‘Do you know what, Tamsin, I’m sure the others will be happy enough. Perhaps you’re right. One thing, I’d like to continue to hold it at . . .’ I hesitate. What sounds best? My place? Nina’s old house? I settle for ‘Stuart’s. It was Nina’s idea and it feels very important that I continue her traditions for the time being. I hope that makes sense?’
‘Of course. Sorry, I should’ve checked. I get carried away sometimes.’
‘No harm done. See you at the next meeting.’
I’m at work the following afternoon, figuring out the best angle to make the most of the fading daylight when loss, Ben and our non-existent baby hits me. The bride’s stomach shows a barely perceptible yet unmistakable swell of early pregnancy. I direct her and the groom to stand to the side of a pillar and request that she holds her bouquet a little lower as I focus and click.
I want to get this over and done with, to go home, cry in the bath, curl up on the sofa and watch whatever Saturday night TV is on. But I can’t. If I go back before Felix and Em are in bed, I’ll have to pretend to be happy. I don’t want to lock myself in my room like a teenager.
Doubts at my impulsive decisions form. Perhaps I did swoop in to the rescue too soon? It was a fine line. Too long and it could’ve been too late. Even so, I could’ve held back, let Stuart feel his way in the dark for a while longer, make his own mistakes. I’m not a miracle-worker.
No, I decide, as reason takes hold. I had to let Ben go without a fight; there’s no way I could possibly have ignored a baby with another woman. Our relationship wouldn’t have stood a chance. He gave up on us, not vice versa. My conscience, on that front, is clear.
Back in my car I do something I’ve resisted until now: social media. I scroll through Ben’s friends and followers to figure out who she is. He hasn’t posted anything new since we split up and despite what he did, Ben isn’t a cruel person. He wouldn’t rub my face in it. There are two women who are the most likely candidates because they work for the fire service, but they don’t share much, so unless I put more effort into my online digging to give my wound a good poke, I haven’t learned anything useful.
I pull away from the five-star-hotel venue and turn right, opting for the long route. Without initially meaning to, I drive past my new therapist’s house. In this low moment, I hope that by being in close proximity to him, it will be enough to calm my mind. It doesn’t work. I consider people I could call to see if they fancy a drink and a chat, but most of my friends now were Nina’s, too. However much of a positive spin I can put on my current living conditions, I cannot face their unspoken judgement. Neither can I tell them the complete truth. A promise is a promise. Nina trusted that I’d be discreet.
As I slide my key into the lock and push open the front door of my new home, all appears quiet, yet the inviting smell of food draws me in.
‘Hi,’ says Stuart. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Good. I’ve made a vegetable curry.’
The fact that he’s bothered to cook something vegetarian (something that always frustrated Ben about me because he’s such an avid meat-eater) makes me want to cry for a different reason. Pent-up pain dissolves as I sit opposite Stuart. Warm relaxation replaces stress. I have done the right thing, for both of us, for now. We can give each other what we crave: for me, it’s a distraction while I build the foundations for a new life. For him, it’s comfort.
It’s something I share with Christian in my next therapy session, that it feels good to trust my own judgement after so long second-guessing myself. I’m going to give the process a proper chance this time. Christian appears wise; he’s much older than Stuart with a long beard, kind eyes and lines that crisscross his forehead like he’s heard a tale or two and is unshockable. We’ll see.
Christian, however, has a different agenda.
‘I’m interested in discussing some of the things you brought up in our introductory session.’
I mentally rewind. I’ve got a good memory. I discovered from a fairly young age that it’s best to remember what I’ve said and when. I’d been careful, kept the conversation bland. Perhaps that was the problem? I read online that people who insist they had happy childhoods – yet don’t appear to remember them in much detail – often didn’t. Denial isn’t the case with me because mine was secure enough. Nonetheless, some of my teenage mistakes gave me vital life lessons, although it didn’t feel like it at the time. Despite knowing this now, shame remains embedded in my psyche.
‘Your friend Nina.’ He looks up from his notes at me through his glasses. ‘You said that you feel an overwhelming responsibility towards her family.’
He places emphasis on the word overwhelming to guide my response.
‘Wouldn’t anyone?’
Christian doesn’t reply.
‘It’s hard to explain. However, obviously I’m here and she’s not. She trusted me to carry out her wishes.’
‘Her wishes?’
I’m unwilling to share too much, too soon. How do I know if I can trust him? That is the flaw with this type of thing. There are no testimonials, other clients remain a secret, time slots carefully managed to ensure we never meet. All I can do is tread carefully, use my instinct. Or park on his street at random times to suss out what kind of people his other clients are. But what would it tell me, really? I’d love Nina’s opinion.
The now-familiar ache builds. I have no one to fill the gap.
‘She trusted me to carry out her wishes. She was scared, she wanted to make sure that someone protected her family.’
‘Scared?’
‘Well, you would be, wouldn’t you?’ I say.
‘Different people react in different ways,’ he says. ‘And not always how you’d expect.’
On his online bio it states that he spent many years volunteering at a hospice. It’s partly why I chose him. I never really believed that Nina would actually die. Yet she did, and she’s gone. Ben has left me and I don’t blame him. Some of the things he accused me of were true.
For the first time ever, I break down in front of a stranger.
It isn’t cathartic, and I’m really pissed off at my weakness. All week it niggles at me, yet I feel compelled to stick with him for now. He managed to puncture me in a way that no one else has, and I feel a grudging respect for him. Perhaps I am getting better at judging people and situations.
Life does not work that way, however. There is never a constant upward spiral because when I walk into Nina’s – no, my – living room to host the book group, full of burgeoning optimism that I’m on the right life track, sickening dread punches me in the gut. Because on the sofa – as if it’s perfectly acceptable – sits a person I’d assumed I’d never have to face ever again.
Chapter Seven
Somehow, I snap into hostess mode.
‘Camilla! What are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Marie.’
In the silent seconds that follow, I study her as if I’m about to take her photograph. She looks like she’s come straight from work dressed in a pale pink trouser suit with a cream floral blouse. Her fair hair is curly – I’ve only ever known it straight – and she’s wearing killer black heels. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I got splashed in the face when I bathed the children, so I wiped any remaining make-up off.