a sudden.
“Will you be all right later?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
He hesitated, and took a drink from his mug. “If you start feeling like you’re getting a panic attack, will you call me? Come and knock on the door?”
I spent a moment contemplating this, not answering. I’d like to was what I wanted to say, because I knew full well that he was right, I would undoubtedly have a panic attack later on, and I also knew that wild horses wouldn’t be able to get me out of my own flat when it happened.
I thought my hands might have stopped shaking enough to risk picking up the mug, and I took a gulp of tea. It was hot, and funnily enough he hadn’t done a bad job of making it. Not quite enough milk, but good enough to make it drinkable.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he answered. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”
Those words started the tears falling again, and I put the mug down and covered my face with both my hands. I half expected him to come over, to try to hold me, and I braced myself for the shock of it, but he didn’t move. After a few moments I opened my eyes and found a box of tissues were on the table in front of me. I gave a short laugh and took one, wiping my face.
“You have OCD,” I heard him say.
I found my voice again. “Yes, thanks for pointing it out.”
“Are you getting any help?”
I shook my head. “What’s the point?” I cast him a glance and he was watching me impassively.
He gave a little shrug. “Maybe it could give you some more free time?”
“I don’t need any more free time, thanks. My calendar’s hardly what you’d call packed.”
I realized I was probably starting to sound a bit hostile, so I took another drink of tea to calm myself down. “Sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re right, it’s absolutely none of my business. And very rude of me to point it out.”
I gave him a weak smile. “What are you, some kind of shrink?”
He laughed, and nodded. “Some kind. I’m a doctor at the Maudsley.”
“What sort of doctor?”
“A clinical psychologist. I work on an assessment ward as well as doing some outpatient clinics. I specialize in treating depression but I’ve seen plenty of people with OCD in the past.”
Oh, fuck, I thought. That was it. Now somebody else knew that I was turning into a nutcase. I would have to move.
He finished his tea, stood up and took the mug out to the kitchen. When he came back, he had a small piece of paper that he put carefully on the table in front of me.
“What’s that?” I said suspiciously.
“The last time I’ll mention it, I promise. It’s the name of one of my colleagues. If you change your mind about getting some advice, some help, ask the Community Mental Health Team to refer you to him. He’s a top guy. And he specializes in OCD.”
I took the piece of paper. In neat letters, the words “Alistair Hodge.” Under that, the word “Stuart” and a cell number.
“That’s my number,” he said. “If you have a panic attack later, you can call me. I’ll come down and sit with you.”
Yes, I thought, like that’s going to happen.
“I can’t go and see anyone. I really can’t. What about work? I’d never be able to get a promotion again if they know I’m nuts.”
He smiled. “You’re not ‘nuts’ at all. There’s no reason why your employer needs to know about it. And even if you decide not to go and see anyone, there are a lot of things you can do on your own that might help. I could recommend you some books. You could try some relaxation therapies, that kind of thing. None of that would ever go on your records.”
I turned the piece of paper over and over in my fingers. “I’ll think about it.”
From outside, a sound of a police siren filtered up to the top floor. “I should go home,” I said.
I stood and made my way to the front door. It was still open, giving me easy access to the hallway beyond. “Thanks,” I said, turning toward him. For a moment I wanted to give him a hug. I wanted to feel what it was like to have his arms around me, whether it would feel safe,