The Psychiatrist E-Book

Emma Curtis

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 466

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Prepare to be gripped by the brand-new chilling thriller from the author of THE BABYSITTER and THE COMMUTER. ________________________ 'EMMA CURTIS IS A GENIUS!' Andrea Mara, No. 1 bestselling author of No One Saw a Thing 'GRIPPING, ADDICTIVE' Claire Douglas, No. 1 bestselling author of The New Neighbours 'SMART CHARACTERS, EASY AND ENJOYABLE' Daily Mail ________________________ TWO FAMILIES. ONE LIE. NO FORGIVENESS. In the leafy suburbs, status is paramount and reputation is everything... Recently qualified psychiatrist Dr Geddes is building her career at a prestigious practice when an unexpected encounter with a young male patient threatens to expose her darkest secret. Lorna Chilcott is delighted to befriend the glamorous Elise, wife of the ex-boyband star she had a crush on as a teenager. But when her daughter goes missing after leaving Elise's house, friendship turns to discord and accusations fly. A single lie connects these two traumatic events - and its impact will be deadly... READERS LOVE THE PSYCHIATRIST 'I LOVED THIS BOOK! I literally had NO WAY of working out what was going to happen!' ****** 'I didn't want it to end, a book I really couldn't put down' ***** 'My favourite read so far this year, I can't wait to recommend it to everyone' ***** 'If you're into twisty, character-driven reads, definitely give this one a go!' ***** 'An addictive thriller' *****

Leseprobe

THEPSYCHIATRIST

Emma Curtis was born in Brighton and now lives in London with her husband. After raising two children and working various jobs, her fascination with the darker side of domestic life inspired her to start writing psychological suspense thrillers. She has published seven previous novels: One Little Mistake, When I Find You, The Night You Left, Keep Her Quiet, Invite Me In, The Babysitter and The Commuter.

Praise for Emma Curtis

‘Loved it, couldn’t stop reading. Emma Curtis is a genius!’ – Andrea Mara

‘Complex, clever plotting and empathetic characters. Emma Curtis gets better and better!’ – Jane Shemilt

‘Curtis is a smart writer, who has come up with another “just one more chapter” thriller’ – Telegraph

‘Stylish, dark, hugely addictive and so twisty, The Commuter is an exhilarating high-speed ride from beginning to end. Her best yet!’ – Claire Douglas

‘Addictive, page-turning thriller writing. Once you’ve reached the end, you’ll want to start all over again just to marvel at how it was done.’ – B. P. Walter

‘Emma Curtis is a master of suspense.’ – Jenny Knight

‘A pacy, unputdownable thriller that is completely addictive. It had everything I want from a psych thriller, and I inhaled it in a few days.’ – Emily Freud

‘Full of secrets, lies, and the dark side of suburbia.’ – Heat

‘A compulsive read that’ll get under your skin and keep you guessing.’ – Gilly Macmillan

‘A seductive, well-written story . . . had me riveted.’ – Jane Corry

‘A tense thriller.’ – Woman’s Own

‘A perceptive and engaging account of the powerful forces unleashed by motherhood.’ – Daily Mail

‘A brilliant book of unforgettable characters harbouring unforgivable secrets.’ – Amy McCulloch

‘Effectively tugs at the reader’s sympathies.’ – Literary Review

‘A powerhouse of a novel in which character, motive and murder are deftly woven into a tense and compelling psychological drama. It’s clever and it haunts.’ – Elizabeth Buchan

‘Captivating, original, and full of chilling twists!’ – Lauren North

‘A masterclass in psych suspense writing.’ – Nicola Rayner

Also by Emma Curtis

One Little Mistake

When I Find You

The Night You Left

Keep Her Quiet

Invite Me In

The Babysitter

The Commuter

THEPSYCHIATRIST

EMMA CURTIS

First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2025 by Corvus,an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Emma Curtis, 2025

The moral right of Emma Curtis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

No part of this book may be used in any manner in the learning, training or development of generative artificial intelligence technologies (including but not limited to machine learning models and large language models (LLMs)), whether by data scraping, data mining or use in any way to create or form a part of data sets or in any other way.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 80546 357 3

E-book ISBN: 978 1 80546 358 0

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

Product safety EU representative: Authorised Rep

Compliance Ltd., Ground Floor, 71 Lower Baggot Street,

Dublin, D02 P593, Ireland. www.arccompliance.com

You know who you are

But you don’t know who you wanna be.

So, baby girl, go right ahead

And take your confusion and delusions out on me.

D.I.G.B.Y., ‘Leave me Alone’

Lyrics by Dexter Coleridge and George Farr

PART ONE

Chapter 1

THE PSYCHIATRIST

I’m looking at Ben Clarkson’s lowered head and I have the unpleasant sensation that I’ve failed, and that he knows it as well as I do. He sits with his hands clasped between his thighs, his dirty-blonde hair hiding his expression.

‘You’ve come a long way, Ben. I have confidence in your ability to maintain your progress.’ I feel the weakness in my words as he lifts his blue eyes to my face. There’s an element of disdain there.

‘Yeah.’

As is sometimes the way with people with bipolar presentation, Ben is volatile and hard to predict. He has the arrogance of a young man who thinks he’s cleverer than his psychiatrist. All my patients are challenging or they wouldn’t be here, but there is an unsettling quality to Ben, something I can’t put my finger on. Only that he knows it and uses it. Even when he’s being charming, I’ve sensed a latent hostility, a desire to dominate. People living with the disorder can experience periods of overconfidence or impulsivity during manic episodes, which can present as trying to have the upper hand, but I’m not convinced that is the case with Ben. After all, he hasn’t had a manic episode in the weeks I’ve been treating him.

‘Are you worried that you aren’t ready to manage your treatment plan on your own?’ I ask.

‘What do you think?’ he says, arching an eyebrow.

He often does this, throws my questions back at me. I don’t think he realises how much I can read from that. A shield batting off the arrows.

