The Dead Ex(3)

My hands dig deeper into her muscle knots. ‘I have a son. He’s four too.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Patrick.’

‘Is he a good boy?’

I think of the picture in my pocket.

‘He’s perfect.’

‘You’re lucky. Who looks after him when you’re working?’

I pause briefly. ‘He’s with my dad.’

‘Really? You hear a lot about grandparents helping out nowadays.’

My thumbs are really pressing down now.

‘Actually, that’s hurting.’

‘Sorry.’ I release the pressure with a slight degree of reluctance.

After that we continue in silence with only the angel music in the background. Some like to talk throughout. Others don’t say a word. Many begin to confide and then stop, like this one. She might tell me more at the next session. I sense she’ll come back. But I hope she won’t. She’s too nosy.

‘Thank you,’ she says when I leave her to get dressed. I return to my notes. I write down, in purple ink, the exact treatment and areas of the body which still need attention. Those knots were stubborn. They are often related to the knots in the mind. After David, my shoulders were stiff for months.

‘Would you rather have cash or a cheque?’ she asks.

‘Cheque, please.’

Paper payment – or an electronic transfer – allows me to be absolutely certain who has paid me and when. My business must be above board. If nothing else, I’ve learned that.

She puts on her coat. It’s cold out there. The wind is rattling the windows.

‘I like your place,’ she says, looking around as if seeing it properly now she is about to go.

‘Thank you.’

I like it too. One joy of being on your own is that you can do exactly as you wish. David had liked modern. I chose a converted ground-floor flat in a Victorian house. My ex was a black-and-white man. My consulting chair is draped with a restful duck-egg blue woollen throw. The lighting is soft. Unlit scented candles (lavender again) line the low table that I painted myself in a creamy white. The pale purple rug, which I take with me every time I move, along with anything else that’s portable, disguises the stain on the carpet beneath. No stairs. The front door leads straight onto the street opposite the seafront. There is nothing about my home that could hurt. Unless I choose it to.

‘Wish I could work from home,’ says my client. ‘I had to give up my job in the bank after my second child.’

There are pros and cons, I could say. You don’t get out enough if you are busy. You don’t have office colleagues to talk to. To joke with. To share problems with. A sudden wave of loneliness engulfs me.

‘May I make another appointment now?’ she says.

‘Sure,’ I say, vowing to keep quiet about my own personal situation the next time. No more talk about Patrick.

And that’s when the door sounds. I specifically chose a place with its own front entrance. I also, with the landlord’s permission, disconnected the bell. Sharp noises disturb me. A knocker is less strident. But this thud makes me jump.

Why is someone here now, at this time of night? Have I forgotten about another client? Usually I am very careful to write things down, but there have been one or two mistakes recently.

‘Would you mind waiting a minute in the studio?’ I ask.

It takes a while to open up. I have a thick safety chain and I’ve double locked it, as always. There’s another knock as I search for the key. There it is, on the side table. Once more, I must have forgotten to put it in its place on the hook. Not a good sign.

‘Coming,’ I call out as the knocker thuds again.

The open door brings in the biting wind with a trace of fog.

I do a double take. A woman is standing on the doorstep brandishing a warrant card as proof of identity. Her face carries all the hallmarks of stress. Immediately my mind springs into action as I mentally concoct a mixture which would soothe her. Lavender. Maybe lemon grass too.

The man next to her is sporting a fawn raincoat. He appears angry. Defensive. I learned to read body language the hard way. Not that it did any good in the end. Neither looks like a possible client.

‘May I help you?’

‘Vicki Goudman?’

I nod, taking in this man and his strikingly assured air.

‘Former wife of David Goudman?’ he continues.

I nod again. Less certainly this time.

Now he too is flashing ID at me. ‘Detective Inspector Gareth Vine. This is my colleague, Sergeant Sarah Brown. May we come in?’

My throat has swollen with apprehension. I run my hands through my hair, which I’ve started to grow again as part of the ‘new me’. Sweat trickles down my back. My mouth is dry.

‘What’s happened?’ I ask.

He ignores the question. ‘May I ask when you last saw your ex-husband?’

The question is so unexpected that I cannot think. My right sinus – always partially blocked – now clears itself with shock. I feel a sick knot in the pit of my stomach.

‘Years ago. Why?’ The sour taste of bile is in my mouth as I speak.

The woman in uniform is staring at me. Her eyes are sharp. Appraising. ‘The present Mrs Goudman has reported him missing.’

Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible for another woman to carry my name, let alone Tanya, his former secretary, or ‘the bitch’ as I sometimes call her in my head.