The crowd around them burst into the alphabet running right from A to Z as Clara held her microphone away from her, staring at Daisy.
“Zack. That’s how I met him. He was my therapist.”
All Saints knew what they were singing about. It was true. Sometimes the way you were feeling, it just didn’t feel right.
Clara dropped her microphone, grabbed Daisy’s wrist and pulled her outside, the cold air smacking against Daisy’s face.
“Did I hear that right?” Clara asked, the silence of the street almost deafening in comparison to the muffled screams of All Saints that continued through the door.
She didn’t want this. She wanted to tell Clara, keep singing and never mention it again. She didn’t even know why she’d said it at all. Everything was suddenly feeling like too much.
“Daisy?” Clara clapped her hands in front of her face. “What the fuck?”
“I went to him after my dad died.” She glanced down thestreet and back. “I was having flashbacks of some stuff and I needed someone to talk to and he was so good, Clara. So helpful and supportive and... we fell in love.”
Clara’s eyebrows creased in the middle as she listened. “You were paying him to be those things,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’s a therapist’s job to be helpful and supportive. They aren’t meant to marry you afterward.” Her eyes widened as she stood taller. “There are laws in place for shit like that, Daisy. To stop it from happening because it’s so common. It’s got a name, it’s so common. You know that right? It’s called—” she started moving her head from side to side, as if shaking out the word “—transference. It’s athing.” She covered her face with her hands, stepping back. “Fuck, I knew he was dodgy. I’vealwaysgot bad vibes from him. It’s like he’s trapped you. What are you going to do? Because he shouldn’t have... He should never have—”
The words were piling up inside Daisy and she couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t let any more of them land, because it wasn’t true, what Clara was saying. Maybe it was for some people, but that wasn’t who Daisy was. She wasn’t some textbook patient with atransferencelabel. It was different for her. For both of them. Zack loved her back. That made them a special case, didn’t it? That they had acted on it, together?
“Youcan talk,” Daisy burst out, stopping Clara’s words. “At least Zack is real! At least I can touch him and hold him and he isn’tconningme in some way. Lying about having no signal and being away with work. At least I’m in love with someone who actuallyexists.”
Clara stumbled backward, her eyes widening before they became laser-focused. Any signs that she was drunk were now gone, replaced with total cold sobriety. “I knew it,” she said, nostrils flaring. “Iknewyou didn’t believe in me and Leisha.” Clara flung her arms out to the side, slamming them back against herself. “You think I’m stupid enough to fall for some catfish?Maybe take a look at your own fucked-up relationship before you start commenting on other people’s.” She leaned forward, pointing her finger in Daisy’s face. “And don’t even get me started on whatever weird, beautiful thing is going on with that golden retriever man of yours. With Tom. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other.” Daisy flinched, the words cutting into her. What did Clara mean? Sheknewwhat was going on with Tom. That she was helping him. Helping him to win back his girlfriend. She opened her mouth to say as much. “And by the way,” Clara continued, walking away and then turning back. “Conning you isexactlywhat Zack did.”
Clara swung around and marched away, back toward the main road as Daisy watched on, biting down hard on her lip as tears started streaming down her face.
Reaching into her bag, she got out her phone.
Coming now, she typed to Zack.I love you. x
Chapter Eighteen
Tom
The photos were selected and Ralph was at the gallery with Tom, helping to put everything up. He forgot how it felt when you first walked into the room and all the walls were empty. He stood just inside the doorway, stopping to prop up a couple of frames, and then he closed his eyes and leaned back on his heels, taking a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.
“Mind out, mate,” Ralph said, barging past him carrying another two frames and completely destroying the moment.
“Sure you can’t carry more than two with those new arms of yours?”
“Could have carried the whole lot with one, but you also know how clumsy I am.”
Tom smiled, immediately jumping to at least three different memories of Ralph tripping over invisible steps.
“True. Appreciate you being so safety conscious.”
They carried the rest of the frames in from Ralph’s car and then he disappeared to find a parking spot, leaving Tom alone. To some people, success was being the named photographer on a cover shoot for a big magazine or being the only person called on to take portrait photos of the women’s England football team.It was the all-expenses trip abroad in the five-star hotel and the giant pay checks for a day’s work. Those things were all part of the job for Tom—great parts, obviously—but this was the moment he lived for, and he’d forgotten, until today, that it was. He was grateful to Daisy for prompting him to do this, for reminding him about something he got so much joy from. He thought back to the last exhibition and how different that one had felt, a memory arriving that he’d somehow pushed away. Blocked, even.
He and Sophie had got a taxi back after, and she had been drunk. More drunk than he’d possibly ever seen her in their fifteen years together. Her eyes weren’t able to focus, and it took her a painfully long time to put the key in the front lock of the flat they were renting at the time, while refusing all attempts at help.
She’d been quiet in the taxi and Tom hadn’t dared ask her what was wrong, but as the front door slammed unnecessarily hard against the wall behind it, he had to.
“What’s going on, Soph?” he asked, his voice light. He’d sold six of his twenty pictures at that private viewing. It was, by anyone’s measure, a huge success. She’d come up to him at one point earlier in the night, handing him a glass of champagne and raising her own to meet it. Telling him how amazing he was and how proud she was. Where had that Sophie gone between then and arriving home?
“Nothing,” she said, her voice slurring.
“Okay,” he said, shrugging. He knew it would do no good to get into it anyway.
She snorted. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
