Reading · Dark Romance Club

During my lunch break, I try to convince myself that I have stopped thinking about Mr Ashcroft.

While attempting to decide what to eat, I somehow find myself buying a salad from Pret. Having to choose my lunch every single day irritates me far more than it should.

I take my time on the walk back to the clinic. I browse a few shop windows and look up at the beautiful blue sky. Everyone else seems to be rushing through their lunch break while simultaneously allowing themselves to enjoy the good weather.

Or perhaps that is merely how I feel.

A ridiculous, persistent excitement from this morning is still fluttering inside me.

The man is older than I am.

He is going to be my patient.

I become annoyed with myself for entertaining thoughts like these. Yet every time I remember the way his eyes seemed to consume me, heat rises into my cheeks.

My feet are beginning to hurt as well. I was so distracted that I forgot to change out of my stilettos before leaving the clinic.

I also need to finish organising Claire’s session notes before my break ends.

Several people walk past me eating ice creams despite the cold, which reminds me that I need to telephone my parents.

Ice cream always makes me think of them.

Since retiring, Dad has acquired approximately a thousand hobbies. One of them is making ice cream at home. I suddenly realise how much I miss his strawberry ice cream.

Even if I made some here, it would never taste the same.

I drift through another couple of shops, lost in thought. I try a new blush, but the memory of the five hundred barely used ones waiting at home persuades me not to buy it.

I congratulate myself on avoiding capitalism’s trap, at least for this particular afternoon, and return to the clinic.

By the time I arrive, the back of my heel has developed a blister.

I cannot take off my stilettos, though.

I am a disciplined professional.

Or at least I was until this morning.

I settle at my desk, pour the dressing over my salad and begin eating while organising Claire’s notes.

Ella Hamilton is my next patient.

She sounded hesitant on the telephone, as if she were both frightened and in a hurry. I hope she will be able to give me some honest answers during the session so that I can find a way to help her.

I lose my appetite before finishing the salad and push it aside.

My office contains two extremely comfortable, plump beige armchairs and one sofa that is far less comfortable but undeniably elegant and designer. The armchairs face my desk from a short distance away. One is for me, the other for my clients. The sofa sits with its back towards the window.

I try to predict where Ella will choose to sit, but I cannot decide.

And what about Friday?

Where will Mr Ashcroft sit?

Maya telephones to tell me that Ella has arrived. I straighten my dress and survey the office.

The bottles of water are where they should be. The tissues are available without being displayed so prominently that they suggest an emotional collapse is expected.

The design of the room creates a soft, comforting space that seems to shelter anyone inside it from the rest of the world.

I open the door and wait.

Ella begins walking towards me from the far end of the corridor.

She is wearing a comfortable beige cashmere tracksuit. With her dark hair and porcelain skin, she is strikingly beautiful. She is tall, certainly taller than I am. Even in my stilettos, I do not quite reach her height.

As she approaches, I can see her face more clearly.

There are deep shadows beneath her eyes. Her gaze is vacant and her expression almost entirely blank.

When she reaches the door, she says hello. There is a trace of nervous energy in her voice, although she also sounds profoundly tired.

“Hello, Ella. Please come in. It is very important to us that you feel comfortable here.”

She enters with hesitant steps and sits at the farthest end of the sofa, as far away from me as she can manage.

“Please make yourself comfortable. You are safe here. Everything you say in this room will remain between us.”

Ella gives a slight nod.

She seems uncertain about what to do with her hands. She moves them several times before finally speaking, as if she can no longer tolerate the silence.

“No one knows I’m here. I listed my husband as my emergency contact because I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

Her fingers twist together.

“Damn it. I can’t remember anyone else.”

Before I can understand what she means, Ella continues.

“My husband cannot find out that I came here. Please, Doctor. If anything happens, don’t call him.”

I try to determine whether there is anything I am legally or professionally required to report.

Why did she say she could not remember anyone else?

“There is no reason for us to contact anyone, Ella. Nobody needs to know that you came here. For now, I would like you to breathe slowly with me.”

I guide her through several breathing exercises.

I complete them alongside her, partly because I suspect I need them too.

Something tells me Ella will not be an easy patient.

Once she appears slightly calmer, I ask my first question.

“Why don’t you want your husband to know that you are here, Ella? You can be honest with me. That is why we are here.”

She hesitates, carefully weighing her answer.

“I don’t want to make him angry. Sometimes I feel as if he is hiding things from me.”

She looks down at her hands.

“But then I forget.”

There is clearly something happening within her marriage.

The question is what.

I make a calm note in my book. Her form mentioned memory problems.

“You said you couldn’t remember anyone else. You do have other people in your life, don’t you?”

