She wants a cold shower and she’s not, absolutely not, going to write anything in the stupid notebook Rose left in each of the rooms.
‘Write down why you are here,’ Rose had said. ‘You don’t need to share this journal with anyone but journaling can be a very powerful tool in helping you understand who you are and why you get stuck in certain situations. If you write truthfully, you will see themes reappear.’
Rose had paused then and looked at them all, as if working out who would do their notebook homework and who wouldn’t.
Dianne had looked at skinny little India almost leaping out of her chair with the enthusiasm to say:I’ll do it!
Poor kid.She has no idea, Dianne thought,no idea at all.
‘You don’t have to write anything,’ Rose had gone on, looking at them all, and in particular Dianne.
She knows I won’t do it, Dianne had thought with satisfaction.
‘But if you don’t, you are cheating yourself out of a hugely important part of the therapy journey. Self-reflection.’
Self-reflection, my backside, Dianne had wanted to say.
She’s impressed with Rose, in spite of her initial feelings.
Rose looks totally different from the woman with the US TV show. More natural, not the curated version with manicured nails and power suits.
But not wearing a suit hasn’t dimmed her personality, Dianne thinks.
If anything, Rose in real life is more powerful than the besuited woman with the perfect hair.
Dianne picks up the notebook. It’s small, handmade, she thinks, and it’s coloured yellow, the colour of the sunflowers she used to grow in the garden.
Thinking of her garden at home makes the breath leave her body as if she’s been punched in the solar plexus.
Holding the notebook, she goes onto the balcony, sits on one of the wooden loungers and stares out at the breathtaking view.
The oddest thing has happened since she’s been on Corfu.
She’d felt some of the anger leave her when she got into the taxi at the airport and drove through the island, through great forests and swathes of olive trees, with tantalising views of the sea backlit by an apricot evening sky.
Despite herself, she’d felt an unusual sense of peace.
Dianne thinks that feeling calm is risky.
Anything can happen when you’re calm, happy, relaxed.
She wants rage firing through her veins, making her ready. Because she needs to be ready.
Dianne can’t explain to anyone, least of all a former TV guru, how she feels when the rage is searing through her.
It gives her power.
Of course, Rose hasn’t a clue what Dianne’s life has been like and Dianne’s not going to tell her, either.
You can prise my story out of my cold, dead hands.
Her knees hurt as she gets up from the balcony seat and goes inside.
Lately, her body’s been aching more than usual. Her knees, her hands, something weird in her lower back. Not that she’ll go to the doctor about it.
Dianne has steered clear of doctors for a long time.
She pours herself a glass of water from the bottle in the fridge, feeling the heft of the rustic blue glass in her hand.
