me. I always feel nervous when I meet new clients. Before I open the door to them, I have no idea who they are. They could be anyone.
I open my notebook to the page where I’d jotted down some thoughts after my phone call with Danielle. Danielle Brown. Her husband’s called Peter Brown. I pick up my phone and type their names into Google. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. There’s a huge list of Peter Browns on Facebook. The same for Danielle. I add London to the search term, but the list doesn’t shorten much. It’s pages long. I’m scrolling through the Peter Browns when the doorbell rings, making me jump.
After peeking into Charlie’s room to check he’s asleep, I rush down the stairs before the bell rings again.
‘Hello,’ I say, forcing a smile as I open the door. I wrap my arms around me against the cold blast of air that comes in from outside. ‘You must be…’ I hear my voice falter, as I stare at Danielle in surprise.
Two
Danielle
Beth does a double take as she opens the door, her mouth parting in surprise and her eyes widening. My pulse quickens and I step backwards, wondering if I should just turn round and leave, forget all about counselling, forget about trying to fix myself. But then I see her gaze resting on my cheek and I realise that she’s just doing what everyone does now when they meet me for the first time. Noticing the angry scars that riddle my face and then pretending they haven’t noticed at all.
I take a deep breath, hold out my hand and introduce myself. ‘I’m Danielle,’ I say with a practised confidence I don’t feel. I’ve spent all day plucking up the courage to come here, to Beth’s home, and start taking steps to address my past.
‘Beth,’ she says with a friendly smile, taking my hand and shaking it firmly. ‘Come on in.’ Her skirt swishes behind her as I follow her into her home. She can’t be much over forty, but it feels as if she’s older, with her sky-blue blouse and floral skirt. I’ve come straight from work, so I’m dressed more formally. Under my smart coat, I’m wearing a pencil skirt and a crisp white shirt, but I’ve left my suit jacket in the office, exchanging it for a grey cashmere cardigan before I left. Beth’s brown curly hair has a natural bounce to it, unlike my straight bobbed hair, which sits flat against my head, no matter how long I spend styling it.
She pauses in the hallway, the cold air still blowing through the door. It looks like she’s tried to tidy up but ran out of time. There’s a pile of shoes pushed into the corner next to the shoe rack, and a messy collection of post, packages and small toys on a little table by the door.
‘You’re here for marriage counselling,’ she says gently. Her voice has a soothing lilt, and I realise how easy it would be to fall under her spell, to immediately tell her everything.
‘Yes.’ I nod.
I notice the hairbrush strewn messily on top of the shoe rack, under the mirror, as if brushing her hair might be something she’d forget to do if it wasn’t there.
‘You mentioned your husband on the phone. Is he on his way?’
‘No.’ I look down at the floor, studying the dry mud on the mat in her hallway. It’s days since it rained; the mud must have been here a while. ‘He couldn’t make it today. I hope he’ll come next time.’
‘No problem.’ She puts her hand gently on my shoulder, a gesture that’s almost motherly. My body tenses and I fight the urge to shake her hand off me. ‘Let me take your coat and then we can go upstairs. How was your journey over? Did you have far to come?’
‘Not far. I know the area.’ I’d got here early and sat in my car for half an hour, staring up at the house, wondering if I would be brave enough for the therapy ahead.
I feel sick as I walk through her hallway to the staircase. There are children’s wellington boots, next to a blue scooter. Crayon marks on the wall. The doors to the downstairs rooms are shut and I feel a desire to push them open, to peer in at the life behind them.
When we get upstairs, she leads me to a small, cosy room at the front of the house.