The Girl Before(54)

I see, she says carefully. And it excites you?

I suppose it does, yes.

But also troubles you?

I just find it—strange. After what happened. Shouldn’t it be the opposite?

Well, the first thing to say is that there’s no should or shouldn’t, she begins. And it’s actually not that uncommon. Among the general population, around a third of women say they regularly engage in fantasy scenarios involving power transference.

Plus there’s a physical aspect too, she adds. What’s sometimes called excitation transfer. Once you’ve experienced adrenaline in a sexual situation, your brain may unconsciously seek more of it. The point is, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn’t mean you’d enjoy it in real life. Far from it.

I don’t feel ashamed, I say. And I do enjoy it in real life.

Carol blinks. You’ve been acting out these ideas?

I nod.

With Edward?

I nod again.

Would you like to tell me about it?

Despite her claim about being nonjudgmental, Carol looks so uncomfortable that I find myself embellishing a little, just to shock her.

It’s a funny thing, I conclude, but making him angry makes me feel more powerful, somehow.

You certainly seem more assertive today, Emma. More confident in your choices. The question I’m asking myself is whether these are healthy choices for you just at the moment.

I pretend to think about that. They probably are, I decide.

Clearly this isn’t the answer Carol was hoping her carefully phrased question would receive.

The choice of partner when you’re experimenting is very important, she says.

Actually I wouldn’t call them experiments, I say. More like discoveries.



But if it’s all so wonderful, Emma, she says quietly, why are you here?

Good question, I think.

We’ve talked before about how survivors of rape can sometimes, wrongly, blame themselves, she adds. How they can feel they’re the ones who deserve to be punished, or that they’re somehow worth less than other people. I can’t help wondering if that’s partly what’s going on here.

She says it so sincerely that for a moment I almost crumble.

What if I was never raped, though? I say. What if it was all a kind of fantasy?

She frowns. I’m not following you, Emma.

Nothing. But suppose I found something out about somebody—about a crime they’d committed. If I told you, would you have to tell the police?

If the crime hadn’t yet been reported, or if it was reported but your evidence might make a difference to the investigation, then the situation is complex, she says. As you know, therapists have a professional code of ethics that includes confidentiality. But we also have to uphold the law. In a conflict between the two, the law takes priority.

I’m silent, thinking through the implications.

What’s troubling you, Emma? she prompts gently.

Really, it’s nothing, I say, flashing her a smile.





NOW: JANE

A blood test at my GP’s office confirms it. I tell no one yet except for Mia, Beth, and Tessa. Mia’s first question, of course, is “Was it planned?”

I shake my head. “Edward got a bit…carried away one night.”

“Mister Control, carried away? I’m not sure whether I should be worried, or relieved he’s human after all.”

“It was a one-off. We had words about it afterward, actually.” I know Mia will think I mean about the lack of contraception. I don’t go into details.

“Does he know?”

“Not yet.” The truth is, I’m not sure how Edward is going to feel about this.

Mia’s ahead of me. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t ‘No children’ one of the rules?”

“The house rules, yes. But this is hardly the same.”

“Is it?” She raises an eyebrow. “We all know how men love unplanned pregnancies.”

I don’t say anything.

“And you?” she adds. “How do you feel, J?”

“Scared,” I admit. “Terrified.” Because despite the whirligig of emotions—disbelief, joy, anxiety, euphoria, amazement, renewed grief for Isabel, happiness—when it all comes to a stop, the one I’m left with is sheer naked fear. “I couldn’t go through that again. If something happened to this one. That…misery. I just couldn’t. It would break me.”



“They said at the time there was no reason your next baby shouldn’t be perfectly healthy,” she reminds me.

“There was no reason last time, either. It still happened.”

“But you are going to keep it, right?”

There are very few people in the world who could ask me that question, and even fewer to whom I would give an honest answer: that part of me has been saying, Don’t. You’re back in the light after so long in a dark and lonely place. Why roll those dice again? It’s the same part of my brain that looks around One Folgate Street and thinks, Why jeopardize all this?

But there’s another part of me—the part that has held a dead baby in her arms, that gazed down on her perfect face and felt the ecstatic joy of motherhood just the same—that could never even consider aborting a healthy fetus because of my own cowardice.