By the time I walk into the clinic, I’m praying Maya somehow managed not to see Alex dropping me off outside. I have absolutely no desire to explain Alexander Ashcroft before I’ve even worked out how to explain Alexander Ashcroft to myself.
“Don’t forget tonight!” she calls from reception.
Tonight. Belly dancing. Right. The class which has been completely erased from my brain by the human catastrophe that has occupied most of it since Monday. “Of course I remember!” I call back, with all the confidence of a woman who absolutely did not remember until three seconds ago.
I make it into my office before she can ask anything else and drop into the large armchair I normally reserve for patients. My head falls back against the cushion and I close my eyes, letting out a long breath. Everything that has happened since yesterday begins replaying itself behind my eyelids. Alex’s voice. His breath against my skin. The smell of him. His hands. He will not leave my bloody head. Then Tom crashes into the reel, along with the memory of him threatening me with those photographs, and a shiver of unease moves through me. It really is a miracle Alex didn’t hear that part last night. If he had, I’m not entirely convinced Tom would have made it home with all his limbs attached. Still, if I’m being truthful with myself, Tom isn’t the reason I feel like this. That is the problem. Tom doesn’t frighten me. If he shares those photographs, he’ll go down in history as the biggest bastard alive and everyone will know exactly what kind of man he is. But Alex? Alex unsettles me in an entirely different way. I’m not going to see him again. That’s what’s bothering me. Because when I told him I wanted to cancel tomorrow’s appointment, all he said was, Cancel it, then. It is ridiculous. I have known the man since Monday. Monday. Four days ago. Four bloody days, and somehow he has managed to occupy nearly every thought I’ve had since. He makes me restless, excited, furious, embarrassed, breathless and occasionally homicidal, sometimes all within the same five-minute period. I haven’t even had enough time to understand what I’m feeling before he changes it again.
I need to tell Maya his appointment tomorrow is cancelled. I add that to the increasingly chaotic mental list in my head, force myself out of the chair and glance at the clock. My next session starts in five minutes. After that, I need to speak to the sleep specialist about Ella’s appointment on Monday. Work. I can do work. Work is normal. Normal would be lovely.
Melissa is one of those people you instinctively want good things for. She started seeing me because she wants to rebuild the confidence years of bullying stripped away from her, damage that has followed her from school into both her career and her relationships. We have been working together for two months now, and the difference is already beginning to show. She has enormous green eyes, bright and curious. It’s impossible not to notice how much life there still is inside her despite everything she has been through. Something about the way they light up reminds me of someone. No. Absolutely not. I remove that thought from my head with immediate effect and focus on Melissa.
By the end of the session, we agree on what she’ll work on before next week, and I watch her leave with a small smile. I’m halfway through typing up my notes when Maya appears in the doorway. She leans against the frame and studies me for approximately two seconds before one eyebrow rises. “I’m detecting hangover.” If only you knew, Maya. Hangover doesn’t begin to cover it. Ashcroft has managed to turn me into a complete wreck in the space of one night. Although, technically, I may have done most of the wrecking myself. He was merely the catalyst.
“My head still hurts,” I mutter, rubbing my temple. “Is Reece here?” Maya’s expression changes instantly into the look of a woman who considers herself the undisputed custodian of every piece of gossip within a five-mile radius. “Oh, Reece is suffering too, darling. But yes, he’s here.” “I need a consultation for Ella.” She blows me a kiss from the doorway and disappears.
I open one of the drawers in my desk, find a protein bar and take a bite. It tastes offensively bad after breakfast this morning. Dense, joyless and vaguely reminiscent of flavoured plasterboard. Unfortunately, I’m still thinking about those chips from the hotel last night. Those bloody chips. If it weren’t Alex’s hotel, I could genuinely see myself going back just to eat there. Which is an absolutely absurd sentence to have formed in my own head.
I need to ring Mum. I haven’t spoken to her properly in days, and if I leave it much longer she’ll assume I’ve either been abducted, which is technically not untrue, or joined a cult. I reach into my bag for my phone, but my fingers brush against something soft. The handkerchief Alex used to clean the blister on my foot last night. I pull it out slowly. The fabric is ridiculously soft, and when I unfold it, I notice the embroidery in one corner.
A.A.
