The Therapist(51)

‘Thanks.’

I ease off my trainers slowly, playing for time, even more flustered now. I follow her down the hall to the kitchen. It’s beautifully minimalist, all neat lines and no clutter anywhere. Compared to my kitchen, with its stacks of cookery books lying on the worktop and a fridge-door full of photographs, it’s pristine. And calming. I feel suddenly confident. I can do this.

‘Hi, Alice.’ Eve gives me a wave. ‘Welcome to Tamsin’s supertidy house.’

‘It’s lovely,’ I say, looking around. ‘And admirable, considering you have two young children.’

‘I need the house to be tidy. It’s the only thing I feel I can really control, the only thing where I’m in charge.’ Tamsin gives a little laugh. ‘The only part of my life that is mine.’

There it is again, that streak of vulnerability. She comes over with a pot of coffee and I give her a smile.

‘I think we all feel like that sometimes, that we’ve lost control. I know I did when I found out about the murder.’

She stiffens, and I wish I could take the words back. I shouldn’t be bringing up the murder now, not after what I just heard.

‘In what way?’ Eve asks, coming to the rescue.

‘Everything that I thought was true, wasn’t. The house wasn’t what I thought it was, Leo wasn’t who I thought he was. I could see the future that I’d built up in my head crumbling before my eyes. Things were happening that I had no control over. I know that sounds dramatic but it was horribly destabilising.’

‘And now?’ Tamsin asks. ‘Do you feel back in control?’

‘I’m getting there. I’ve managed to stay in the house on my own, although I can’t bring myself to sleep upstairs yet. And yesterday, I told Leo I needed space, so he’s staying in Birmingham this weekend.’

Tamsin raises an eyebrow. ‘And he accepted it?’

‘Yes. For now.’

She pushes a plate of homemade flapjacks towards me. ‘And wouldn’t you rather do that – leave?’

‘It’s not an option anymore,’ I say, taking one.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Tam,’ Eve warns gently.

Tamsin shrugs. ‘Sorry. It’s not that I don’t want you to stay. I’m curious, that’s all. If you’re sleeping downstairs, you’re still not at ease in the house.’

‘You’re right, I’m not totally comfortable yet. But I’m working on it.’

Eve exchanges a quick look with Tamsin. ‘If that reporter contacts you again, she’ll be surprised to know that you’re still living there,’ she says.

It’s clumsy, but Eve is only trying to find out what Tamsin wants to know. I decide to boot the elephant right out of the room.

‘Don’t worry, if I ever hear from her again, the only thing I’ll tell her is to leave me alone,’ I say.

‘So you haven’t heard from her since the day she told you about the murder?’ Tamsin asks.

‘No.’

Tension seeps out of her, relaxing her body, reminding me of a balloon deflating. She reaches for a flapjack, breaks a piece off, pops it into her mouth, then breaks another piece off, and puts that in her mouth, as if she’s famished. Tamsin starves her emotions, whereas I feed mine, something I hadn’t realised until now. When I think about it, there have been quite a few times when I’ve stood in front of the open fridge, feeding my anxiety, trying to appease it, make it go away.

There’s a beautiful family photograph perched on top of a sleek grey dresser, of Tamsin, Connor and their two little daughters.

‘Amber is the image of you,’ I say, studying it.

‘And Pearl is the image of Connor,’ Eve says.

‘Yes, I can see that, she has his eyes.’ I turn to Tamsin. ‘Your hair was much longer back then.’

She reaches for another flapjack. ‘It used to be as long as yours but I cut it after Nina died.’

‘Gosh,’ I say.

‘I’m not really sure why I did it, all I know it that it was stronger than me. Nina had had her hair cut off so maybe I instinctively thought that whoever killed her had a fetish about long hair and I was protecting myself, in case he came back and killed me. Or maybe it was just a subconscious desire to honour Nina in some way. Amber cried and cried when she saw it and I had to promise I’d grow it long again.’ She gives a resigned smile. ‘I’ve still got quite a way to go.’

‘I used to have really long hair,’ Eve says. ‘Ages ago, when I was about seventeen. I cut it because I wanted to look older. I’m too small to have long hair, it made me look like a doll. It was darker in those days too.’

‘Did you have it dyed white at the same time?’

‘Yes. I didn’t intend to but the hairdresser suggested it. Will went mad. He hated my short hair at first. Now he loves it, right down to the pink tips.’

‘I’m thinking of cutting mine,’ I say.

Tamsin frowns. ‘Why? It’s so lovely and long.’

‘It’s falling out. After my parents and sister died, I lost it in clumps. It was horrible, I found it really distressing. And now it’s happening again.’

‘Is that why you’ve been wearing your hair up?’