torso. She’s brought a jacket, but for now it is hanging on the back of her chair. She’s wearing make-up again, a lot of it, and brightly coloured costume jewellery. Her hair is pushed back from her face by a pair of huge designer sunglasses that sit on her head like a crown.
She’s a very sick woman, he reminds himself. She needs a doctor, not a boyfriend. Oh, and she’s married.
On the table is a bottle of Peroni and a bottle of pinot gris with two glasses. Judging by the level of wine in the bottle, she is on her second glass.
Seeing him she gets up and in high-heeled wedge sandals is almost his height. She leans in to kiss him on one cheek, to take hold of him lightly on his hip and upper arm, and he stiffens, wondering who might see them, even as her scent is stealing inside his head like a whispered proposition.
‘How did you know I drink Peroni?’ He takes his seat, still conscious of her touch on his hip, his arm, his cheek.
She pours the beer for him. ‘Bottles in your recycling bin.’
He keeps his recycling bin in his kitchen, a room that Felicity has never seen.
‘You put your rubbish out on Tuesday evening,’ she says, correctly interpreting the puzzled look on his face. ‘The day I have my appointments.’
That makes sense. Even so, he doesn’t pick up his beer.
‘Don’t tell me you’re driving.’ She pouts. ‘You live minutes away.’
‘True enough.’ Joe clinks glasses, sips his lager, and pushes his chair an inch back from the table.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.
She waves a hand as though to dismiss the subject. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Never better.’
‘Are you ready to order?’ A waiter has appeared at their side.
‘I quite fancy the rib eye,’ Felicity says. ‘Can you do a peppercorn sauce?’
‘How would you like that cooked?’ the waiter is scribbling notes in his book. Felicity catches Joe’s eye and her cheeks turn pink.
‘Kidding.’ She grabs the menu, opening it again, flicking quickly through the pages. Her face is glowing. ‘I’ll have the gnocchi with field mushrooms.’
Joe orders a burger topped with crispy bacon and doesn’t miss the flicker of annoyance on Felicity’s face.
‘Not that it isn’t nice to see you,’ he says, as the waiter is walking away, ‘but we do have an appointment on Tuesday.’
‘So why are you dressed for a date?’ she rejoins.
He doesn’t respond but is annoyed with himself for sending the wrong signals. Jeans and an old sweatshirt would have worked far better.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ she says. ‘I’m not coming back to therapy.’
He waits a second before replying. ‘You’re not?’
She shakes her head. ‘I know what you’re going to say. That was some serious shit I came out with last night, and I’m not denying that, but it’s less than a month before I leave Cambridge and even you can’t sort me out in that time.’
Again, Joe says nothing. He waits for her to fill the silence and doesn’t have to wait long. She leans forward and lowers her voice, forcing him to move closer too.
‘If I go back into therapy, it’ll be like opening Pandora’s box,’ she tells him. ‘Last night I found out that I was probably abused as a child, and that my father could have been part of that. Fuck knows what else I have in my closet just waiting for me to come digging.’
Still he doesn’t respond, but he registers the uncharacteristic profanity.
‘And I know how many metaphors I just mixed,’ she says.
He allows himself a smile. ‘You seem different,’ he says.
‘Different to what?’
‘Different to how you normally are. There’s an edge to you I haven’t seen before.’
She reaches out and touches him lightly on the arm. ‘I know how messed up I am,’ she says. ‘I think on some level I’ve known for a long time. After last night, I know there’s probably a good reason for that, and weirdly, that helps. Thank you. You really have done me good.’
‘Felicity, you have symptoms that I haven’t even begun to properly explore, let alone diagnose. Think about what you told me last night. You can’t sweep that under the carpet.’
She smiles. ‘One day, maybe, I’ll want to get to the bottom of it, find out what really happened when I was, what age did I say?’
‘Three years and seven months,’ he reminds her.
‘And if I do, you’re the one I’ll come to. But for now, I can’t do it. I