‘Shut up,’ I hiss, and she grins at me loopily, enjoying my discomfort. Of course, she’s right. There is a weird energy, but it’s not wholly my fault.
Edward is being extra clenched-jawed towards me today because Imaaaayhave missed our last few sessions of clinical supervision. But like I said, it’s not my fault!
When you qualify as a therapist, as well as undergoing about a thousand hours of personal therapy, the UKCP – otherwise known as the UK Council for Psychotherapy – basically insists you regularly sit down with another counsellor, to talk through your client work and reflect on how everything’s going. It’s supposed to give you some perspective and keepyou forever working towards best practice. Since Edward was such a goody-two-shoes at university and always got the best marks, we elected him as our clinic supervisor at the therapy collective. He’s basically our therapy House Mother. Which makes me his least favourite child.
But hey, it’s yet another reason it’s totally absurd thatMorning Teawants to send me to therapy. I’m pretty much alreadyintherapy with Edward, thanks to the supervision.
Except, yeah, I haven’t been to many of our sessions lately because I’ve been very busy with my TV work and the book. And I don’t even see that many clients these days to talk about with him. Oh, and – most importantly and as previously mentioned – Edward is an arse, so I do not need supervision from him.
Okay, so he’s not actuallythatbad. He’s just one of those horribly clever people who is impossible to relate to. He’s infuriatingly calm all the time, and so sure of his opinions, even though they’re usually super annoying. Sure, there are some basic tenets of psychology and therapy we can all agree on, but about literally everything else? We do not agree.
Example number one: He once mentioned that he’s not scared of spiders, so I bet helovesa daddy long-legs.
‘I’m out,’ Sam says flamboyantly as the doors open on her floor. ‘By the way, Liv, I’ve got a date tonight, so I’ll be back late.’ I nod, unsure if this is true, or if she’s just trying to get Edward’s attention. She winks at me, then adds, ‘Late or maybe not at all, eh?’ This is her embracing her preferred label: Slag.
She turns to Edward, smiling sweetly. He stares pointedly at the lift ceiling. ‘Bye, Edward,’ she calls as she bounces away.
‘Goodbye, Samira,’ he replies formally. He’s very formal is our Edward. Always addressing people by their full names; always nodding at people by way of greeting; always wearing a full three-piece suit for no reason. He must have about a thousand of them. This one today is slim fit, cobalt blue. It looks expensive.
‘Love you,’ I call to Sam as the doors shut behind her. Through the gap, I just about catch her giving me the finger, and yell after her, ‘I SEE YOUR AVOIDANT ATTACHMENT STYLE, SAMIRA.’
Sam is a patient of Arshiya’s. She started having therapy quite recently – just a month or so ago – but it’s been a long time coming after she lost her dad a couple of years ago. He was ill for ages – one of those hideously drawn-out things that brings as much emotional pain as it does physical. He wasn’t super young or anything – Sam was one of those ‘surprise’ additions to the family, turning up when her mum and dad were both already in their mid-forties – but he was a brilliant dad. I’ve known Sam since nursery, so I got to see up close exactly how brilliant he was. With my dad buggering off with barely a word when I was three, Sam’s dad was the only benevolent male figure in my life. And she truly adored him. So, of course, his death hit her really hard.
I get it in an abstract way, but if I’m being honest, it’s quite hard for me to imagine beingsoclose to family. I am extremely low contact with mine. My mum and dad arewithholding, useless shitbags, so my grandparents essentially raised me. But they both died in my late teens, so now I struggle with relating to people who really love their parents.
We arrive at our floor and Edward gestures for me to exit first. I consider being stubborn about the outdated chivalry but quickly give in and stride away.
‘Olivia?’ he says sternly as I hurriedly stalk off in the direction of my office.
‘Yes, Ed?’ I turn back, pointedly using the shortened version of his name that I know he hates. I try to look innocent because I know what he’s going to say.
‘We need to have a conversation today if you’re free.’ He’s talking about the supervision sessions. He’s going to tell me off; give me a lecture about my duties and about sticking to my commitments. It’s the last thing I need after the few days I’ve had.
At least it’s unlikely Edward knows anything about my public dumping and ensuing meltdown. He definitely doesn’t have TikTok. I’d be surprised if he even owns a TV. I’d bet large sums of money that he sits around at home of an evening, still wearing his three-piece suit even though it’s after 6pm, with a crossword puzzle book in his lap, tutting about how frivolous and uncultured the rest of the population are. Then he no doubt changes into his three-piece pyjama suit at 9pm on the dot, does a quick Sudoku, has a perfunctory wank, and is asleep by 9.25pm. You know what, I bet he doesn’t even have dreams. And definitely not confusing ones about ex-boyfriends having sex with each other.
‘I’m actually really busy today, I’m afraid,Ed,’ I tell him quickly. ‘I have a full day of clients to see.’ I pause, then add spitefully, ‘Plus, mypublisheris pushing me about mybook, so I need to get somewritingdone.’
He nods, an odd expression on his face. I bet it’s jealousy. Not that he’d ever debase himself by acknowledging such an untoward feeling.
I clear my throat, already reaching for my office door handle. ‘I’ll check my calendar and give you a shout about any availability I might have coming up, ’kay?’ I don’t wait for an answer, coolly turning to the door, twisting the handle and flinging myself at it.
It’s locked and I bounce back off the wooden panelling.
Fuck, that was embarrassing.
I fumble for my keys, not looking up to see if Edward is still watching. At last I get it open, throwing myself into the familiar room and down onto the nearby sofa. I lie there, my face in the cushions, my cheeks burning.
At least no one was filming this time.
I turn myself over, face to the ceiling, breathing deeply. My first client will be here soon, I can’t just lie here feeling sorry for myself all day. It’s time to let go of everything that’s happened – everything that is hurting me – and switch on the other Liv. Turn myself into cool, calm and collected, therapist Liv Carpenter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘He said he barely knows who I am anymore.’ My client, Wendy, says this in a whisper, head down, eyes on her lap. Her expression is one of devastation.
My heart hurts for her but I don’t react. Even though I think her son is a selfish little shit. I wait, knowing she wants to explain and giving her the minute she needs first.
Wendy breathes deeply, then continues. ‘Maybe I am being unfair, maybe I have changed too much. But I’m still his mum, you would think he’d want me to be happy! And this feels like the first time in my life Iamhappy! It’s the first time I’ve put myself first.’
