She would always snap into psychiatrist mode, start talking about defence mechanisms and the primal need for men to spread their seed to as many women as possible in order to increase their chance of procreation. Molly seemed satisfied with the Bea answer and Karen excused herself before she was expected to hug her.
The waiting room was empty. Jessica’s session was still five minutes away and she hadn’t arrived yet. Grabbing herself a cup of coffee, Karen pushed open the door to her office, ready to assume her poised, ‘in control’ position before Molly brought her client through.
Jessica was standing behind Karen’s desk, studying the only personal photograph Karen had in the entire room. The shock that reverberated through her almost forced the coffee cup from her hand. Black liquid sloshed over the side, dripping down on to the carpet.
‘Jessica.’
Jessica hadn’t looked up as Karen had entered, but she did at the sound of her voice. She smiled, not looking the least bit embarrassed at being found in Karen’s office, touching her personal things.
‘Dr Browning. There was no one outside so I came straight in. Nice photo.’
She held it up to indicate what she was talking about, then replaced it on the desk. It was a 6x4 photograph of Karen and her friends, linking arms and beaming widely at the camera. They’d been on a hen weekend in Ireland, and shortly after the picture was taken, they’d argued about no one booking a taxi and had to walk the two miles to their hotel, getting lost twice on the way.
‘I’d rather you didn’t let yourself into my office, Jessica. And please do call me Karen.’
She gestured to the sofa, hopefully looking much more composed than she felt. How did this girl always manage to get her on the back foot? Jessica shrugged and sat down without apologising.
‘How have you been since our last session? Any more headaches?’
She braced herself for a reply about her obvious and boring question, or an interrogation into her feelings on prisoner-of-war camps, but Jessica just shook her head.
‘No, they seem to be gone at the moment. I’m feeling much better. Maybe these sessions really are helping.’
Karen couldn’t imagine how. They’d gone around in circles avoiding talking about the real reason Jessica was here and seemed to have made no progress on her feelings towards her affair. In fact the only thing they appeared to have achieved was to turn each session into a sparring match, Jessica trying to goad Karen into losing her composure and Karen trying not to scream.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about today?’
Jessica looked down at her feet, and Karen felt sure she was about to lift them on to the sofa again.
‘Maybe I could talk about my past? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Explore the reasons for my screwed-up relationships with men?’
This was territory Karen was familiar with. ‘If that’s what you’d like. Is there anything that comes to mind?’
She nodded. ‘My father cheated on my mother a lot when I was younger.’
No real surprise there. Daughter following mother into an unhealthy relationship with the opposite sex, repeating patterns of destructive behaviour, sabotaging attempts at a real relationship by choosing someone inappropriate. Textbook.
‘Do you remember how you felt about that? As a child, it must have been hard to see your mother going through that kind of pain.’
‘I guess. I think I blamed my mum more than anything. If she’d just been prettier or funnier or made more effort, my dad might have wanted to be at home a bit more. It was almost like she gave up trying to keep him.’
Karen almost felt like shouting ‘Aha!’ but stopped herself in time. The suspicious part of her told her this was too easy, almost as if Jessica had come in here ready to reveal the reason for her problems. She shook away the feeling, desperate to cling to the thought that they might be having some kind of breakthrough.
‘And why do you think your mum reacted the way she did to the affairs?’
‘I have a sister. Had … had a sister.’ She gave a nervous little laugh. ‘I never know whether I’m supposed to say have or had – you know, like when a woman’s baby is stillborn and she still says she has a child. As if it belongs to her even though it isn’t alive any more. It’s like that. I used to have a sister. She’s dead.’