Naturally. God forbid Alexander Ashcroft should possess an ordinary handkerchief like a normal human being. No, his apparently requires monogramming. I run my thumb over the letters. Sorry, Alex, but you’re not getting this back. Returning it would involve seeing you again, and I’m currently trying very hard to avoid exactly that.
Besides, judging by the way he behaved this morning, I’m fairly certain he doesn’t want to see me again either. That thought causes an unpleasant little twist in my stomach. I pick up my phone and call Mum.
She answers after two rings.
“Caitríona May Thorne!”
Oh, dear.
Full name.
Her voice fills my ear and, despite the warning bells currently sounding in my head, I smile.
“Where have you been?”
“Mum, I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy.”
“Don’t you start giving me that nonsense. What’s going on? Out with it.”
I lean back in my chair, smiling properly now. Of course she knows. A mother can smell emotional chaos from several hundred miles away. Unfortunately, telling her about yesterday would probably have her in the car before I finished the story, so sarcasm seems the safer option. “I’m trying to settle into my house, I’ve got patients, new patients, work. You know, Mum. That little thing I do for a living.”
“Aye. Right.”
The two words contain not one grain of belief.
I grin. “How are you both? Everything all right?”
“Your father is driving me demented. He’s found the new love of his life.”
That gets my attention. “What?” “A Border Collie. Found the poor wee thing wandering near the village and brought him home.” A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. I can see Dad already. He’ll have fallen in love within twenty seconds and mentally reorganised the next ten years of his life around the dog. In fact, he has probably already compiled a full programme of activities they will be doing together. “What’s he planning to do with him?” Mum gives a long, suffering sigh. “Apparently they’re going running through the fields together, and he wants to have him trained for earthquake rescue.”
I close my eyes, laughing. That is so painfully Dad. “Mum, when was the last earthquake there?”
“Exactly, Cait. You tell me.” I can’t stop smiling now. God, I miss them. “He’ll be heartbroken if the owner turns up.”
“I’ve put him on the Facebook group, called the council, asked around the village. Nothing. Not a word. I don’t think anyone’s coming for him, which means he’ll stay here, obviously.” Her voice rises. “There is no room, pet. No room! Three dogs and two cats already. I’m running a bloody sanctuary.”
She does have a point. As much happiness the animals bring them, I know looking after all of them is getting harder for Mum. Feeding them, walking them, playing with them, keeping up with the dogs every day. It isn’t nothing. “I’d say I’ll talk Dad into finding him another home, but you know perfectly well that’s impossible.”
The man would fall ill from grief if anyone attempted to remove his new best friend. Mum mutters one of the rare swear words she permits herself. “I know, the bloody man. I know.” Then her voice softens instantly. “Right, I love you. And you phone me properly soon, do you hear me? Don’t make me come down there.”
“Yes, Mum.”
She makes an unimpressed noise, blows me a kiss down the phone and hangs up. I sit there smiling at the screen for a moment. Talking to her always makes me happy.
Later, I head upstairs to Reece’s office and get the contact details for the sleep specialist. Maya was right. Reece looks genuinely hungover, which is unusual enough that I nearly comment on it, but decide against it. I have quite enough questionable behaviour of my own to account for this week. I’m almost through the door when he calls after me. “Caitríona, before you go.” I turn. “Those two new patients. They both specifically requested you.”
My stomach sinks. Oh, Reece. If only you knew quite how specifically one of them requested me. This is the perfect moment to tell him I’m cancelling Alex’s appointment. Come on, Cait. Just say it.
“Thank you, Reece. I’ll do my best.”
Apparently my mouth and brain are no longer working for the same organisation. He nods. “They’re both very high-profile patients. They’ll expect complete discretion.” Yes. I gathered that. And I also understand that continuing to work with Alexander Ashcroft is completely impossible. “I understand.” I wish him a good day and walk out of his office.
The moment the door closes behind me, I release the breath I’ve been holding. Why do I keep putting myself in these situations? Seriously. Someone help me.
