Page 13 of Sorry, Not Sorry
‘You’re right, that could take a while,’ Salome conceded. ‘Okay then, we’ll focus on the boyfriends who lasted at least six months. There’s only a handful who made it that far and they’re much more likely to have got emotionally invested in you.’
Delilah suddenly felt deeply uneasy, and she studied her sister with narrowed eyes. ‘Who exactly are we talking about here?’
‘Delilah! Do you want your job back or not?’ Salome demanded.
Delilah nodded reluctantly, and Salome beamed and bounced on the sofa excitedly. ‘Excellent! I’m going to write a list of the exes I think you need to speak to. You find them and explain why you dumped them, make a sincere apology, and then move on. Report back to Polly, do your therapy, win/win all round, job done!’
‘Do you actually hear yourself?’ Delilah scoffed.
‘You can mock all you want, sister dearest, but your boss isn’t taking you back until you prove you’re on top of your own relationship dramas,’ Salome pointed out. ‘If you really love that job?—’
‘You know I do! I’ve trained for ages and it’s the only career that feels right for me.’
‘Then put aside your pride and do whatever it takes to get back on track. If you’re so sure you ended all your relationships for good reasons, then here’s your chance to prove it. Think of this as, um… Alcoholics Anonymous – you know, find everyone you pissed off when you were pissed and make amends. Except, this will be relationship AA. Admit you have a problem, say sorry to the poor bastards, and get closure.’
8
Delilah pulled the front door shut behind her and stomped down the garden path, muttering under her breath. Salome needed her head examined if she thought her stupid plan stood a snowball’s chance in hell of happening. She had seized on Farhan returning home with a grouchy Arin as her excuse to escape, although not before Salome had extracted a promise to at least consider her suggestion.
Lost in thought, it took Delilah a few moments to notice the man stooped over a flowerbed in the adjoining front garden. The familiar figure straightened and pulled off a worn pair of gardening gloves to scratch his head. Looking over the low dividing fence, he caught her eye, and she froze. For a long moment, they observed each other in silence and Delilah could have sworn there was a faint smile on his rugged mahogany-brown face.
Their paths rarely crossed, and it was almost two years since Delilah had laid eyes on him. There was perhaps a little more grey visible in the tufty dark hair than she remembered, but his expression was as warm and kindly as it had always been. Seeing him in his staple uniform of baggy chinos and checked shirt sparked a kaleidoscope of memories: howling with laughter over Jenga, blatantly cheating at Monopoly, dancing to the reggae tracks from his impressive music collection, sampling his famous lamb curry, and, most of all, long, quiet conversations in which she felt safe enough to tell him things she had never shared with Noah. For a time he had been a father figure to her, and she missed him more than she allowed herself to admit. But those days were gone, and today there was much more than a wooden fence separating Delilah from Noah’s father.
‘Neville! Why have you left the front door open? I don’t want no creatures scurrying into the place!’ The sound of the woman’s voice from inside the house next door broke the spell and jolted Delilah back to reality.
Unwilling to risk another run-in with Mrs West, Delilah gave Neville a tentative smile and, when he nodded in reply, she hurried down the path, almost breaking into a run in her haste to get away.
9
Delilah frowned at the number on the scuffed door, looked up and down the busy high street, and then checked her phone again. It was definitely the right address, but the shared offices above a general household goods shop was not where she’d expected to find Polly’s highly recommended therapist. She squinted at the labels alongside the two buzzers: ‘Sadie, Tarot Specialist’ and ‘Arne Bergen’.
The harsh November wind and gloomy grey skies didn’t help Delilah’s mood. It had just started raining and the doorway offered no shelter, but she still hesitated, hovering her finger over the buzzer beside Arne’s name. Although Polly had made it clear that therapy was non-negotiable, it had taken a week of Salome’s relentless nagging before Delilah had reluctantly agreed to make an appointment. Even the idea of opening up to a stranger’s prodding and probing felt exhausting, but if she was to avoid a repeat of her experience with Verity, Delilah knew she would have to play the game. This time, instead of stonewalling, she decided, she would answer the therapist’s questions but reveal only what he needed to hear to confirm her readiness to return to work.
Armed with a strategy, she had booked a slot in Arne’s calendar, but now she was actually here, she could feel her stomach twist into a spasm of anxiety and couldn’t shake off an uneasy sense of foreboding. Pull yourself together, Del. You’ve got this! A cold gust of rain-soaked wind blew over her, and she gritted her teeth and pressed hard on the buzzer.
Hearing a click, she pushed the door open and walked into a narrow hallway. Inside, the building was as dingy as the exterior had promised, with stacks of letters and junk mail on the shelf behind the door, tired mosaic floor tiles and faded floral-patterned wallpaper, and a musty odour of damp walls. There was no sign of life, and when she closed the door behind her, the sound of traffic was replaced by silence. She slipped off her damp puffer coat and shook her braids free before wiping her boots on the worn doormat and walking down the corridor.
At the foot of the stairs leading up to the offices, Delilah’s nerves kicked in again. Taking a moment to remind herself of her gameplan, she climbed up to the first floor and continued down the passageway past a door stencilled with a pack of black and white playing cards. Although she wasn’t normally one for spiritualists, at that precise moment Delilah would gladly have traded Polly’s revered Arne Bergen for Sadie the Tarot Specialist.
Arne’s name was on the door at the end of the corridor, and Delilah knocked softly. Moments later, the door was opened by a very tall man with a striking mane of red curly hair and piercing electric-blue eyes. His oversized Argyle patterned jumper and baggy corduroy trousers had clearly been designed for comfort rather than style, and with dark bushy eyebrows, saggy under-eye bags, and a scruffy beard, he looked like a rumpled, middle-aged Viking.
‘You are Delilah, yes?’
‘Um… yes,’ she said hesitantly, shaking the hand he had extended. While his height was imposing, his voice was deep and gentle with an accent Delilah couldn’t place, but assumed was from somewhere in Scandinavia.
‘I’m Arne. Please come in.’ He stood back and she walked in, immediately struck by the contrast between his warm, brightly lit office and the run-down interior of the building.
‘Will you take some coffee?’ Arne enquired, and when Delilah nodded, he walked over to a coffee machine in a tiny kitchenette at the end of the room.
While Arne busied himself, Delilah quickly scanned his office. The high ceilings and pale blue walls were decorated with black and white framed photos of snow-topped mountains and forest scenes that seemed a world away from the depressing grey November morning. Judging from the number of books crammed onto shelves that lined an entire wall, Arne liked to read. The room was plainly furnished, and a woven chocolate-brown rug with a cream geometric design brought a touch of style to the parquet flooring. There was no sign of the proverbial therapist’s couch, and other than a desk in the corner, the room was furnished with three large armchairs, one of which was occupied by a sleek tabby cat who briefly opened one eye to scrutinise Delilah before closing it again.
Arne carefully placed a full mug of coffee on a side table and gestured towards a chair. ‘Please, sit.’
Delilah took a seat and clasped her hands in her lap, while he sat in the chair across from her. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his long legs, and Delilah tucked a braid behind her ear and cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny. She picked up the mug and took a tentative sip, almost scalding her tongue, and quickly set it down. She glanced at Arne with a nervous smile, and when he didn’t seem inclined to break the silence, she nodded in the direction of the sleeping cat.
‘What’s her name?’
‘His name,’ he corrected. ‘Sigmund. As in Freud. An inside joke, you might say,’ he added with a straight face.
