He puts down his pencil. ‘I wasn’t in your relationship,Olivia’—fair enough, he’s doing the same thing back to me— ‘so I can’t answer that.’
We eyeball each other for a full thirty seconds, neither one of us wanting to back down. But he blinks at last, leaning back into his chair.
‘Okay, if you don’t want to talk about Justin, then let’s talk instead about your week. How has it been?’ he asks. I sit back in the armchair, wondering how to answer this. I definitely can’t tell him the truth. I can’t tell him how I wasted the whole week obsessively going through nearly ten years’ worth of Instagram pictures of Justin’s new girlfriend, Orla. I can’t tell him how I set up a fake Facebook account just so I could request to be her friend on the off chance I could see her more embarrassing younger years. How I listened to two full series of her podcast – which by the way is hatefully smart and funny and cool. She really did have Carol Vorderman on there! Vorders!! The living legend herself! I can’t tell him about Friday night, where I tricked my friends into following Justin and Orla through London, and then watched them personalise a toy at Build-A-Bear. I can’t tell him how I cried all the way home wondering what name they might call the bear and what message they recorded together for it when you press its tummy. And I can’t tell him how Sam had to get her daddy long-legs costume out again to cheer me up. Or the detailed plan she came up with to poison Justin’s home water supply.
‘My week’s been… fine,’ I say simply. Edward smiles again and I think how much kinder he looks when he smiles. He is suddenly less like a Ken doll and almost like a real person.
‘Would you like some cake?’ he says, reaching into a bag and pulling out some Tupperware. ‘It’s carrot cake. My mum made it.’
‘Your mum?’ This completely knocks me off my feet. This man has afamily. He is someone’s son. He’s probably got a dad, too! I never would’ve pictured it. ‘Does she live nearby?’ I ask, realising I don’t know the first thing about this man I’ve been acquainted with most of my adult life and worked across a hallway from for all these years.
‘Not too far.’ He nods his head. ‘She and my dad are in Bath. My brother and I take it in turns to visit regularly. She loves coming to London though. She says she likes to see young people having fun.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say, meaning it. He takes off the lid and offers me a slice. I take some. It’s moist and smells amazing. ‘Is this your way of bribing me into engaging with the process?’ I twinkle, and he laughs.
‘Yes, I’m dangling a carrot… cake.’
I take a bite. It’samazing. ‘It’s definitely better than dangling just a carrot,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘What a strange thing for people to say. Carrots aren’t that nice, not really. I mean, they’re okay, I guess. I don’t turn them away when they find their way onto my plate, but I still can’t see in the dark. So why would dangling a carrot be so very enticing? Surely it’s a better idea to dangle a bag of Maltesers or something.’
‘True,’ he acknowledges, biting into his own slice of cake. Crumbs go everywhere and he laughs at his own clumsiness. And, so I do, too.
‘Please tell your mum thank you very much,’ I say through a mouth full of sugar. ‘She makes a mean carrot cake.’
‘I will.’ He smiles widely. ‘What about you, do you have family close by?’
I shake my head. ‘No. My mum lives in Cumbria, but we don’t really talk much these days. I’m not close to my dad either. He left us when I was pretty little – three or four. I think he was in Spain last time I heard from him. He sends the odd happy birthday text.’ I laugh, adding, ‘Usually in the wrong month though. He mostly seems to think I was born in January.’ I pause. ‘My grandma was the one who really brought me up. But she and Grandpa died quite a long time ago now. When I was a teenager.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says simply; sincerely.
I shrug. ‘It’s what grandparents do.’
‘It’s what we all do.’ He shrugs. ‘When we were training, did you ever readLove’s Executioner and Other Tales of Psychotherapy, by Irvin D. Yalom?’ I shake my head and he continues. ‘I’ll lend you a copy, it’s fascinating. He says that the ever-present awareness of inevitable death is something that drives us from a very young age.’
I nod. ‘That’s a fun thing to say.’
He ignores this, continuing with something akin to endearing enthusiasm. ‘We try to deny our inevitable mortality in different ways. Some people turn to religion to reassure themselves that something like immortality is waiting for us. Others have children to ensure a kind of continuance. Some try to create something else to leave behind – a legacy of some kind, so we won’t be forgotten.’
I nod thoughtfully. ‘You know, I’ve been trying to writethat book. I have a publishing deal.’ I pause, wondering if I still do. ‘But as you can see’—I gesture towards the anger journal at Edward’s side—‘writing doesn’t really come naturally to me.’
He laughs again, then looks more serious. ‘Look, Olivia, I do understand how hard it is for you to talk to me about all this. I know it will be strange for you to open up to a colleague. But I believe this could work and might even be genuinely helpful if you let it. We all know it’s easier to give advice than to take it. We can be the wisest person in the world when it comes to other people, but it’s so much harder to be objective when it comes to our own lives.’
I sigh, swallowing the last mouthful of cake and wondering if I can ask for more. ‘But I know everything you’re going to say to me.’ I try not to let it, but I can hear the defensiveness creeping in. ‘You’re going to suggest we do some cognitive reframing. You’ll tell me it would be a good idea to change my negative thinking. You’ll give me some relaxation techniques to do when I feel the“anger”coming on.’ I roll my eyes. ‘You’re going to say maybe I could practise mindfulness and try positive self-talk.’ My voice is laden with sarcasm. ‘Come on, Edward, am I close?’ I lean in. ‘But the thing is, I don’t have a problem controlling my temper. I never lose my rag! What you and Spencer and Fabian – and everyone else! – don’t seem to understand is that the tantrum I had in the restaurant that night with Justin was a one-off.’ I consider telling him about the cinema trip with Sam and the wanking teenagers. ‘If anything, it was the first time I’dproperly let the fury out in a long time. Maybe ever! So, I’m not going to do it again, am I? It was a one-off.’
‘And how did you feel afterwards?’ He’s looking at me with those calm, dark eyes.
‘What?’ I blink at him. ‘What does that matter?’
‘I happen to agree with you,’ he says, frowning. ‘I don’t think the problem is that you got angry. But I do think there is an issue here.’ He repeats himself. ‘How did you feel –physically– after you threw that, er’—he uses my word—‘tantrum? How have you felt in the weeks since?’
His question takes me by surprise. I thought this session would be all breathing practice and meditation. How do Ifeel? Physically?
I think about it. ‘Hmm,’ I begin slowly, ‘Well, since you asked, actually I feel… pretty good? I’ve felt strangely better in myself since that night.’ I cock my head, considering it. ‘Obviously not emotionally, since my world has been crashing down around me but physically… yeah. I’d been having these migraines for months, and I would wake up some days aching all over. I haven’t had that since. They’re gone. The pain is all… gone.’ Shock is in my voice. ‘I haven’t felt this physically good in a while, if I’m being honest.’
He nods and takes a second. ‘You’ve heard of psychogenics?’
‘The body keeps the score,’ I whisper, and he nods again.
‘The link between mental and physical well-being. I see so many women in my office who don’t know how to express anger in a healthy, productive way. They’ve been taught to keep it all in, socialised to be nice and polite. Women aretold that they’re good with emotions, but anger is the only one they’re not permitted to express. Except there’s so much to be angry about in this world, especially for women. It’s no wonder it manifests in a physical way.’
