“Actually, if it’s okay, I’d like to start with something else.”
Dimple blinks. It’s one thing for me to agree to play ball, and another entirely to start volunteering information.
“Sure.”
“It’s James.”
“What about James?”
And so I tell her what I’ve found out. In an approximate way, at least. She needs to know about Chioma; about faking the threats from Will; about…well, I can’t say I’m sure he was trying to get me to attack Will—it hardly reflects well on me—but I tell her I suspect he wanted me to hurt him, that he was promising Will that I would.
Dimple removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes sliding shut. I’m alarmed; Dimple doesn’t emote. A second ticks by, and then another.
“Dimple?”
Eyes ping open. “So you’re telling me that your husband killed his high school girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And that he has been threatening his brother with harm if he went to the police.”
“Yes. I mean, it sort of makes sense why he looked so unsettled by the news of my innocence. It totally messed up his plan.”
She replaces her glasses, mutters something under her breath, and then looks back at me.
“This is all quite a lot, you know,” she says. I wonder if she has her own therapist. I wonder how many of our sessions have sent her to them. I wonder if this new update will finally send her to the police. Right now, it’s hard to care that it might. “And how are you feeling about all of this?” she asks.
“It’s strange. It’s like someone’s stabbed me with a nine-inch blade, and it’s healed badly. Like if I’m still, I can almost forget the wound is there, aside from a dull throb, but if I move the wrong way, there’s this breathtaking pain that threatens to topple me over. I’m pretty good at moving carefully with it, though.” I see Dimple opening her mouth to ask another question, but I need to get this out of me, my next words verbal vomit. “The thing that really gets me, though, is that I thought I’d learned my lesson after George. I thought I knew how to spot the wrong type of guy, so how the hell am I still here?” I feel the string pull tighter. I’m not sure how much more it can take. I’m not sure how much more I can take. I close my eyes, swallow hard—tears, panic, pain, in that one gulp. I fear how naked I’ve made myself in front of Dimple, but when I open my own eyes, I see that hers, too, have been closed.
Dimple’s fingers are on the bridge of her nose again. I’m beginning to wonder if this is too much for her. If I’m too much for her.
When Dimple opens her eyes again, they’re alive with incredulity.
“So you’re positive that James killed this ‘Chioma’?”
My mouth twists. “I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I’ve done some research. Chioma really did drown on holiday with his family in Corfu. Of course, Will might not be telling the whole truth.”
She sits back, removes her glasses entirely, and tosses them onto her side table, mouth hanging open. “Fucking hell.” She touches her fingertips to her mouth, tries to wipe the words away. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
A burst of laughter leaps out of me. “No, I…” The laughter is a little wild, unhinged, but it’s nice to feel something nice for a change. “No, I’m sorry and glad that you’re having to unpuzzle this shit with me. But how did I get here?”
We dance around the answer to this question—the “how the hell have I ended up with a killer” one—spending time revisiting my relationships with Marc, Luca, and George. Something’s different about this session, though. Dimple’s like a hound that’s lost the scent. Her heart isn’t in it.
I’ve been white-knuckling it through the past couple of days in anticipation of this session, hoping Dimple would help me see a way forward. But Claire’s the only person in this world who’s ever truly looked out for me. Besides, I’ve made the mistake of expecting too much of one person with her. It’s now up to me, and only me, to save myself.
44
Now
Mint-green flecks of paint dust my fingertips as they press into cool metal. I only just repainted the hallway radiator in the renovations. The paint job shouldn’t be disintegrating this quickly, but then again, neither should my marriage.
There’s something grounding about standing here in the stillness of the house, James not back from work yet. Not due back for likely at least another hour. Maybe more. I rub my fingertips together. Drive away the debris. Handbag is shaken off and shoes kicked away. The moment of pause is welcome. Needed, even. But I can’t be still for long. I make my way to the sofa, check my personal emails. Obviously nothing from Chioma’s mother yet. Friend request not accepted on Facebook, either. I remember an article describing her as a healthcare assistant. Look up the nursing homes in the towns closest to where James grew up. I do the math; she might not be retired yet. I scour websites, seeing no sign of her. Then I start jotting down addresses. There aren’t too many. If she’s still working, I can drive to them. I can find her.
Everything okay? You’ve been a bit quiet.
Will.
Yeah, all good. It’s going to take time, but I’ll let you know if I find anything useful.
