Spider Light(63)

She made sure Weston did not see her, and she did not stay around to see Weston and Don actually meet or try to find out where they might go, because she could not have borne seeing them together. She supposed they met somewhere discreet–some tucked-away bar or restaurant, because of Don being Dr Weston’s patient. But whatever they did and wherever they met, this doctor, this Antonia Weston, had snatched Don away from Donna.

Bitch. Bitch. It did not matter if she was all the sex goddesses of the world rolled into one or if she looked like the back end of a bus; she would be a far more formidable foe than some adoring little eighteen-year-old.

So did this bitch return Don’s feelings? Or was it the other way around: was she leading him on, secretly amused at the age difference, boasting to her friends that she had a toy boy? Getting a kick out of having an affair with a patient, seeing herself as a femme fatale…

Fatale. It was a good word. Things always sounded more dramatic in French. And it was a fatale situation all right, in fact it might be very bloody fatale indeed for Antonia Weston if she did not take her claws out of Donna’s beautiful boy.

Donna began to consider what to do about Dr Antonia Weston.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO




By the fourth session with Don Robards, Antonia was starting to feel very uneasy.

She could not immediately pinpoint the reason for this uneasiness, but it was a little to do with the straight blue stare he gave her when they talked, and a great deal to do with the growing conviction that there was something very dark and very complex beneath the too facile charm. It was, of course, absurd to feel this nervous apprehension, because she was very used to the strange and often twisted things that lay deeply buried in people’s minds.

On the surface Don was a model patient. He attended all the appointments made for him, and talked with apparent openness about his childhood. It had been normal and unremarkable, he said, although the death of his parents had been a dreadful blow. But he had got over it–well, as much as you did get over that kind of thing. No, there was no other family, he said–absolutely none at all. But friends had helped out; he had good friends.

No, he had not got a girlfriend at present, although there had been girlfriends over the years, of course. He had only just returned from three or four years living in France, so he was still picking up the threads of his English life.

Antonia, listening carefully for clues as to what lay beneath this apparent normality, wondered if he might be gay, and if that might be his problem. But she thought not, although you could never be entirely sure.

Don stuck to his story about finding the idea of youthful death romantic and tempting, but denied having said he had discovered something so appalling he did not want to live. Dr Weston must have misheard or misunderstood.

My good young man, thought Antonia, I neither misheard nor misunderstood. And I don’t think I’m misunderstanding that come-to-bed look you’re giving me now, and if I’m right about it, we may have a problem ahead of us.

It was shortly after the fourth session that she became aware of the dark blue hatchback with the distinctive chipped number plate. It always seemed to be around, parked near her space at the hospital or driving behind her as she went to or from the clinic. It was not an especially remarkable occurrence, until she realized it was Don driving the car.

‘He could be simply visiting someone in one of the wards and using the staff car park,’ she said to Jonathan. ‘But I think there’s more to it.’

‘Why?’

Antonia hesitated, and then said, ‘Because during the last fortnight I’ve seen him too many times. In the supermarket and in the street near my home. Last week he was two rows behind me at the cinema.’

‘Does he speak to you?’ said Jonathan.

‘Mostly he pretends he hasn’t seen me. I know it could all be coincidence, but it’s starting to spook me a bit.’

‘Have you mentioned it to him? When he comes into the clinic?’

‘No.’

‘Hm. Is he becoming fixated on you?’

Antonia heard with gratitude the doctor speaking, the real Jonathan who cared very deeply about people and their tangled minds, rather than the frivolous flirt which was all most people saw. She said, ‘I don’t know. It happens sometimes.’

‘Yes, it does. One of the occupational hazards. What treatment are you trying?’

‘Mostly talking at the moment–you know how it goes. Winning confidence, implanting ideas, trying to get through the layers of protective armour to the real problem. I haven’t prescribed anything, and I shan’t unless things suddenly change. I’ve had him checked regularly for drugs, of course.’

‘Good.’

‘He’s clean every time. He tested clean the night of the suicide bid, as well. So whatever triggered it wasn’t drugs. He’s covering up the real reason, and whatever it is, it’s so deeply buried I’m nowhere near reaching it.’

‘D’you want to switch him to me?’

‘Not yet,’ said Antonia, frowning. ‘I’ll see if I can get him to join a group session and you can sit in and make your own assessment.’

‘All right.’ He looked at her. ‘Have you told Richard about this?’

‘No, I haven’t. I can’t, can I?’

They looked at one another. ‘No,’ said Jonathan slowly. ‘No, you can’t, I can see that.’