‘You’ve worked hard to develop strategies that can help stabilise your mood and prevent episodes.’ I smile at him. ‘You’ve got this.’

‘Thank you for believing in me.’

I detect a note of insincerity. It mirrors my own. What has happened here? Why haven’t I been able to get through to this man?

‘It doesn’t matter what I believe. You have to believe in yourself.’ I struggle on, itching to be rid of him. He makes me nervous. He has from the off. ‘You have the tools to manage your symptoms and you can recognise the early signs of a relapse in time to put your strategies in place. You know this is true.’

We’ve discussed his safety plan. If he’s troubled, he will talk to his parents, who for all their faults have always made sure he has professional help, and if that proves insufficient, he’ll come back to see me. I doubt he will. Fleetingly, I realise I’ll miss the flashes of savage humour that have enlivened our sessions.

‘Okay, Ben?’ I say when he doesn’t answer.

There’s the glimmer of a smile as he nods.

Ben seemed lost when I met him. Coming here has given him a routine and stability he lacked, so of course there will be a sense of abandonment. Diagnosed a year ago, his condition has dominated his life since his early teens. His family situation – he’s the only child of a diplomat – hasn’t helped. His father is two years into a three-year stint in Nigeria, and before that they lived in Dubai and Cairo. Sent to boarding school in England at the age of eight, moving to a London day school for sixth form and then university while his parents lived abroad, Ben gives the impression of being self-sufficient but somehow is not. There’s a vulnerability that his combative personality masks until you get close enough to see the chinks. He is a man of contradictions.

I can’t help feeling that Mr and Mrs Clarkson have been selfish. It seems extraordinary to leave a vulnerable young person unanchored. He’s rattled around London on his own since he was sixteen, living in a studio flat in central London during school holidays, subsisting on takeaways and occasional visits to the homes of family friends. Plenty of money and zero attention.

No wonder he unravelled. While his mother clearly worries about her son enough to have got in touch with me, she’s happier to throw money at his problems than interrupt her glamorous life to fly over and offer emotional support. But who am I to judge? I’m not a parent.

‘Why did you go into psychiatry?’ Ben asks. ‘Why not general practice, or surgery?’

I don’t mind answering that. It’s a valid question. ‘Because I learnt a long time ago that bodies are often made unwell by minds. That’s where I wanted to be. Teaching people to manage their mental illness can have a profound effect on their physical health. And vice versa. It’s a very close link.’

‘Do you always succeed?’ He looks into my eyes, and I blink.

‘Not always, no. It’s an imperfect art. You can never really eradicate mental pain, but you can make it hurt less; you can make it manageable by putting the patient in charge of it.’ It feels good explaining it to him, like he’s a potential student of the discipline rather than a consumer of it. ‘Often when people come to me they’ve lost all sense of control. Their mental anguish has taken the reins and their life is no longer their own. I believe in dealing with the symptoms first by getting the medication right, then working on the causes. Essentially, I aim to stop patients like you spiralling out of reach before you can be helped.’

He nods slowly, eyes on my face, appearing impressed by my eloquence. In truth, I feel a bit of a fraud. I haven’t been qualified long and I’m still under supervision, still have to feign the confidence I lack, still sometimes wonder what gives me the right to diagnose patients’ mental and behavioural disorders, still feel like I’m getting away with it. So far I have, hopefully because I’m better than I think I am, but at times I’ve had the distinct feeling that Ben, in particular, sees through me.

‘Does helping people give you a sense of power?’

‘That’s an odd question.’ And a manipulative one, I silently add.

‘I’m curious.’

‘All right. Not power so much as achievement. I try not to be self-congratulatory, but sometimes when I see a patient turn their life around, then absolutely, it’s a powerful feeling. But that’s different from having a sense of power.’

‘Do you think you’ve succeeded with me?’

I roll the question over in my mind. ‘I hope so.’

‘But you’re not sure.’

‘No. But then a sense of certainty is something I want to give you, not that I need you to give me.’ Certainty is a state of being I work towards my patients attaining, even though it’s a tough one to achieve. I want them to believe they have the ability to manage their condition, that their lives are worth something, that their medication works, that they have learnt the techniques that will help them function better, even thrive. ‘That would be a shameful state of affairs.’

I am breaching professional boundaries here and need to wrap this up before it gets any worse. I get to my feet to indicate that our session is over and Ben follows suit. He’s considerably taller than me.

‘Do you feel shame about me?’ he asks.

‘Does unsettling women give you a sense of power?’ Oh Christ. I should not have said that. This is more about me than him. I can feel a blush warming my cheeks.

‘You think I’m deliberately unsettling you?’

‘I do. You’re a young man, but not too young to know precisely what you’re doing.’

‘It isn’t deliberate, and I’m sorry if I’ve unsettled you. I didn’t mean to. And it doesn’t give me a sense of power to discover that I have.’

I attempt to claw back my dignity. ‘I didn’t say you’d succeeded, just that I believe it’s what you’re trying to do.’

Ben grins. ‘Touché. I get scared of things, scared of myself sometimes. Is that normal?’

‘It’s something we all do at one time or another.’

‘I thought you psychiatrists would be immune.’

I think of the heath at night, of the black depths of the river. ‘I’m not immune. I doubt anyone is, even psychiatrists.’ I move past him to the door and have an odd feeling that he was about to put his hand out to touch me. I’m over-aware of his physicality. Not attracted, more switched on to him. Fight or flight. ‘If you ever feel like stopping taking your medication, get in touch with the practice.’

He hesitates, evidently disappointed. ‘I will.’

‘Good luck, Mr Clarkson.’

‘Thank you, Dr Geddes.’

He offers his hand, and I take it automatically. It’s the first time we’ve touched, and I feel it in my chest, like a portent of danger. He starts towards the door, then turns back.

‘I’m not your patient any more, am I?’

‘No, Ben,’ I respond, half smiling. ‘You’re not. Go and get on with the rest of your life.’

He’s barely listening. ‘Then I just want to say . . . you’re beautiful.’

