‘I want another story.’
I shake my head, bend over to kiss his soft cheek. ‘Sleep well.’
‘Mummy – don’t leave me.’
I feel a stab of guilt that I was late to collect him from school. Had he thought I’d left him? Then my heart fills with anger at Richard. The bottom’s fallen out of my son’s world, his security taken away. This is all Richard’s fault. ‘I’ll never leave you. I promise.’ I place his toy penguin in his arms. ‘Pengie will keep you company at night. You can cuddle him if you feel lonely.’
Charlie squeezes the soft toy tight.
The doorbell rings and I give Charlie a kiss, not wanting to leave his side when he’s feeling alone. I give him another kiss. ‘Go to sleep,’ I say gently.
Then I hurry downstairs and answer the door.
* * *
Once I’m in my counselling room, I explain that I need to leave the door ajar as Charlie’s not yet asleep and Danielle nods her understanding. She seems on edge. Once again, Peter hasn’t turned up.
‘Is Charlie ill?’ she asks politely, ignoring the sofa and walking over to the window.
‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s just upset because I was late to pick him up from school.’
Danielle doesn’t reply, staring out the window.
‘What’s on your mind?’ I ask, stepping over to stand beside her. Outside the window it’s foggy and I can hardly see the street below, the amber street lights barely cutting through the mist.
Danielle looks smart in her perfectly tailored suit, but the way her manicured hands grip the windowsill gives her away. A Victorian jade brooch is pinned to her lapel. I recognise it because I have my own collection that Richard has bought me over the years for birthdays and Christmases. That specific type of brooch is hard to find and expensive. The people who buy them are usually collectors.
‘Everything and nothing,’ she says. Her features contort into a worried frown and I can see her scar tissue stretching and puckering.
‘It was an accident,’ she suddenly blurts out.
‘What was?’
‘I’m sorry, but I could see you looking, and I know people always wonder. About my scars.’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘No one ever does.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Perhaps she’s bringing it up for a reason.
‘It was a fire.’ She falters. ‘They’re burns. Third-degree.’
I feel sick, images flashing through my mind. Flames climbing up curtains. Shattering windows.
Fear claws through me. I reach my hand out to the wall to steady myself, trying to get the images out of my mind. I focus on the tree just outside the window. It needs cutting back, its branches like tentacles, reaching out towards the glass.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ I only just get the words out; they’re barely a whisper. I can feel the blood draining from my head, the humming in my ears. I’m sure I’m about to faint. I slide down into my seat.
Danielle turns from the window and moves to the sofa, giving me a chance to get my breath back.
She touches her cheek, running her finger over the jagged edge of the scar, avoiding the angry centre. ‘It was weird,’ she says. ‘At first I couldn’t feel anything. It was only later it hurt.’
We both stare at the burning candle on the desk. I’d lit it before Danielle arrived, to cleanse the air in the room. Silently, I get up and blow it out.
Although the desk lamp is on and the candle wasn’t casting much extra light, the room suddenly seems much too dark. I desperately need to stop the images ricocheting round my head. Stumbling towards the light switch by the door, I catch my leg on the edge of the sofa and knock into Danielle’s elbow.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble as I reach for the switch. Light floods the room and I’m aware it will have revealed my red, flustered face, signs of tears that I’ve been holding back.
Danielle blinks rapidly.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I can focus on my client; I can put aside my own history and help her.
‘You said it was an accident?’
A tsunami of emotion rumbles inside me. At least she didn’t die, I think. And then I feel cruel; I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for her.
‘We were having a barbecue, Peter and I. It was just over a year ago.’ She pauses, digging her nails into the palm of her hand, before forcing herself to continue. ‘Lots of people were coming. Friends, family, colleagues. I’d spent weeks planning it and all morning getting ready. I think a part of me was showing off really. I wanted people to see my perfect home.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘That taught me.’
I swallow, imagining the scene. Imagining what happens next. The smell of burning fills my nostrils as if I am back outside that building twenty years ago. I blink it away.
She continues. ‘And then, just before the guests were due to arrive, the barbecue wouldn’t light properly. The wind kept catching it and putting it out. Peter and I argued. I’d planned everything so carefully, and I felt like he was messing up his part. And then… he had this idea. There was petrol in a container in the shed. For the lawnmower.’
Tears fill her eyes and she squeezes them shut, her hand reaching to her face once more, as if she’s still struggling to believe what happened. I watch her in silence, sensing her urgent need to tell her story.
‘He took the petrol and poured it onto the coals. He can’t have been thinking straight. The whole thing went up in an instant.’
Eight
Danielle
By the time I get home I’m exhausted, my mind spinning with memories of the fire. It’s the first time I’ve talked about it properly, the first time I’ve allowed myself to remember.
I’m on autopilot as I put the dinner on and shove some washing in the machine. When Peter gets home I just about manage to greet him with a smile.
‘Good day at work?’ I ask.
‘Busy,’ he says. ‘It’s intense at the moment. We don’t have enough staff. We’re trying to recruit some more juniors. How was your day?’
‘I was at therapy tonight.’ He’s probably forgotten it was even on.
He nods. ‘Nice for you to have the time.’ Peter lowers his face towards the pan to smell the curry. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Not much.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’ Even though I brought up the subject, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him about what Beth and I discussed. Not yet.
He wraps his arms around me from behind and my shoulders tense.
‘You have to be able to trust me, Danielle,’ he says. ‘I’m your husband.’
‘I do trust you.’ I can feel an argument brewing, the same way you can sense the moisture in the air when a storm’s coming. We’re becoming like my parents used to be, always looking for an argument, for an excuse to release the anger that bubbles under the surface of our relationship. Luckily our house is detached, so there’s no one on the other side of the wall to hear it.
‘Tell me about the therapy then. Tell me what you told her. How can we fix our marriage if you won’t even talk to me?’