the largest number of single forty-something men.
But, again, the relationship counsellor code of ethics was still stopping her from encouraging that, so instead, she decided to ignore the intimacy strategies that she would normally use at this stage in their process and give poor Cassandra a break.
‘And for your homework this week, I’d like to suggest that you temporarily refrain from any kind of physical contact whatsoever. ’
Jeremy’s thunderous expression was matched only by Cassandra’s visible relief.
‘I think it’s important that we re-establish boundaries and, Jeremy, I don’t have to remind you of the damage that you risk if you were to repeat your former behaviours.’
They all knew exactly what she meant. Jeremy was a well-known entrepreneur, a respected businessman, a prominent figure who’d once had a guest slot on the panel of Dragons’ Den, but his affair had never become public knowledge.
They all knew that the Scottish press would lap up this scandal, so, with Sheena’s subtle encouragement, Cassandra had implied that if it happened again, she would no longer protect him.
Sheena very much doubted that Cassandra would throw her husband under the infidelity bus, but by the way Jeremy stormed out of the room, she could see that he didn’t relish taking that chance.
Cassandra mouthed ‘Thank you’, and there was a definite hint of a smile as she picked up her prim little Dior bag, pulled on her boucle jacket and followed him.
Sheena leant her head back on the muted plaid upholstery of her armchair and closed her eyes, trying to prolong the momentary, and entirely unprofessional, pleasure gained from upsetting Jeremy, but just at that, the phone on her desk burst to life with an incessant buzz.
She reached over and picked it up. Gregor.
A red itch of irritation began to rise up her neck at the sight of her husband’s name.
Her thumb automatically hovered above the ‘Decline’ button, but she was saved from making the decision because she waited so long that it automatically went to voicemail.
And yes, she knew that made her a terrible person.
As the remorse set in, she made a half-hearted effort to redeem herself by sending him a text.
Sorry hon, client session ran late. Remember I’m going out for drinks with girls tonight. See you when I get home. Sx
Before she could sink into self-reflection or pensiveness about the state of her marriage, she got up, grabbed her bag and made for the door.
Her therapy centre was on Ingram Street in the Merchant City area of Glasgow, where, in long-past days, her and Gregor’s twenty-something selves had partied in the trendy bars and clubs like it was 1999.
In the choice between millennial-era Sheena and pre-menopausal Sheena, there was one very obvious winner.
And it wasn’t the one who was having a hot flush as she reached the street and noticed a feck-off big ladder in her tights.
Bugger. Buggering bugger. Of course, this was what happened when she got carried away by the arrival of spring, packed away her heavy trousers and boots, and went with the first skirt of the year.
Two choices: live with it and hope no one noticed or…
Nope, the other option was a better bet.
She dashed across the road towards the trendy boutique on the opposite side of the street. It was after 6 p.m., and the interior lights were left on all night for security, so there was no guarantee that she’d find what she was looking for. ‘Please be there, please be there, please be…’
Breathless, she swung open the door.
‘Yassssss, you’re still here!’
Behind the counter, Chanel, the stunning, cosmetically enhanced shop owner and one of Sheena’s two closest friends glanced up from her phone.
Chanel’s look was definitely an aesthetic of choice – and she’d picked it all from websites and brochures in her doctor’s office, dentist’s chair and in the achingly trendy hair salon next door.
Now, she pushed her waist-length platinum hair back from a face that had lips like chipolatas, cheekbones like bolster cushions, and put her hand on her side, somewhere between her voluptuous double-G chest and a waist that had been liposuctioned to the size of Sheena’s thigh.
Chanel raised an eyebrow as high as her Botox would allow. ‘I think this might officially be the happiest anyone has ever been to see me.’
‘I’m always happy to see you,’ Sheena blurted truthfully, but even more so tonight.
‘I just thought you’d already have gone to meet Martha because I’m late.
But you’re here – yay. And you’ll make me even happier if you tell me you’ve got a pair of black tights, size large, and preferably not diamond-studded ones that’ll cost me a fortune. ’
Chanel’s boutique specialised in sensational special-occasion outfits – parties, proms, celebrations, awards, weddings, boss-lady board meetings and revenge frocks.
She made no secret of the fact that the latter was her favourite category.
Her designer dresses were fabulous, exclusive, expensive and way out of Sheena’s budget, so she admired them in the same way as she would art.
Or Ryan Gosling. With reverence, appreciation and from a distance.
Chanel reached below the counter and pulled out a packet of the requested tights. Sheena could have hugged her, even when her friend said, ‘And I don’t know why you thought I’d have gone ahead, because we arranged to meet here. Martha is on her way.’
Sheena’s non-Botoxed brow furrowed as she took that on board.
‘We did? Oh shit, so we did. Honestly, the brain fog is real. Why did no one warn us about this? Why? All my mother ever said about this stage of life was that there was a thing called “the change” and she got through it by drinking tea laced with the occasional medicinal brandy and impulse shopping. She spent about a decade and a large chunk of her life savings in Marks and Spencer. And, apparently, she omitted small details like memory loss, thinning hair and the fact that my vagina is dryer than the Sahara.’
Chanel, always calm and logical, with the most deadpan sense of humour, processed that. ‘You know there’s such a thing as oversharing? Too much information? I think vaginal discussions before we’ve had a bottle of wine hit that threshold.’
Sheena stepped into the changing room but left the curtain open so that she was shielded from the street while still able to continue the conversation as she whipped off her tights.
‘We once compared matching Brazilians at that salon on Hope Street. I think that over the years we’ve dispensed with any oversharing threshold. ’
She pulled on her fresh tights and with it came a natural levitation of her mood. Half an hour ago, she’d been dealing with a gnarling twist of anxiety in her gut, but five minutes with one of her pals and already it felt like the world had stopped kicking her arse.
Back out in the boutique, she took a seat in the oversized green velour throne that sat in the corner and was usually occupied by bored husbands, while Chanel perched on the swivel seat behind the counter and touched up her make-up using a hand-held mirror with an LED light around the rim.