I keep my face blank as he leaves, my training kicking in. I expected a challenging final statement from Ben, but not this.

The receptionist says goodbye, the door to the street closes. I release my breath.

My face is set as I sit down to update my session notes. I put on my reading glasses, take the cassette from the Dictaphone and label it. I haven’t got round to replacing the tape recorder I bought when I was a student with a modern digital version. My next appointment is in ten minutes. There can be no sense that I’ve been thrown off kilter.

*

I’m lost in my thoughts as I walk down Griffiths Lane on my way home. I must have done something to make Ben think his words would be welcome. Or did he do it simply to prove a point? I can unsettle you if I want to. I grimace. There have been times when I’ve sensed I’ve amused him, so perhaps he likes to play mind games with authority. I’ll talk to my supervisor later.

I walk into Sainsbury’s Local and see him, as though I’ve conjured him up. He has his back to me and hasn’t seen me as he carries a basket containing milk, bread, bananas and a pizza up the cleaning products aisle. I step backwards, bumping into a shop assistant loading packets of biscuits onto the shelf beside me.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, and scuttle away, into fruit and veg. I wait, heart thumping, until I see him leave, then make my own purchases and go home.

I acknowledge that it was stupid to take on a patient who lives so close to me, but at the time, the only thing that registered was the odd coincidence of him renting one of the flats in the converted house in Gladwell Grove where Daniel and I began our married life. Before Ben’s time, but does he know that? How could he? I dismiss the thought as not worth worrying about. He won’t be in Alverley for ever. He’ll move on once his tenancy is up for renewal.

Chapter 2

LORNA

‘I don’t know anyone here,’ Matt whispers.

‘Stop grumbling,’ Lorna says.

‘I’ll stop grumbling if you stop totting up every penny they’ve spent on this place. I can practically see your brain working.’

Lorna chuckles.

The Coleridges’ housewarming feels more like one of the swanky charity galas she goes to for work from time to time. The house and garden have been dressed in fairy lights, so that when you first arrive you feel as though you’ve walked into a romcom, waiters weave around the guests bearing trays of champagne and canapés, while a quartet of young women in black denim and cowboy boots play a medley of classical greats and instrumental versions of pop anthems. Exquisite floral displays in hues of cinder rose and olive green designed by Thistledown, the expensive florist on Griffiths Lane, grace the surfaces. It’s all completely over the top, but Lorna has to give her friend points for using local businesses.

Her friend. How good that sounds.

She’s glad she dressed up, since everyone here has dusted off their finery. Her midnight-blue satin dress is stitched on the bias. It skims her body when she’s still and undulates like water when she moves. Earlier in the day she squeezed in a blow-dry.

The Coleridges have invited all their new neighbours from Gladwell Grove, with the addition of a handful of non-residents, including her and Matt. Lorna follows Elise with her eyes. Their hostess illuminates the room even when she doesn’t try. Lorna wishes she could relax. She and Matt have as much right to be here as anyone else. More, in fact. She knocks back her champagne, for courage. She should not feel in any way inferior to these people.

When rumours that the former lead singer of D.I.G.B.Y. had bought in Alverley swirled through the community, Lorna knew all about it already, because she worked for Chetham & Church, a local independent estate agent. She got to know Elise and has seen the house at various stages of its development, but this is Matt’s first glimpse. He’s been blatantly examining the finely turned banisters and architraves. She can tell from his subdued expression that he’s impressed. Elise Coleridge is from Sweden, although you wouldn’t guess it from her auburn hair, and Dexter is from Liverpool, so their tastes differ widely, but since Dexter has zero interest in interior decoration, this heady mixture of understated glamour and hygge is one hundred per cent Elise. She used to be in musical theatre, appearing in Cats, Phantom, Les Mis, Cabaret, among others, before retiring at the age of thirty-three to raise Noah. In Lorna’s mind, she sprinkles fairy dust wherever she goes.

Lorna recognises several familiar faces: people she’s helped secure houses for, women who put her through the wringer. Property negotiating, when it means literally everything to the house hunter to be in the right street, is a nightmare, and Gladwell Grove is very much the right street. And position counts too. The most coveted houses are in the Alverley Park area, preferably backing onto the heath, a thousand acres of common land bordered to the south by the River Bute, a tributary of the Thames, by the less salubrious Alverley High Street to the west and by East Alverley . . . well, to the east. Almost as important is to be at the end of Gladwell Grove furthest from the Baslow Estate, a relic of 1960s council housing now seventy-five per cent in private hands.

It never ceases to amaze Lorna how pushy and downright rude her clients can be once they’ve set their sights on the one, but it keeps her in work, and far from resenting the challenges, she relishes them. She wonders if they’ll acknowledge her this evening or pretend not to recognise her. If anyone has the cheek to ask what she’s doing here, she has her answer primed, her courage bolstered by the knowledge that she is here because she is Elise’s chosen friend while this lot have been invited simply because they live in Gladwell Grove and Elise owes them a party. If asked the question, she plans to say, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Elise is such a good friend.’

Not that she’s a social climber or anything.

‘Half an hour,’ Matt grumbles, turning his mouth into her hair.

She jerks away from him. ‘I hope you’re joking. That would be so rude.’

She glances at Dexter. He doesn’t look any more relaxed than she is. She sympathises. These aren’t his people. Too conventional. She hasn’t told him they’ve crossed paths before or what the circumstances were. She’s only told Matt and Amy the bare minimum: that she met him after he’d played a gig at her university and had a drink with him and his bandmates in the student bar before they jumped in their minibus and vanished into the night. Too much time has passed, and she’d hate him to think she wants something. It’s no big deal. She hadn’t exactly been a vestal virgin. They had been young, adrenaline-fuelled, drunk and horny. He probably has no recollection of that night. She imagines having to explain it, and cringes. It was a youthful indiscretion that did no one any harm.

