The Split - Sharon Bolton Page 0,61

I panicked. I’m sorry, it was very unprofessional of me.’

‘Please don’t mention it again. But, and I’m sorry if this sounds impertinent, are you getting help?’

This time his smile looks less forced. ‘I have a friend who acts as my supervisor for my own caseload and a therapist for more personal stuff. And then there’s my mother, who you met last time you came. She can’t resist being helpful.’

‘The lady with pink hair?’

‘That’s the one.’ Joe reaches back for his notebook. He still looks pale. ‘How was your weekend?’ he asks.

She has her answer all ready. She has learned that detail reassures Joe so she tells him about the film she saw on Friday evening, her early morning swim in the Jesus Green lido and the pub by the river where she had lunch on Saturday. She talks about the bike ride she took with the local cycling club on Sunday afternoon and the enormous late Sunday lunch she cooked for herself when she got home. Some of what she tells him is true. She really did swim in the lido and cycle to Bury St Edmunds on Sunday. Not with any club, of course, she has never been a joiner. As for the rest, she’s picked up enough information on the internet to sound convincing.

‘The rest of the time, I was reading about South Georgia,’ she says. ‘Did you know Ernest Shackleton is buried there?’

She can see from his wary look that he doesn’t know who Shackleton is.

‘Explorer in the early twentieth century,’ she says. ‘His ship was stranded in the Antarctic ice so he set off in a tiny boat, with a handful of crew, to cross the Weddle Sea in the middle of winter. He landed on South Georgia’s west coast, the really wild bit, and then had to hike across the island to reach help at the whaling stations.’

Joe is smiling now.

‘There are no roads on South Georgia.’ She is pretty sure she’s told him this before. ‘No footpaths, not even animal trails, the mammals aren’t big enough. They really were crossing virgin land.’

‘You seem to be looking forward to it,’ he says.

‘Very much,’ she agrees, and wonders how long she can keep the conversation on South Georgia up. ‘It’s a unique opportunity.’

He nods, and she can’t help feeling he knows exactly what she is doing. ‘I haven’t heard from your new GP yet,’ he says.

‘Really? I was told my records would have been sent over by now. I’ll chase them up tomorrow.’

Again, a look that lasts a second too long.

‘What would you like to talk about today?’

He has never given her the choice before. ‘Under hypnosis or normally?’ she asks.

‘Up to you.’

She wonders if this is a trap.

‘I’m curious as to why, in all the time we’ve been meeting, you’ve never wanted to talk about your personal life.’

Felicity can feel her body stiffening in the chair and tells herself not to let it show, not to move an inch on the outside. She makes herself keep smiling.

‘I’ve been focusing on my problems,’ she says. ‘My private life isn’t a problem.’

‘Have you ever been married?’

Where is this coming from? Can he possibly suspect something?

‘Why do you ask?’ she says.

‘Standard procedure,’ Joe tells her. ‘We’d have got into it before now but your issues seemed all encompassing.’

‘I’m not sure my personal life is relevant.’ She knows how defensive she sounds.

‘How can your personal life not be relevant to your mental wellbeing?’

She has no answer to give him.

Joe asks, ‘When was your last long-term relationship?’

She doesn’t know. ‘A while,’ she says. ‘I’ve been concentrating on work. I’m posted abroad a lot. My lifestyle isn’t conducive to relationships.’

‘We all need someone,’ he says. ‘When did you last have sex?’

‘Excuse me?’

He holds up a hand. ‘Felicity, I’m your therapist. All these questions are relevant and important.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t feel comfortable talking about things that are so personal.’

‘Tell me about your last relationship.’

‘Stop it!’

She drops her head into her hands. Seconds go by, and then more seconds. She hears the sound of Joe getting to his feet.

‘I’ll give you a moment,’ he says.

She hears the door close and then his footsteps on the hardwood floor of another room. She gets up too and walks to the nearest window, wishing that it was on the ground floor and that she could simply climb out. Some way below, at street level, she can see the elaborate Gothic screen and gatehouse to King’s front court. Beyond the screen, mostly hidden by the pale