She looks at me with empty eyes.

“Sometimes I feel as if I’m being followed. I know I used to know other people, but knowing that isn’t enough. I can’t remember their faces, their names or anything about them.”

Her gaze drifts away from me.

“I see silhouettes. They appear and disappear inside my head.”

I make a note that a psychiatrist may be more appropriate for her, but something inside me urges me not to end our work yet.

I need at least a few more sessions before I can be certain.

I am convinced that she is taking medication, but I have no idea what it might be.

“Are you currently taking any medication, Ella?”

She looks embarrassed, as if she is ashamed of not knowing the answer.

“My husband manages my medication.”

She avoids my eyes.

“Do you use any recreational drugs?”

Her embarrassment deepens.

“Sometimes I smoke weed to help me relax. James says it isn’t harmful.”

I record that as well.

“What made you decide to come here?”

She appears slightly relieved by the change in direction.

“I can’t sleep. Whenever I try, it feels like there’s a knot in my stomach. As if something terrible will happen if I close my eyes.”

Could she be afraid of losing control?

“Has anything ever happened while you were asleep that might have caused you to fear it?”

She thinks for a moment before answering.

She has pulled the sleeves of her tracksuit down over her palms. Now she looks frightened as well as tired.

“If I could remember,” she murmurs.

I note that her memory problems may require urgent intervention.

“All right. Let’s talk about something else for a while. What do you enjoy doing?”

Her eyes travel around the room as if she is searching for a clue.

Eventually, her attention settles on a picture pinned to the board, drawn by one of my younger patients.

“I used to paint. I know I painted.”

“Did painting make you feel better?”

She nods faintly.

“When did you last paint, Ella?”

“Before,” she answers uncertainly.

“Before what?”

There must have been some form of trauma, but I cannot begin to guess what happened.

“I... I don’t think I remember.”

We will work together to help her remember, but I need more information.

My attention returns to her hands.

I wonder whether she is hiding them because she is anxious or for another reason. One of her sleeves slips back slightly, revealing a scar across her wrist.

Did she stop painting before whatever caused that scar?

I record the mark in my notes as potentially significant.

It is far too soon to ask her about it, but it could be important.

I decide to move towards easier questions.

“Can you remember what you did this morning?”

“Yes. I had breakfast with James. Then you called. I had lunch outside and came here.”

It is reassuring that she remembers today.

But what about yesterday, or the day before?

“Can you remember what you did over the weekend? Did you manage to sleep at all?”

Long-term sleep deprivation could also be contributing to the problems with her memory.

She responds with the same shame I noticed earlier.

“I stayed at home all weekend and smoked weed to calm myself down. I was very angry.”

Her brow tightens.

“But I don’t remember what I was angry about.”

I need to bring her attention back to the present. I can see that trying to remember is exhausting her.

“I would like to give you a few exercises to help you remain connected to the present. Would that be all right?”

Disappointment crosses her face.

“But I want to remember.”

She begins pulling at the fabric of her tracksuit. Her attention appears to be slipping away from me.

I give her a moment, then explain the exercise anyway. Although her concentration has wandered, she is still listening.

“To address your problems with sleep, I will need to consult another doctor. Next week, I will explain what options may be available to us. Provided you are comfortable with the plan, we can begin working on it together.”

I am almost certain Ella has stopped listening.

I make a note of that too.

“I am confident that we can create a treatment plan that feels right for you, Ella, but please stay with me.”

Her eyes return slowly to my face.

“I will remind you during every session that you came here because you want to get better. Can you tell me what I could do to help you feel safe?”

She scratches her head and meets my eyes.

“I don’t want to be in pain.”

I want to understand her trauma.

As her doctor, I want to help her. But I also want to solve the mystery surrounding Ella herself.

My eyes move to the clock. There are five minutes remaining in the session.

“We will work through some additional exercises for your memory, but I think we have done enough for today.”

Ella stands immediately, her eyes fixed on the door.

She looks as if she is expecting someone to appear.

“He didn’t come. There’s no one else here, is there?”

I struggle to understand her.

“Were you expecting someone, Ella? Are you certain you want to travel home alone? Maya can arrange a taxi for you.”

Her composure returns with startling speed.

“Thank you, Doctor. I need to leave now, but I have to go alone.”

I cannot help worrying about her.

I hope she reaches home safely.

More than that, I hope coming here can genuinely help her.

A vast question mark has formed in my mind around her husband.

Why is she afraid of him?

Why is she so determined that he must not know she came here?

What traumatic experience is she unable to remember?

Carrying all of these questions with me, I leave the office and walk towards the coffee machine beside reception.

I need to prepare for my next session.

I also need a moment to breathe.

True Affliction - Chapter 3

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