Lorna suppresses a grimace. There was some harm, wasn’t there? There is embarrassment and there is humiliating mortification. They are two very different things. If she’d simply been embarrassed, she’d have told her friends, had a laugh about it, but she never has.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Dexter knows her by name, has a smile ready for her if he meets her in his house, a bit of banter. His greeting is sometimes accompanied by a touch that lingers. It’s pure friendliness, of course. In fact, she’s witnessed him doing it this evening as he works the room. Kiss-kiss, hand on back. Some people are more physical than others and she really should not read anything into it.

The clink of metal on glass silences the room. Their hosts are about to speak. Bloody hell, they’re glamorous, Lorna thinks, with a pang of envy.

Chapter 3

LORNA

‘Welcome to our home,’ Dexter says.

Heads swivel, conversations cease, the trickle of chatter from those too distracted to hear is shushed, and guests form a semicircle around their hosts, glasses of Dom Perignon in hand. A sense of excitement ripples through the room. Dexter, who until tonight has been merely a face briefly glimpsed by a lucky few, is now a human being.

Thin as a rake, his hair still thick, though salted with grey, he is an inch or so shorter than Matt, making him just over six foot. His smile is slow, he has a habit of running his fingers through his hair so that it spikes, and he speaks with a Liverpool accent largely unaffected by the years he’s spent away from the city. To Lorna, who feels a frisson every time he walks into the room, he is a dream made flesh, blood and bone.

‘Elise and I are dead grateful to you all for coming,’ he says. ‘Because we know how much we’ve pissed you off.’

The laughter is nervous. People don’t feel secure, don’t know if they’re being mocked.

‘Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. A glass of champagne doesn’t make up for a year of disruption, dust, noise, all that shit. Have two glasses. Knock yourselves out. Truly, we are sorry. One hundred per cent. But it’s done now, and you’re our guests, and Elise and I are made up to see you here.’

Matt nudges Lorna, but she ignores him. He finds the whole concept of the Coleridges faintly ridiculous. These people are A-listers, but who gives a shit? They walk all over everyone and are repulsively entitled. She’s told him it isn’t like that. He doesn’t know them like she does, hasn’t sat at their kitchen table feeding pasta to three-year-old Noah or seen Elise weep over the death of their cat.

Was it really a year ago that she’d wandered round 55 Gladwell Grove with Elise, practically melting with envy? Elise loved talking about little Noah, the Tasmanian devil of a toddler who accompanied her on one of her visits. Lorna, almost as in love with Elise as she was with the house, assured her that Noah’s behaviour was nothing out of the ordinary. She told wildly exaggerated tales of other nightmare tots and a friendship was born. Lorna is one of the few local mums prepared to tolerate him rampaging round their house.

And then there’s Dexter. No longer a pop star, he has segued into acting, but is still mostly famous for having been the frontman of a once feted but now defunct boy band.

D.I.G.B.Y. stands for Dexter, Ivo, George, Brendan and Yann. Their anthems were a soundtrack to the roller coaster of Lorna’s youth. The song ‘Tell It My Way’ meant more to her than she could have possibly communicated to her friends at the time. That lyric, If I could look in your eyes, if I could tell you I know, that I’ve been here before, would you open your door?, never failed to bring a lump to her throat. Dexter Coleridge, cupping the microphone close to his mouth, heavy eyelids lowered, shoulders hunched, back contorted into a question mark, voice husky, had spoken to her and her alone.

Which had led to the incident that changed the course of her life.

Nowadays, saying hi like he’s just any other person is a thrill beyond her wildest imaginings. As far as she’s concerned, what happened doesn’t matter. She’s over it, happily married, moved on. She can put it out of her mind for the sake of her friendship with his wife.

Dexter’s burgeoning career as an actor means he’s home at odd times, so you never know when he’ll appear, which has added a sense of anticipation to Lorna’s visits. He’s a man in constant motion, so it isn’t as if he’s sat down at the table with her for a nice long chat. He comes in, jokes with the little boys, wraps a careless arm round Elise, grabs something to eat from the fridge and leaves them. It’s as though a whirlwind has passed through the room, and her.

‘We’ve got a kid, yeah.’ Dexter is getting into his stride now. ‘Noah. Some of you will have met him. When I was a kid, we used to play out in the street. I’ve still got those mates – well, except for the ones who developed drug habits.’ He acknowledges the nervous chuckle from his guests with a wink. ‘But yeah, some of them are fine and they’ve got my back, you know. And I want the kids here to have Noah’s back, and for Noah to have theirs. That’s what putting down roots is all about. That’s what growing up is all about.’

‘Is he going to cry?’ Matt whispers in her ear.

‘Shh.’ Lorna is irritated. Why can’t he take this seriously? More to the point, why can’t he take Dexter seriously? The man is doing his best to make amends, for the sake of his child. What is there to laugh at in that?

‘I know you’re curious. I know you’d love to see what it’s all about, so with the exception of the top floor, where Noah is sleeping, we will give guided tours throughout the evening. We’re proud of what we’ve achieved here. Nah, that’s a lie. I’m proud of what the wife has achieved, because I’ve basically done sod-all. Elise has fantastic taste, and yeah, she, like, vetoed literally all of my suggestions. So if you’re expecting tiger-skin carpets, mirrored ceilings and purple walls, I’m sorry, but you’re gonna be disappointed. Apart from my man cave.’ He grins. ‘You guys know what I’m talking about, right?’

Matt rolls his eyes. He has a workshop in the garden. A proper workshop for a proper man, with a table saw, a jigsaw, a circular saw and other essential items Lorna can’t remember the names of, and a drawing board he’ll sit hunched over late into the night when he has a commission. Anyway, he has the lot. They built it when they moved in and it takes up half the garden. The neighbours kicked up a stink, but it was all within permitted development. Dexter has a fridge freezer, a massive TV, an entertainment centre, a wood-burning stove and a couple of reclining chairs.

‘I expect you’re wondering what this gorgeous woman sees in me.’

‘He is definitely going to cry,’ Matt whispers.

‘Will you shut up.’

