Page 3 of The Dead Ex
She wriggles slightly on the couch. ‘Do you have kids?’
My hands dig deeper into her muscle knots. ‘I have a son. He’s four too.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Patrick.’
‘Is he a good boy?’
I think of the picture in my pocket.
‘He’s perfect.’
‘You’re lucky. Who looksafter him when you’re working?’
I pause briefly. ‘He’s with my dad.’
‘Really? You hear a lot about grandparents helping out nowadays.’
My thumbs are really pressing down now.
‘Actually, that’s hurting.’
‘Sorry.’ I release the pressure with a slight degree of reluctance.
After that we continue in silence with only the angel music in the background. Some like to talk throughout. Others don’tsay a word. Many begin to confide and then stop, like this one. She might tell me more at the next session. I sense she’ll come back. But I hope she won’t. She’s too nosy.
‘Thank you,’ she says when I leave her to get dressed. I return to my notes. I write down, in purple ink, the exact treatment and areas of the body which still need attention. Those knots were stubborn. They are often relatedto the knots in the mind. After David, my shoulders were stiff for months.
‘Would you rather have cash or a cheque?’ she asks.
‘Cheque, please.’
Paper payment – or an electronic transfer – allows meto be absolutely certain who has paid me and when. My business must be above board. If nothing else, I’ve learned that.
She puts on her coat. It’s cold out there. The wind is rattling the windows.
‘I like your place,’ she says, looking around as if seeing it properly now she is about to go.
‘Thank you.’
I like it too. One joy of being on your own is that you can do exactly as you wish. David had liked modern. I chose a converted ground-floor flat in a Victorian house. My ex was a black-and-white man. My consulting chair is draped with a restful duck-egg blue woollen throw. The lightingis soft. Unlit scented candles (lavender again) line the low table that I painted myself in a creamy white. The pale purple rug, which I take with me every time I move, along with anything else that’s portable, disguises the stain on the carpet beneath. No stairs. The front door leads straight onto the street opposite the seafront. There is nothing about my home that could hurt. Unless I chooseit to.
‘WishIcould work from home,’ says my client. ‘I had to give up my job in the bank after my second child.’
There are pros and cons, I could say. You don’t get out enough if you are busy. You don’t have office colleagues to talk to. To joke with. To share problems with. A sudden wave of loneliness engulfs me.
‘May I make another appointment now?’ she says.
‘Sure,’ I say, vowing to keepquiet about my own personal situation the next time. No more talk about Patrick.
And that’s when the door sounds. I specifically chose aplace with its own front entrance. I also, with the landlord’s permission, disconnected the bell. Sharp noises disturb me. A knocker is less strident. But this thud makes me jump.
Why is someone here now, at this time of night? Have I forgotten about anotherclient? Usually I am very careful to write things down, but there have been one or two mistakes recently.
‘Would you mind waiting a minute in the studio?’ I ask.
It takes a while to open up. I have a thick safety chain and I’ve double locked it, as always. There’s another knock as I search for the key. There it is, on the side table. Once more, I must have forgotten to put it in its place onthe hook. Not a good sign.