By the time I take my lunch break, the blister on my foot has started throbbing again. Brilliant. Rosie texts asking if I want to meet for lunch, but I turn her down and remind her we’re dancing together tonight anyway. I need a little time on my own. Preferably somewhere nobody can ask me questions about men, whisky, hotel rooms or why I’m currently walking like one of my shoes is trying to kill me. It’s only when I’m outside that I realise I rushed out so quickly this morning I forgot both my comfortable shoes and my dance clothes. I’ll have to nip home after work, grab everything and head straight back out. The sun is shining, but I’m restless enough that even Mayfair looking annoyingly beautiful doesn’t do much for my mood. I end up wandering with no particular destination, letting the streets carry me along until I catch my reflection in a shop window.
I stop. The dress really is gorgeous. Unfortunately. It fits me far too well, which feels deeply inconvenient considering the man responsible for it is exactly the person I’m trying not to think about. I drag my attention away from my reflection and keep walking towards Bond Street, pretending to be a tourist in my own city and taking an excessive interest in window displays I have absolutely no intention of buying anything from. My phone buzzes. I glance down.
Tom.
My thumb hovers over his name. I really should block him. Actually, no, I should have blocked him last night. But curiosity is a terrible thing. I open the message.
Don’t think I’ve forgotten about last night.
My stomach tightens. Before I can even decide whether to reply, another message arrives.
One of the photographs.
Of me.
Lying naked on a bed. My breath catches as I stare at the screen, heat rushing up my neck. There isn’t much visible, not really, but that is completely beside the point. The bastard has the audacity to send it to me. For a second, anger surges through me so quickly I almost type something back. Then I stop. That is exactly what he wants. A reaction. I lock my phone and shove it into my bag. It’s the only sensible thing to do. How in God’s name did I spend months with someone capable of this. What an absolute fucking cunt. There. That feels more accurate. My mood thoroughly ruined, I give up on my walk and head back towards the clinic. Once I’m in my office, I pull up the notes for my afternoon sessions and try to drag my brain back to last week instead of allowing it to remain trapped somewhere between Tom’s threats and Alex’s face.
I have a busy afternoon. Which is good. Busy means less thinking. At least in theory. I still need to cancel Alex’s session tomorrow. I know I do. The problem is I have no idea how I’m going to manage it after standing in Reece’s office earlier and confidently promising I would do my very best with both new clients. I don’t want to see Alex again. At least, the sensible part of me doesn’t. The other part is apparently a complete idiot. Because beneath all the perfectly reasonable arguments about professional boundaries and catastrophic decision-making, another thought slips in. What would he tell me if we actually had a proper session? What would he be like sitting across from me when he wasn’t flirting, ordering me around or looking at me as if he knew exactly what I was thinking? And what would it feel like to smell that bloody cologne again? Oh, for God’s sake.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Immediately, I see his face from this morning. Those cold blue eyes. That helps. A little. Then there’s Reece. He specifically asked me to take care of these patients. They’re clearly important to the clinic, and if things go well, it could mean something significant professionally. Which feels like an appalling way to think about therapy. Patients aren’t business opportunities. And yet clinics need patients. And reputations. And money. Wonderful. My brain is soup again.
———————————-
By the time I finish all four of my afternoon sessions, I’m exhausted. I tell Maya I’m heading home and leave the clinic, stepping straight into air so cold it bites at my cheeks. The temperature has dropped dramatically since lunchtime. I hurry towards the Tube, little clouds of white appearing every time I breathe. After a short but aggressively overcrowded journey, I finally make it home.
I’ve barely got my key into the lock when Brent’s door opens. He appears in the hallway with his walker, immediately straightening himself as much as he can the moment he sees me. He is absolutely adorable but one of the nosiest human beings I have ever met. “Good evening, Caitríona. Just back from work?” I am in a hurry, Brent. But I cannot be rude to a ninety-year-old man who looks delighted to see me. “Yes. How are you, Brent?” “Oh, marvellous.” He gives his walker a little adjustment. “Been sleeping much better since that lock was fixed yesterday.” Then he winks at me. I burst out laughing. Being winked at by a ninety-year-old gentleman who clearly believes he has just delivered devastating flirtation is deeply charming. “I’m very glad to hear it. I have to rush, though.” Before he can start another conversation, I slip into my flat and close the door behind me.
