How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(65)

Fuck.

Does he think I did this because of him? Not that I did anything.

I’m left alone for a total of three and a half minutes before a lady, probably in her early forties, clip-clops in. I look at her shoes. Miu Miu. Psychiatry must be well paid. She smiles at me but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes and I realise that I’m not being assessed here, I’m being judged. I’m so tired but I know I need to put on the show of my life. I wish I had some bloody make-up on.

‘Hi, Kitty,’ she says, too slowly. She’s trying to make me bite already.

I smile weakly. ‘Hi.’

‘I’m Dr Jensen, but you can call me Emma if you like?’

‘Okay. Thanks. Dr Jensen.’

She pretends to look through my notes, but I know this is just for show as she probably had an orgasm when she was told she’d been assigned a famous patient.

‘So, I can see from your history that you’ve had counselling and medication previously for depression. This was after your father disappeared. Is that right?’

I nod. ‘It was a very difficult time.’

‘Of course. Do you think this current episode has anything to do with that?’

I hate the way she says ‘episode’, like my life is a Netflix show.

‘I really don’t know. Possibly. But in all honesty, I’ve just been overdoing it. Too much drink. Too many drugs. Not enough sleep. I’m really not here because I tried to kill myself.’

She stares hard at me. Almost through me. ‘With all due respect, Kitty, I’m not sure anyone ends up in hospital having their stomach pumped because they’ve OD’d on prescription drugs and alcohol by accident.’ Is she trying to gaslight me or what?

‘It wasn’t that. I was having trouble sleeping and—’

‘Why?’ Holy fuck, she’s in there so fast my head spins.

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you having trouble sleeping? What’s on your mind?’

‘Nothing in particular. It’s something I’ve always struggled with—’

‘There’s nothing in your medical notes about it,’ she interrupts again. ‘If you’ve been struggling to sleep long term, why haven’t you asked for help?’

I see where she’s going. I give her what she wants. ‘Because I’ve been self-medicating,’ I say in a small voice.

She nods, satisfied. Scribbles some stuff on my notes. I fight the urge to choke her with the heart monitor wire and take them off her.

‘Okay. Kitty, I don’t think you’ve got any underlying mental health conditions. I think you just need to take care of yourself. I can refer you to a counsellor about the self-medication, but I’m assuming you’ll probably want to do that privately as you have the resources?’

I nod.

‘Good choice. Also, the online CBT you’ll be offered through the NHS will barely touch the sides. It’s one of those awful areas where money talks, sadly.’

I nod again, making a note to tell Charlie about this.

‘You can go home today as long as you agree to Mr Chambers’s staying with you temporarily. And weekly calls from myself. Plus at least weekly sessions with a counsellor or psychotherapist of your choice. I don’t think you’re a danger to yourself or anyone else. Are you comfortable going home with Charlie? There’s no issues there?’

I shake my head. ‘God no, nothing like that.’

She watches me for a very long moment.

‘Okay, well if you’re happy to go home and let Charlie take care of you …?’ She leaves a long pause. I wait it out. ‘Then I’m happy to discharge you.’ She reaches over and touches my hand gently. ‘Just please take care of yourself, okay?’

I nod. Of course.





55


BLACK CAB, BETWEEN KENSINGTON AND CHELSEA ‘Tor told me about the baby. The miscarriage,’ Charlie says as we bump along at the speed of an easily distracted pigeon.

Oh.

Okay.

I’d forgotten about that.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

My head is too woolly for this conversation. ‘The last thing you had told me was that you thought I was fucking someone else, so why would I?’

He has the decency to look ashamed. ‘You should have told me. I can’t believe you were dealing with that on your own. Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?’

‘Can we talk about this later, please?’ I croak. I can’t remember who I’ve told what. And I still don’t fully understand how I ended up in hospital. An NHS hospital, at that.

My skin is still itchy from the sheets.

‘Was it mine?’

The look I give him would curdle milk, as one of my nannies was fond of saying.

He spends the rest of the drive looking out of the window. Even the driver who has been watching us with far more interest than necessary finally starts paying attention to the road.

‘We’ll talk at mine.’

‘Yes, sorry. Sorry. Of course.’ He looks utterly heartbroken.

This really isn’t my finest hour.





56


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

We get back to mine, Charlie acting like a mother hen, which I have to say I do not find attractive. But when I catch sight of myself for the first time in God knows how long, I see that Charlie probably isn’t finding me that alluring either. My hair is greasy and lank and is hanging in knotted rat tails down my back. My skin looks grey, no hint of my Mykonos tan at all. I’ve lost weight. A lot of weight. My collarbones are jutting out and my face looks gaunt. And not good gaunt.