His door was open as always when I finally got there, my bike chained to nearby railings. The office was traditional, lined with books and a leather chesterfield sofa that seemed almost too much a cliché, but given that the reality complied with the expectations, it was less scary.
“How’ve you been?” His name was Chad and he passed me a glass of water like he always did.
“Better. The house is looking like it might be liveable.”
He nodded, gesturing for me to sit down. I did, that slight pinch of nerves there as always.
“For you?”
“I think so.”
“How do you feel about it being yours? This place that you’ve designed.”
I stared at the water. In my first session I’d talked about how I didn’t know if I could live in it, that the barn was a better space and I didn’t need more than that. He’d made me explore why I thought I didn’t deserve more and at first I’d been unable to find the words, then they’d come. And as I heard them, I heard what Ryan would.
“Proud. It’s been an almost perfect project.”
“And you’ve decided to have your studio there?”
“I’d be stupid not to. The house is massive. I don’t need to leave it if I don’t want to.”
“You sound like you would though. Want to tell me about the last few days? Did you manage to do what we talked about?”
And both the hardest and easiest forty-five minutes began. We didn’t speak about Anya, because this wasn’t about her. I thought of her often, but the choices I was making weren’t determined by her. Or even Ryan.
Chad’s office was awash with neutrals, the colours kept away so people could bring their own. I’d painted it early on after my second or third session, focusing on the window and the light that fell through, the silhouette of the counsellor dark as he reclined in his chair, shadows cast about him, some of his belongings illuminated by the brightness. I hadn’t finished it yet, but I already had a buyer.
Catrin, because she was an irritant, had filmed me painting one day while I wasn’t aware and had uploaded it to social media and a couple of other websites. It had been picked up and all of a sudden, I had a following who were interested in my art.
My website had seen an increase in traffic and sales quadrupled. The partners in my firm had messaged me, taking the piss over my change in career.
A month. It had pretty much been one month. And I’d moved on from hiding away in my cave.
“Next week,” Chad said. “The day before and the day after.”
I nodded, standing. “Sounds like a plan.”
“It’s good to have a plan. Think of it as being a backbone that holds everything together. You just need to work to put the flesh on it. And the muscle.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t hard and that there won’t be days when you don’t want to go outside or fulfil your commitments.”
“I know. Some mornings I wake up to the sound of metal crunching.” Because those days were still there, especially because I didn’t have Anya next to me to lose myself in.
“So what do you do?”
This was one of the first things I’d talked about in my first couple of sessions, how not to let the tide of grief pull me under.
“Make coffee. Eat breakfast. Check the news. My emails. Look at the sea.”
Chad gave a nod so slight it was barely noticeable. “Patterns. Routines. We need them. Go make that call.”
I walked outside into the autumn sun.
And I made that call.
* * *