Nounou comes flying at me immediately. “There’s my girl.” I bend and scoop my tiny princess into my arms while she wriggles against me, apparently having suffered terribly during the several hours I was gone. I kiss the top of her head, put her down and kick off my stilettos. My bag follows, landing on the sofa. I glance back at the shoes. They really are beautiful. The Gucci stilettos are exactly the sort of pair I would have chosen for myself, which is mildly irritating. Whoever Alex had buy them has good taste. Very good taste, actually. I head into my bedroom before that thought can develop into anything more ridiculous, throw together my dance bag and change into my dusty-pink set. Much better. I go into the kitchen and open a packet of pâté for Nounou. I already forgot her dinner yesterday. I refuse to be late feeding her again tonight. She attacks the bowl with the enthusiasm of a dog who has apparently never been fed in her entire life.
While she eats, I check my phone. Nothing. I stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. As if I’m expecting something. From Alex. Which is ridiculous considering I don’t even have his number. Unless I secretly pull up his patient details at the clinic, which I absolutely will not do, there is no reason we should ever see or speak to each other again.
Unless you go back to the hotel, Cait.
I am not going back to the hotel. Obviously. The fact that the possibility has now entered my head is irrelevant. I need to get this man out of my system because whatever is happening to me is not improving. There’s a saying about doctors making terrible patients. Apparently therapists aren’t much better. I glance at the time. Fuck. I need to leave.
I give Nounou another kiss, grab my bag and hurry back out. By the time I get off at Covent Garden, the cold air has cleared my head slightly. I walk the last few streets towards the dance studio and spot Rosie almost immediately. She is standing outside having a cigarette. I wave. “The second this class finishes, we’re going there,” she announces before I’ve even reached her, jerking her head towards a Greek restaurant just around the corner. Then she grins at me. A dangerous grin.
“Now tell me everything.”
I open my mouth. And see Maya walking towards us behind her. Oh, shit. I immediately start making frantic eye movements at Rosie. Stop. Abort. Rosie, unfortunately, has the situational awareness of a Labrador when gossip is involved. “Come on, Cait,” she continues excitedly. “What happened last night?” My eyes widen further. She is not getting it. At all. Then she clasps both hands dramatically against her chest. “Oh God, this is so exciting.”
Maya is now directly behind her. “What’s exciting?” Rosie freezes. There it is. Understanding. About seven seconds too late. She turns her head slowly towards Maya. Then looks back at me. “Nothing,” we both blurt at exactly the same time. Far too loudly. Maya’s eyes narrow. “You two are hiding something.” “No, we’re not.” “You absolutely are.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I’ll find out.” Of course she will. This woman could extract classified government information with nothing but a raised eyebrow.
“We’re late,” I say quickly. “Can we please go inside?” Rosie drops her cigarette and crushes it beneath her shoe, looking around for somewhere to throw it away while Maya slips her arm through mine. Then she leans towards my ear. “I knew something happened.” I close my eyes. “I knew it,” she whispers triumphantly. “Did you really think you could hide it from me?” I suddenly feel threatened. Maya has entered full gossip mode, and I know from experience that if she doesn’t get some version of this story tonight, she will become unbearable. The problem is that telling Maya means telling Maya. And telling Maya is essentially the same thing as issuing a press release. I need to handle tonight very, very carefully. The dance class, thankfully, is exactly what I need.
Within minutes, I manage to push everything else aside and concentrate on the movements instead. The music, the steps, the ridiculous amount of concentration required to make my hips do what they are apparently supposed to be doing. For once, my brain shuts up. I focus on drawing figure eights with my hips and enjoying the little metallic jingling from the scarves tied around our waists every time we move. Our instructor is as strict as ever, correcting every lazy arm and badly placed foot she sees, but she’s funny enough that none of us mind being bullied into doing it properly. And for the first time all day, I’m actually having fun.
As predicted, Maya doesn’t leave me alone for the entire evening.
The Greek restaurant is actually brilliant, and I tell Rosie so at least three times. Sitting with the girls after dancing, eating too much food and slipping back into something resembling my normal routine feels good. Except this time Alex is there. Not physically, thank God. But somewhere in the back of my mind, constantly. However comforting it is to return to my ordinary, quiet life, I’m aware of him now. Aware that Alexander Ashcroft exists somewhere in the same city as me, which is an absurdly dramatic thing to think about a man I met four days ago. I’m not going to examine how completely unfamiliar my own life has started to feel after only two days of him. That sounds like something a therapist should probably be concerned about.