‘I expect you’re thinking, what’s a princess like Elise doing with a lout like Dexter Coleridge? I know I’d be thinking the same, ’cos she’s the business, isn’t she? She’s—’

‘Okay, darling. That’s enough.’ Elise puts her hand over his mouth. ‘Finished?’

‘Finished,’ Dexter mumbles.

This time the laughter is heartfelt. There’s a sense among the guests that they are co-conspirators in the lives of these people.

Elise releases him. ‘Thank you for coming to our house this evening; for giving us a chance. Please enjoy yourselves. We feel nothing but warmth and love for our new neighbours and hope more than anything to become part of your community. Dexter might be famous, but he’s just a silly bloke, like any other. He’s a dad, he’s greedy, he likes a beer, he farts in bed, he shouts at the telly. Normal, like you. He has a good heart. Be kind to him.’

Elise’s English is perfect, due to the fifteen years she’s spent here and her time on the stage. If it wasn’t for a subtle inflection from time to time, no one would know she was foreign. Her voice has a melodic quality, as if she’s learnt intonation through song. Eliza Doolittle, Lorna thinks. The rain in Spain.

Goodwill flows with the expensive champagne. Moments later, Elise is surrounded by glossy women, and Lorna’s feeling of proprietorship over her fades and her confidence slips.

Elise will be absorbed into Gladwell Grove, sins against peace and quiet forgiven. She has a whole other life: the music industry and theatre relationships built up over years. Lorna can never be part of that. She reminds herself of what Elise is doing for Amy, giving Lorna’s starstruck fifteen-year-old daughter free singing lessons. Elise, who is a vocal coach these days and whose clients are the stars of stage and screen, made the offer after chatting to Amy. Lorna had been annoyed at first. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of her daughter becoming close to Elise, but this isn’t a competition.

Elise approaches, swaying like a model in her sheer, sparkling dress, her face lit up.

‘Lorna! Lorna! It’s so good to see you, my lovely friend. And Matt. Thank you for joining us this evening.’ She wraps her slender arms around them, and Lorna feels Matt’s antipathy and ironic eye-rolling melt away. ‘You beautiful people,’ Elise says. ‘Now, Matt, I can’t believe you haven’t met Dexter yet. I’ll introduce you. No. Wait. First I’ll show you round the house. Lorna, you come too. You are part of it.’

Lorna blushes, pleased with the compliment.

Chapter 4

THE PSYCHIATRIST

My split-level flat is on the sixth floor of the Baslow Estate and has an amazing view over the heath. On a clear day you can even catch glimpses of the river through gaps between the trees on the far side. From the front walkway I can survey the houses and gardens of Gladwell Grove. I still wonder how I ended up here, at the edge of wealth, looking over it rather than being a part of it. I could have been, had things worked out differently.

Mum and Dad can’t understand why I chose the flat, but it was a compulsion. Even with my training and experience, I couldn’t reason or counsel myself out of what was, at best, a puzzling decision. I was reeling from the break-up of my marriage to Daniel and bought it not because I couldn’t afford anywhere else, but because of the views. They were my yin and yang: Gladwell Grove with its unhappy, clamouring memories against the calm serenity of the heath.

I’ll do well when I come to sell it, because two bedrooms with a balcony and the proximity of green space have become much sought after since the pandemic, plus the 1960s buildings are now described by estate agents as possessing retro chic, but emotionally . . . I don’t know.

Daniel wasn’t rich and famous when we met. I was in my third year studying medicine at Southampton University, and he was studying English literature and philosophy. I had seen him in the drama department’s production of Look Back in Anger, playing the role of Jimmy Porter. A mutual friend introduced us. We were together for six years before we married. By then I was working three days a week in the NHS and two in a private practice, paying the rent on the flat in Gladwell Grove while Daniel worked his way up through pub theatres and rep. When he could, he earnt money bartending or tutoring primary school students for the eleven-plus. I made the mistake once of suggesting he do a teaching qualification, just in case the acting didn’t pan out. He hit the roof. But it wasn’t that that broke us.

When I first started going out with Daniel, I’d said – in passing, because it’s a subject you don’t want to get into with a new love interest – that I didn’t want children. I said it again when we moved in together, and he shrugged and told me he was cool with that. I said it again when he asked me to marry him, and he told me I was enough. But it turns out that wasn’t true, it turns out he never took me seriously, that he thought hormones and my body clock would change me, that at some point in my thirties I would get broody. When I realised this, because of an off-the-cuff comment of his when his best friend became a father, I felt a chill descend. I hadn’t expected to have this conversation because I thought it was understood and that he was happy with the status quo. But he’d heard what he wanted to hear and blocked out the rest. We were on different pages, and as soon as we realised this, the foundations of our relationship were brutally stripped away.

Months passed while we tried to make the marriage work, then one day Daniel told me there was someone else and she was pregnant. He was sorry, he cared deeply for me and always would, but he had to be true to himself. He wanted and needed to be a father. So that was that. He checks in on me from time to time, though less so since they’ve had their second baby. He’s moved on and I should do the same.

I expect Daniel’s parents are deliriously happy now they have their grandchildren. I wonder sometimes if I could have coped, for his sake. I would have loved my child, but it would have always been there, my well-documented reluctance. And Daniel would have been disappointed in me for not sharing his enthusiasm. My mother-in-law told me I was selfish and self-obsessed. Perhaps I was, though frankly I’m tired of hearing that about women who choose not to have children. Perhaps I am. It doesn’t mean I never wonder what my children would have been like, that I don’t occasionally feel their absence. These ghost children nudge me from time to time. I let them be.

As for future relationships, I’ve made a ragged-edged peace with that. I’ll never believe a man who says they’re fine with not having kids, even if they genuinely think they’re telling the truth, so I don’t expect to find a permanent partner.

My settlement was small, reflecting Daniel’s precarious income, and six months after we divorced, he got his big break. Now he’s constantly on TV, has a film coming out this summer and lives in a smart house on Richmond Hill with his wife and kids.

