Nicci French - Blue Monday

Karlsson pushed his glasses together, as if he were considering which one to drink from first. ‘It was my decision,’ he said. ‘I was in charge.’

‘You’re not talking to the press now, Mal,’ said Crawford. ‘Cheers.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘Can’t stop,’ he said. ‘There’s a dinner with the home secretary. You know the sort of thing. I’ll just wander over and commiserate with the lads.’ Then he leaned closer to Karlsson, as if he was confiding something personal. ‘Still,’ he said. ‘You’re due a result. Better luck next time.’

Reuben McGill still smoked like it was the 1980s. Or the 1950s. He took a Gitanes from his packet, lit it and snapped his lighter shut. At first he didn’t speak and Frieda didn’t either. She sat opposite his desk and scrutinized him. In a way he looked better than he had when she had first met him, fifteen years earlier. His full head of hair was now grey, his face was more wrinkled, even jowly, but that just added to his vagrant charm. He still wore jeans and an open-necked shirt. This was a man who was telling you – telling his patients – that he wasn’t part of the system.

‘Good to see you,’ he said.

‘Paz rang me.’

‘Did she now? It’s like being surrounded by spies. Are you a spy as well? So, what do you think? Now that you’ve been summoned.’

‘I’m on the board of the clinic,’ said Frieda. ‘It means that if someone expresses a concern, I need to respond.’

‘So respond,’ said Reuben. ‘What should I do? Tidy my desk?’

The surface of the desk was hidden under piles of books and papers and files and journals. There were pens and mugs and plates.

‘It’s not the mess,’ said Frieda. ‘What I can’t help noticing is that it’s the same mess as when I came in here three weeks ago. I’m not clear why you haven’t introduced new mess. Why it hasn’t changed.’

He laughed. ‘You’re dangerous, Frieda. I should only agree to meet you on neutral territory. As you’ve probably heard, Paz and the rest of them don’t think that I’ve ticked enough boxes, dotted enough i s. I’m sorry, I’m too busy caring for people.’

‘Paz is looking out for you,’ said Frieda. ‘So am I. You talk about ticking boxes. Maybe it’s a warning sign. And maybe it’s better to hear from the people who love you before the people who don’t love you start to notice. Allegedly there are such people.’

‘Allegedly,’ said Reuben. ‘You know what you’d do if you really wanted to help me?’

‘What?’

‘You’d come and work here full-time.’

‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’

‘Why not? You could still have your own patients. And you could keep an eye on me.’

‘I don’t want to keep an eye on you, Reuben. I’m not responsible for you and you’re not responsible for me. I like to have autonomy.’

‘What did I do wrong?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Almost from the moment you came here as an eager young student, I saw you as the person who’d take this over from me some day. What happened?’

Frieda gave a frown of disbelief. ‘One, you were never going to hand your baby over to anyone. And two, I don’t want to run anything. I don’t want to spend my life checking that the phone bill’s been paid and that the fire doors are kept closed.’ Frieda paused. ‘When I first came here, I knew that it was – just at that moment – the best place in the world for me. It’s hard to keep something like that up. I couldn’t.’

‘You think I haven’t? Is that what you’re saying – that it’s gone downhill?’

‘It’s like a restaurant,’ said Frieda. ‘You cook a great meal one night. But you’ve got to do it the next night and the next. Most people can’t manage that.’

‘I’m not making fucking pizza. I’m helping people cope with their lives. What am I doing wrong? Tell me.’

‘I didn’t say you were doing anything wrong.’

‘Except you have concerns about me.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Frieda, carefully, ‘you should delegate a bit more.’

‘Is that what people think?’

‘The Warehouse is your creation, Reuben. It’s been an extraordinary achievement. It’s helped people. But you can’t be too possessive of it. If you are, it will collapse as soon as you leave. Surely you don’t want that. It’s not the same place as it was when you started it in your back room.’

‘Of course it’s not.’

‘Have you ever thought that your present lack of grip on things here is a way of letting go, without having to admit that’s what you’re doing?’

‘Lack of grip? Because my desk is in a mess?’

‘And that perhaps it would be better to do it more rationally?’

‘Fuck off. I’m not in the mood for therapy.’

‘I was going anyway.’ Frieda stood up. ‘I’ve got a meeting.’

‘So, am I on some kind of probation?’ said Reuben.

‘What’s the problem with crossing t s? If you don’t cross them, you can’t tell that they’re t s.’

‘Who’s your meeting with? Is it to do with me?’

‘I’m seeing my trainee. It’s our regular session and we won’t be talking about you.’

Reuben stubbed his cigarette out in what was already an overflowing ashtray. ‘You can’t just hide away in your little room talking to people for the rest of your life,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get out in the world and get your hands dirty.’

‘I thought that talking to people in a little room was our job.’

When Frieda came out of Reuben’s office she found Jack Dargan hovering in the corridor. He was a gangly young man – ardent, clever and impatient – and he was on attachment to the clinic, just as Frieda had been when she was his age. He sat in on group-therapy sessions, and he had a patient. Each week Frieda met him to discuss their progress. On the first day they had met, aware that it was a cliché, knowing that she was aware of it and despising himself, Jack had fallen head over heels in love with her.

‘I need to get out of here,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

They passed a man coming towards them, a lost expression on his round face, his spaniel eyes baffled.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking for Dr McGill.’

‘In there.’ She nodded towards the closed door.

As she walked out of the clinic, past Paz, who was talking on the phone garrulously and throwing her ringed hands around in extravagant gestures, she felt suddenly like a mother duck with a solitary duckling walking after her. There was a bus coming up the hill as they came out on to the road and she and Jack climbed aboard. He was flustered. He didn’t know whether to sit on the seat beside her or to take the one in front or behind. When he did take the one next to her, he sat on her skirt and leaped up again as if scalded.

‘Where are we going?’

‘There’s a café some people I know run. It’s their new venture and near where I live. It’s open through the day.’

‘Fine,’ said Jack. ‘Great. Yes.’ And ground to a halt.

Frieda stared out of the window, saying nothing, and Jack looked surreptitiously at her. He’d never been quite this close to her. His thigh touched hers and he could smell her perfume. When the bus swung round a corner, his whole body pressed against hers. He knew nothing about her life. She had no ring on her left hand so presumably she wasn’t married. But did she live with someone? Did she have a lover? Maybe she was gay – he couldn’t tell. What did she do when she left the clinic? What did she wear when she wasn’t wearing her mannish suits, her plain skirts? Did she ever let her hair down, dance, drink too much?

When they got off the bus, Jack had to walk swiftly to keep up with Frieda as she led him through a maze of streets, into Beech Street. It was full of one-room restaurants and cluttered cafés, little art galleries, shops selling cheese, ceramic tiles, stationery. There was a one-day dry-cleaner’s, a hardware shop, a twenty-four-hour supermarket with newspapers in Polish and Greek as well as English.