The second Maya disappears to the loo, Rosie’s internal surveillance system activates. She stuffs a piece of fried courgette into her mouth and turns to me with wide eyes. “What happened last night? What time did you get home? Did you sleep with him?” The questions come so quickly I don’t even have time to answer one before she fires another. I stare down at my plate. I’m trying to forget Alex. I’m doing an absolutely terrible job of it. “I don’t want to talk about last night.” I pick at a piece of bread. “But no, Rosie. We did not sleep together.” She giggles. “For now.” Then she winks at me. I give her a look, but I don’t have enough energy to argue.
“I need to cancel his session tomorrow,” I say instead, quieter this time. My gaze drifts towards a dark corner of the restaurant while I turn the thought over for what feels like the thousandth time. Rosie watches me. “But you don’t want to.” I look back at her. “That’s what I’m hearing, right?” “What I want doesn’t matter. It’s wrong, Rosie.” Something in my voice wipes the teasing expression from her face.
She slides an arm around my shoulders and rests her head against mine. “Oh, Cait.” She sighs heavily. “You’re absolutely fucked.” I turn to stare at her. “That is your professional assessment?” “Completely.” Despite myself, I laugh.
By Friday afternoon, after three long sessions, I’m sitting at my desk reorganising notes while the fact that I still haven’t cancelled Alex’s appointment hangs over me like a threat. His session is at six. Six o’clock. I have spent the entire afternoon swinging between the excitement of seeing him and the desperate urge to make sure I never do. It’s too late to cancel now anyway. Especially after Reece came into my office at lunch and reminded me, with ridiculous emphasis, that Mr Ashcroft is a very important patient. The more important question is whether Mr Ashcroft is actually going to turn up. He probably won’t. He was the one who said, Cancel it, then. He isn’t coming. Although he might. Oh, for God’s sake. I have no idea.
At this point, I just want the evening over. I want to go home, spend the weekend with Nounou, sleep, eat things that don’t come from hotel room service and somehow erase this entire ridiculous week from my system. Whether I can actually do that is another question. I try to focus on my notes just to make the time pass faster. Normally I would start preparing for the following week, but nothing is going into my head. I read the same paragraph three times before accepting defeat and going to make myself a coffee. My hands feel cold. My feet too.
As I stand by the coffee machine, I glance down and remember covering the blister on my foot this morning before putting my heels on. My brain immediately supplies an image of him crouched in front of me, the faint line that appears between his brows when he’s concentrating. Wonderful. Now I’m thinking about his forehead. I linger by the machine longer than necessary and eventually take a sip of coffee that tastes vaguely burnt and entirely pointless. A couple of patients walk past on their way out, and I smile and say good evening.
It’s getting late for a Friday. Most of the clinic has already emptied, and because I’m apparently the only lunatic who schedules appointments this late, I suspect Maya and I will be the only ones left soon. And Alex. If he comes. The coffee makes my anxiety worse. There’s an unpleasant fluttering in my chest now, and I reluctantly admit it has absolutely nothing to do with caffeine. He isn’t coming. I’m almost sure of it. By the time I return to my office, I’ve decided I’m going home. That’s it. I close my laptop and start packing my bag. It’s sitting on the chair beside my desk, and because my back is to the door, I don’t notice anything at first. I’m pushing my small notebook inside when I see the handkerchief tucked between my things. His handkerchief. I really need to take that out at some point.
Then something changes. I still. I don’t hear footsteps. There’s no sound at all. I simply know. That feeling comes over me before I even turn, immediate and impossible to mistake.
Alex.
His presence fills the room with such force that my body recognises him before my eyes do. Slowly, I turn towards the door I left open a few minutes ago. And there he is. Leaning lightly against the frame, both hands in the pockets of an impeccably cut grey suit, his ankles crossed casually in front of him, watching me.
He looks devastating.
His broad shoulders fill the doorway, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed entirely on me.
For one suspended second, neither of us says anything.
Then that deep voice rolls through the room.
“Good evening, Doctor.”
I have a feeling that appointment is going to be very, very interesting.
Tell me everything in the comments: were you relieved when Alex finally appeared, or were you screaming at Cait to cancel while she still had the chance? And what was your favourite moment from this chapter?
See you in the next chapter… because apparently Alex has decided he is coming to therapy after all.
A💋
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