*

I’m not myself today. Ben sensed that and used it. I don’t understand why I can’t brush his remark off like I do any other stupid man who thinks I’m there for the taking.

Perhaps it was spontaneous. I don’t think so, though. He’s been pretty consistent in his attempts to needle me. It’s never felt like an innocent overstepping, but I didn’t want to draw attention or give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d got to me. Was it a battle all along? I should have addressed the issue, not swept it under the carpet.

This was always going to be a difficult day. I just need to get through the evening. Then it’s done for another year.

I rarely take the lift, counting using the stairs as my daily cardio, but today I feel washed out, so I do. I leave through the reinforced glass doors onto the walkway and am greeted outside my front door by Dylan, my black and white tom. He slinks around my legs, purring. I scoop him up and hold him to my cheek. He allows me a few seconds of his undivided attention, then springs to the floor, and I let myself in.

There’s a mirror hanging in the hall, the one I use to check my appearance as I leave. I stand in front of it now and examine my face. Despite everything, today I have felt beautiful. It’s a weird thing, that however inappropriate the message and the messenger, a compliment still has a profound effect on the way we see ourselves. Until we confront the reality. I’m not beautiful. I’m well groomed, and if I make an effort and put on mascara and lipstick, I’d go so far as to describe myself as pretty. The big brown eyes help, as do the decent bone structure and good teeth, but I don’t have a particularly generous mouth, and my nose is a little short.

Dylan meows from the kitchen door.

‘Give me a chance.’

I shrug at my reflection, tug the scrunchie out of my hair and pull it over my wrist, then give in to my cat’s increasingly forceful blandishments. Trying not to breathe as I tear open a sachet and the pungent, meaty smell hits my olfactory nerves, I squeeze chicken chunks into Dylan’s bowl and carry it through the sitting room to the balcony. Then I fetch myself a glass of wine, and while he eats, noisily guzzling, I lean against the brick balustrade and gaze out over the heath. I drink slowly, appreciatively, letting the wine go to work on my tense muscles. I am not an alcoholic; I just have a particular day when drowning my sorrows is justified and necessary. I hate anniversaries, resent having this yearly reminder of my mistakes. In so many ways, I am lucky: I enjoy my job, I’m healthy, and if I want to sell this flat and move away, there’s no one stopping me. I’m glad I’m divorced. I should never have got married in the first place.

‘I can’t complain,’ I tell Dylan. ‘And you shouldn’t either.’

My phone rings, and I brace as I go back inside, knowing who it will be.

‘How are you, darling?’

Mum has developed a quiver in her voice, even though she’s only fifty-eight. She’s had it tough, with a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis coming after years of mysterious symptoms, from chronic fatigue to nerve pain and sleeplessness. She has periods of respite, but it’s becoming harder to cope.

‘Good. What about you? How are the muscle spasms?’

She’d been overtired last week. My brother had come to stay with his current partner. Mum would have pulled out all the stops for them.

‘Easing. But it’s you I’m worried about.’

‘I’m fine, Mum. Really. I’d rather not talk about it.’

She sighs, disappointed, and starts to tell me what they’ve been up to. I zone out. What am I supposed to do? Cry for her satisfaction? Things went wrong. I fucked up. Life’s a bitch. I put my phone on speaker, lay it on the counter and refill my glass.

It really doesn’t matter how much ‘work’ you do on yourself, it doesn’t matter how much you know about the human mind; when it comes to our own problems, a psychiatrist can fail as much as the next man or woman. I have failed, because I can’t move on. In many ways I don’t even want to.

Dylan has finished eating. He comes and sits close to my foot. Daniel gave him to me for my birthday, three months before he moved out. He’s always been thoughtful.

Later, I sit down at the table, pull my laptop towards me. I have a desk in the smaller bedroom upstairs, but I prefer it down here. I open the search engine, the last resort for the lonely and the absolute last action I’d suggest to my patients. Do not search for the people who’ve hurt you, do not search for the person you once were. I type ‘D’. My fingers hover over the keys, then I backspace. There is nothing to be gained except soul destruction from wandering down that rabbit hole.

Thirty-four years old and feeling like forty-four. I’m tired, irritable and unhappy, while trying to look and behave the opposite. I really must make an effort to find some joy in life. I’m instantly reminded of Ben telling me I’m beautiful. Angry, I tip the glass clumsily to my lips and slosh a little wine down my chin.

Chapter 5

LORNA

‘My husband doesn’t exercise,’ Elise tells Matt when he asks her why they don’t have a swimming pool in the basement. ‘Also, I detest the smell of chlorine on my skin.’

Matt flushes.

Lorna knows the truth, because Elise told her. Dexter has never learnt to swim. Something he witnessed on a family holiday when he was little made him resistant, and his parents didn’t care enough to push. There was no money for luxuries like private lessons.

‘This space is where I work. My clients can sing as loudly as they like. We don’t disturb anyone down here. It’s where I teach your stepdaughter, actually.’

‘I call Amy my daughter,’ Matt says.

‘I didn’t know that.’ Her eyes glow as she looks at him. ‘You are such a great dad.’

Lorna smiles. They’ve hit it off. Elise will remember the conversation. She may even tell Dexter about it. It means they’re proper friends.

They complete their tour with a peek into Noah’s playroom, then Elise escorts them back into the throng of guests and leaves them to fend for themselves, which at this point Matt is happy to do. It’s Lorna who’s ready to go home.

She watches Matt move easily between groups, the chip on his shoulder soothed by Elise’s flattering attention. The men don’t have the same hang-ups and insecurities as the women; they don’t care that he isn’t a Gladwell Grove resident, they just like him.

The vicar is here. Lorna had no idea that Elise was religious, and after thinking about it for precisely two seconds, she feels a little hurt that her friend hasn’t shared her faith. In the next instant she wonders whether perhaps she ought to start going to church, then dismisses the idea, distracted by the frown on the face of a woman who is obviously trying to place her. Lorna throws her shoulders back and approaches.

