Liz Jensen - The Rapture

I nod. ‘How long were you together?’

‘Four years. But we were apart for a lot of that time. Melina would do these long field trips, and then I’d go off to China or somewhere. By the time it ended, we exchanged e-mails more than we spoke. But there were other factors. Well. There was one other factor.’

‘An irreconcilable difference?’

He reddens and studies his spaghetti with intense interest. Then he looks up and smiles. ‘It turned out I wasn’t the only one with a thing about mammary glands.’

It’s too funny not to laugh, but after a moment we both stop ourselves, embarrassed. ‘So she was a lesbian before you met?’

He sighs. ‘I expect you’ve read case-studies about things like this.’ I nod. ‘What do they conclude?’

‘Well, often what happens is that both partners think the homosexuality is just a phase, or something they can overcome. Love conquers all, etcetera. And sometimes it does.’

He looks up, relieved. He even musters another laugh. ‘So go on. I’m interested.’

‘OK. In your case, perhaps it turned out you were just Melina’s heterosexual experiment.’

He nods ruefully. ‘Is it that classic?’

‘Fairly. Sorry to tell you. And the turning point?’

‘When we learned she couldn’t have children. That’s when she gave up on the whole idea of men, I think. Or the whole idea of me. Somewhere along the way she met Agnesca.’

‘And since then you’ve been wary of forming new relationships.’

‘Understatement. Everything’s been on ice. Physically and emotionally.’ He looks anxious, then smiles. ‘Is that classic too?’

‘Speaking as your new therapist?’ I say. ‘It’s completely understandable. Your manhood took a knock. But it will pass, when the right person comes along, and if Jupiter’s in the ascendant. All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. Julian of Norwich. That’ll be fifty quid.’

He smiles. ‘Worryingly cheap. But if it doesn’t pass? What if I carry on being…’

‘Reserved ? Then stick to Belgian chocolate. Industrial doses are fine. A lot more satisfying.’

‘And you can do it alone.’

‘There’s this expectation that we should all be sexual beings, but the fact is, not all of us are, particularly.’ For some reason, as I am saying this, I am imagining the physicist’s erect penis.

‘That’s me. Depressed testosterone. I think basically Melina…’

‘Castrated you? Cliche. But no doubt true. Have you found a substitute passion?’

‘I worship increasingly at the shrine of food,’ he confesses as his dessert arrives, a confection of peaches, meringue and sorbet.

‘Since this,’ I say, indicating the chair, ‘sex isn’t high on my agenda either.’

‘You don’t miss it?’

‘It’s been so long I’ve practically forgotten,’ I lie. ‘But the men, they mind a lot.’

‘I bet they do!’ he says gallantly, deliberately misunderstanding, and I laugh again.

‘The guys at rehab, they were all obsessed with having sex again. Could they do it, could they give a woman pleasure, how soon could they try Viagra?’

‘And the women? How was it for you?’

‘There weren’t many of us, compared to the men. Men throw themselves around more, apparently. Congenital recklessness. So anyway, there were only two of us. The thing we wanted most had nothing to do with sex.’

‘I guess you’d want to stand up? Be your real height again, look people in the eye?’

I take in his slightly anxious brow, his thick, rust-coloured hair, his deep-set brown eyes with the green fleck in the left one, and feel immensely touched that he has bothered to imagine. I am not going to put him right. The fact is, not being able to stand up is not the worst thing. Not by a long, long way.

We have reached the coffee stage, when the manager, Harry, comes up to me. ‘You have a possibly unwelcome visitor. She says she’d like a moment of your time.’ Discreetly, he nods in the direction of the door. ‘She seems a bit off. If you don’t know her, I don’t mind asking her to leave.’

Dishevelled and defiant, she stands with her hands buried deep inside the pockets of a grubby beige jacket. The red-haired woman.

My guts tilt.

‘Who is it?’ asks the physicist, looking across.

‘My stalker,’ I say. ‘Just joking.’ Then nod reassuringly at Harry. ‘Yes, let’s do it. But take her jacket off her.’ I’m not taking any chances. As Harry heads over to the woman, I take a big gulp of wine.

‘Gabrielle, I don’t know what’s going on, but is this a good idea?’ asks the physicist.

‘It’s — inevitable. I’m glad it’s happened in a public place. It’ll be interesting. You’ll see.’ I have taught myself a long time ago not to say no to certain things just because they scare me, so in reality it’s an easy decision. But when I reassure him, I sound calmer than I feel.

She shuffles up and I see she’s younger than I’d thought. Early forties. She doesn’t look threatening: just lonely and deranged. She sees the picture of the sky-diver, still perched against the cruet set, and points. ‘Bethany drew that.’

Immediately, things fall into place. Of course. Who else could she be?

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Two weeks ago. Frazer Melville, this is Joy McConey, my predecessor at Oxsmith. She’s referring to the female patient I’ve been calling Child B.’

The physicist is clearly unsettled by the turn our evening has taken, but he adjusts quickly: after shaking Joy’s hand, he pulls up a chair for her. Waving away the waiter’s offer of a glass of mineral water, Joy McConey slides into the chair, leans her arms forward on the table and begins speaking urgently, her eyes flickering this way and that. ‘I can’t stay long, he’ll come for me. My husband,’ she explains hastily. ‘He won’t want me talking to you. But you have to listen. Bethany Krall’s much more dangerous than you think.’

It’s an odd assumption, that I find Bethany dangerous. ‘I’m listening. Tell me what you have to say.’

Frazer Melville is looking anxious and a bit resentful. ‘You know the reason Bethany gets things right, Gabrielle?’ Her voice is light, strained, almost girlish. ‘Can I call you Gabrielle, is that OK, you won’t feel it’s an intrusion?’ Her pale freckled face, tinged yellow by the flickering candlelight, veers at me asymmetrically. There has at some point been an attempt to apply mascara: the area below one eye is smudged with it. ‘I mean, I know what it must look like, I know you saw I was following you. But I had to warn you about Bethany.’

‘So does Bethany get things right?’ I ask, cocking an eyebrow at Frazer Melville. He rearranges his teaspoon.

‘Yes. You’ll see. I started paying attention after the cyclone that hit Osaka six months ago. She talked about it after her ECT, and then it happened. And then more things did.’ The physicist is looking at Joy McConey intently. ‘The Nepal earthquake. Now this hurricane, the fall of Christ — she predicted it, didn’t she? I mean, this drawing—’ she points at it.

‘So she claims.’

‘Well, believe me, that’s part of it.’ I can sense the physicist getting agitated. I shoot him a look that I hope conveys, Calm down. Therapists have breakdowns too. More than you’d think. Fact.

‘ I didn’t see your notes on Bethany. But I’d be very interested to hear what you wrote in them.’

‘She feels things. Blood and minerals. The way things flow.’ Frazer Melville stiffens. I can see now that Joy is trembling, as though she has just stepped in from a night of snow. ‘I told Sheldon-Gray and he wouldn’t listen. No one would. But her father, Leonard Krall. He knows what she’s capable of. I tried to warn people and so Sheldon-Gray got rid of me. And if you’re not careful, they’ll do the same to you. Ask Leonard. Ask him what he thinks. Ask him why he won’t visit his own daughter. She’ll try to get you to help her escape. And if you don’t, she’ll do what she did to me.’