‘It’s Sophie Meadows, isn’t it? I’m Lorna Chilcott. We met when you bought your house. I hope you’re enjoying living here.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Sophie, whose husband is a hedge fund manager, looks disconcerted, but she recovers nicely. ‘It’s a lovely community, and we’re so happy to welcome Elise and Dexter. I presume you handled the sale?’

‘I did.’

‘It was a wreck, wasn’t it? But still, so expensive. I cannot believe it went for seven million. We bought ours for five. Do you remember?’

‘I do,’ Lorna says. ‘You’ve done extremely well.’

Sophie launches into everyone’s favourite obsession, the local property market, and Lorna, even though she’d sooner talk about anything else, encourages her because it means she has someone to talk to. She can see Matt out of the corner of her eye, chatting to a man in a stripy shirt and chinos. Another City type, she guesses. They mostly are in Gladwell Grove. There are some exceptions. Dexter and Elise, obviously. Number 37 belongs to two elderly sisters, Eileen and Ann Brooker. They’re a local institution. Eileen used to be the headmistress of Holmewood High, where Amy goes to school, and Ann was a lawyer. Lorna hasn’t seen the pair out and about together for some time. Then there’s the house opposite, which was converted into four flats in the 1980s. She’s sold all of them since she’s worked for Chetham & Church.

‘Where’s your little boy going in September?’ Sophie asks.

‘Alverley School, hopefully,’ Lorna says. ‘We hear about places on Tuesday.’

‘Sounds nail-biting.’

‘It is.’

‘Best of luck. Alfie’s going to Fairlands. He passed the assessment with flying colours, thank goodness.’

‘Well done him.’ Lorna is familiar with the varying admission requirements of the local independent schools. Fairlands tests the kids at the age of two. She doesn’t like the practice.

‘You can’t blame them,’ Sophie witters on, possibly sensing disapproval. ‘The fees are extortionate, so parents’ expectations are going to be high. And they offer an awful lot in terms of clubs and sports and getting involved. It’s full-on, so they want the children who can cope with that, not the shy, retiring kind, or the hyperactive ones. Apparently—’ she lowers her voice ‘—they get told they’re not Fairlands material.’

That sounds awful, but Lorna doesn’t say so. Diplomacy is called for if she wants to sell this woman’s house down the line. ‘It has a very good reputation.’

Sophie puts her hand on Lorna’s arm and says with a kindness she reads as condescension, ‘And so does Alverley School. I know a couple of mums who’ve been to tribunal after their children weren’t offered places, and even then, they were left out in the cold. What’s your backup plan?’

‘We don’t have one. We just want Jack at Alverley, with the friends he’s made at nursery.’

Sophie looks at her shrewdly. ‘Small children cope with change. I’d imagine this is more about you wanting to be with the friends you’ve made. Oh, Elise,’ she coos, stretching out an arm as Elise glides by. ‘We were talking about schools. Noah’s down for Fairlands, isn’t he?’

‘We haven’t decided yet,’ Elise says.

‘Is there a problem?’ Lorna asks.

‘Oh, no. It’s just that neither of us went to fee-paying schools. It depends on Noah, really.’

‘Yes. In the end, you do what’s right for your kids,’ Sophie says.

Elise peels away. Lorna is sorry to see her go. She wants to dig deeper. Only a couple of days ago, Elise was eulogising Fairlands. What’s happened in between? It’s a little concerning if she’s considering Alverley, because Gladwell Grove is closer to the school than Matt and Lorna’s road, Bramcote Avenue. She’s not sure what she’ll do if Jack doesn’t get his place. She doesn’t want him to go to North-cliff. It’s much bigger, three-form entry instead of two, and most of the kids who go there live in East Alverley. Not that she’s a snob, but like Sophie said, you want the best for your child, and East Alverley is a rough area. She doesn’t know anyone who’s sending their child there.

She mutters something about needing the loo and makes her way into the hall, where there are already three people queuing. Because she knows the house so well, she feels justified in slipping off her shoes and nipping upstairs to use one of the four alternatives, choosing the family bathroom with its cream polished marble floor, walk-in shower and clawfoot bath. There’s an expensive Jo Malone diffuser on the windowsill and a trailing green plant in a stone tub hanging by chains from the ceiling in the corner of the room.

Glancing at her watch, she sees that it’s almost eleven. Oh Lord. She didn’t mean to stay so late. She takes her phone out of her clutch and guiltily messages Amy.

All well? Will be back very soon.

Amy messages back. Fine. Reading in bed.

As she walks across the soft-pile carpet and down the stairs, she’s met by Dexter and promptly loses the power of speech.

Chapter 6

LORNA

‘Having a good time?’ Dexter asks.

‘It’s a lovely party.’ She hopes he didn’t notice her momentary loss of control.

‘You’ve been so supportive of Elise. I’m dead grateful to you.’

Lorna flushes happily. ‘Elise is wonderful. I love her.’

‘You’re the only genuine friend we’ve made. The rest of that lot . . .’ he jerks his chin in the direction of the sitting room, ‘Those people, I’m like, fuck, they’re from a different planet.’

‘You’re not regretting the move?’

People like the Coleridges can afford to be fickle. Money facilitates whims.

‘Nah. We’ve done it for the kid. And the prices. Did the wife tell you what happened?’

Lorna nods. She knows he was sued for plagiarism and lost the case, and has been left with a compensation bill running into millions.

‘Only money, right?’ Dexter says. ‘But when you grow up without it, it’s important.’

‘I know,’ she agrees.

‘This lot understand money. How to make it. How to keep it. I didn’t get much of an education, but I’m not too proud to learn.’

‘Be careful who you learn off. There are sharks out there.’

‘You’re not kidding.’

‘But you’re happy with the area?’ Does she sound needy? If she does, he doesn’t appear to notice.

‘Pretty much. Where we were before, our neighbours were like us but with older kids, and I could see what was happening to them. Acting like they were gods. Drinking, doing drugs. Turning into a waste of space. We don’t want that for Noah. We want ordinary.’

‘Ordinary but wealthy.’

He laughs, and she glows.

‘Yep. I worked hard for this gaff. You’re from West Kirby, aren’t you? One of those roads near the golf club.’

Her eyes widen. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘The way you talk. Soft and posh.’

Lorna grew up in a detached Arts and Crafts house within a stone’s throw of the Royal Liverpool. West Kirby and the area where Dexter is from are worlds apart. He might as well have been from Planet Zog. She would never have bumped into him under normal circumstances.

‘I had a girlfriend from Eddisbury Road when I was fifteen. Talked just like you.’ When Lorna raises her eyebrows, he grins. ‘Her family hated me. That little toerag from Toxteth. I need a fag,’ he says. There’s something brutal in his voice, a vestige of his past. It’s sexy. ‘Wanna keep me company?’

There doesn’t seem any reason not to, except she’s enjoying herself a little too much and desperately hoping Matt won’t come looking for her.

It’s chilly, but there’s a heater on the patio. Lorna watches the guests through the windows. Everything carries a golden sparkle. Wealth. Dexter lights his cigarette with a shiny black lighter and takes a long, appreciative drag.

‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ Lorna says.

‘I try not to,’ he says, holding his cigarette away from her and blowing a stream of smoke over his shoulder. ‘But coming outside for a fag keeps me calm. I’m where Noah gets his temper from. Not Elise.’

‘That’s honest.’

He shrugs.

‘I’m sorry about what you went through,’ she says. ‘It seems so unfair.’

‘The plagiarism thing? Occupational hazard. I’m not going to lie: it’s made a dent, but I still make more money than that twat.’

Lorna laughs. ‘Yes. I’m not a fan.’

He glares at her, but he’s smiling through it. ‘You’d better not be. So do you get back to Liverpool much?’

‘Weddings and funerals. What about you?’

‘Same. Oh, I went and spoke at my old school. An alumni thing. Inspire the kids.’

‘I’m sure you did.’

He laughs. ‘It’s a grammar school. Fucking miracle I got in. It wasn’t as if I grafted or my parents could afford tutors.’

‘So you were one of those annoying kids who didn’t do a stroke of work and passed exams with flying colours.’

He smirks. ‘Guilty.’

‘Why didn’t you finish your education?’

She knows, because she is a fan, that apart from Brendan, who is a couple of years older than the other band members and achieved four A levels, none of them had been educated beyond their GCSEs.

‘Because I was a plonker. Anyway, you know the story. I met Ivo, Yann and George at school. And Brendan was a mate of Ivo’s big brother. Let myself be washed along by the current.’

He looks so sad, she has to ask. ‘Do you ever regret it? If you were that clever, it must be frustrating.’

‘Not really. I use my brain every day. That’s why, in spite of the court case, I can still afford this house and that wife of mine.’

That last comment strikes a jarring note. ‘I still can’t understand why you chose to live here. It must be stultifying for someone like you.’

‘Someone like me?’ He grins wolfishly.

The air smells of blossom now that he’s finished his cigarette and discarded the butt. The atmosphere is soft and pliant, the background music, the chatter and chink of glasses, like a love song. She doesn’t know where to look, so she tries that thing of looking at the bridge of his nose, but still gets caught by his eyes. They are hooded and brown, slightly weary, with crow’s feet and dark shadows.

‘Someone who’s lived the life you have.’

‘Drink and drugs and rock and roll?’

‘Your words, not mine.’

‘I’ve misbehaved, sure. Perhaps this is my punishment.’

I was part of that misbehaviour, Lorna thinks, then says, ‘A jail sentence in a middle-class suburb?’

‘My mum would’ve loved it.’

She can see he’s serious and feels bad for mocking Mrs Coleridge’s aspirations.

‘I only want what’s best for the boy,’ he says. ‘I looked into the future and saw him going off the rails. There’s more control here, a sense that there are consequences for your actions. Know what I mean?’

‘I do,’ Lorna says, thinking: not for everyone. ‘It isn’t a question of curtain twitchers, or judgy neighbours, although there is that. It’s more a sense that you’re part of a whole and that what you do affects the community, that you have responsibility for the well-being of others.’

‘Exactly,’ Dexter says, the surprise evident in his voice. After a pause, he adds a non-sequitur. ‘Did you ever go to the Raz?’

Lorna chuckles. ‘I led a sheltered life. I wasn’t allowed to go to nightclubs.’

‘Where did you and your mates hang out on a Saturday night, then?’

‘Mostly in each other’s houses.’

‘Sweet.’

‘Do you miss the city?’

‘A little. I used to go to the Walker Gallery. Just stand there and look at the pictures. Didn’t tell my mates. They’d have ripped the piss out of me. But I loved those paintings, especially the ones that told a story. Still do,’ he adds wistfully.

‘And When Did You Last See Your Father?’

‘Yeah, that one. I loved the Pre-Raphaelites too, those women.’

Lorna pictures Elise’s rippling auburn hair and pale skin. ‘Elise,’ she says.

‘Yeah. Got myself a living, breathing painting.’

‘When I was a child,’ Lorna says, again ignoring the odd note, ‘my gran used to take me. I was fascinated by the guy kicking the dog.’

‘Isabella.’

‘That’s right. Then when I heard the story behind it, the love between Isabella and her brothers’ apprentice, I was obsessed with it.’

‘Classic bit of rough.’

‘Don’t say that. The poor boy ended up with his head in a flowerpot.’

‘ “They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep. But to each other dream, and nightly weep.” Shit poem.’

His gruff voice, with its Liverpool lilt, is beautiful. Lorna instantly recalls his hands cupped around the microphone, his eyes searching hers through a fringe dripping with sweat. The hairs stand up on the back of her neck, and it’s only partly due to the chill.

‘It is, isn’t it? I’ve heard better lyrics from a D.I.G.B.Y. song.’