Marian Dillon - Looking For Alex

I remember I flinched, a little, and I knew he saw that. Still, he waited for a more considered reaction.

I liked Phil: he was tall and fair and solid, with a face that, despite the lines and creases of age and experience, was somehow uncomplicated. When he smiled it was without reservation, and that was how he lived his life, open to anyone and anything.

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said, frowning, ‘that’s—’

‘The problem?’ he finished for me. ‘You’re not sure, are you?’

I sighed. Things had suddenly grown serious. We were on the edge of the pitches where a few loosely teamed footballers limbered up in a cold November wind. A couple of runners passed, chatting easily, making their effort look effortless. Kids shouted and laughed in the fenced-off playground, while dads on duty stamped their feet, clutching newspapers with one hand and pushing swings or holding balancing hands with the other. There was no one there we knew and we felt ourselves safe, private in the middle of this big open space. As Juno shot off across the muddy grass Phil drew me close.

‘We could make it work,’ he said. ‘Think about it.’

*

Linda said, ‘Well, I guess you know where you are now. But what do you want?’

‘I don’t know. I thought we were just going to bob along like this, and that one day he’d leave Sue and by then we’d be like an old couple ourselves. I don’t know about Ireland. Not now .’

‘No. I can see that.’

‘I suppose I like things as they are.’ I glanced at Linda. ‘Bit selfish really. I’ve got the best of both worlds, and it works. For me, anyway. I don’t want anything so absolute, but then I might lose everything.’

We heard people outside. Linda stood up. ‘They’ll be coming in soon. Let’s have a drink after work next time I’m down.’

‘You don’t need someone else crying on your shoulder,’ I said, but she told me not to be bloody stupid and went to greet the first arrivals.

*

The little blue circle spun round and round on my laptop, searching for the website that Dan had found. I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the hotel bed, leaning back against the plump pillows. My feet ached and I needed to shower, but not before I’d followed up the link he’d texted. There’d been no time for even a peep during the day.

When the page finally loaded I found I was looking at the website of a complementary medicine service, Castle Therapy Centre. It was in Norwich. Curious, I clicked on the ‘find a therapist’ tab and there the name was. Alex Day, Psychotherapist and Counsellor.

My aim is to help my clients to discover their potential, to help them to realise it, and to move forward into living the lives they want to live.

There was an account of how she worked, and qualifications gained. And although there was no photo, there was a brief biography. It told me that Alex Day had been born in the north, but later had moved to London. She’d lived most of her life there, doing many and varied jobs — some were listed — but then retrained as a therapist. Ten years ago she’d moved to Norwich. There was other stuff, but those were the bones of it. Lastly there was an email address and mobile phone number.

My first reaction was this couldn’t be her, she wouldn’t do that, put herself on the web for anyone to find her. Or would she? What if after all these years underground she felt the need to surface? What if she wanted someone to find her? I looked again, and one part jumped out: I have a strong desire to help other people reach resolution and fulfilment.

I reached for my phone and texted Dan.

It’s possible. Good work! Did you tell Fitz?

Yes, he replied at once. And then, here ’ s his number.

I stared at it. I can ring this, I thought, and talk to Fitz, which seemed even stranger than having seen him: a direct line to his voice, to his thoughts, any time I wanted. My hand hovered over the keys, wavering, wondering if Fitz would know Dan had given me his number. Let me know if you do find Alex, he’d said, but he hadn’t offered his number himself. Maybe that had been just a throwaway line, a way of leaving without having to go through the pretence that we might meet again.

I texted, what do you think of Dan’s find? Then after that, he gave me your number, hope that’s ok

Half an hour later, when I was showered and dressed and just thinking that he wouldn’t reply, my phone buzzed, did a little dance on the silky bed cover: interesting . That was all. I threw my phone down and went back to the website, browsing the entries for other therapists, all of whom had photos that ranged from cheerful smiles to enigmatic stares. I was thinking, There has to be a reason why Alex Day hasn’t put her photo on. I looked again at the bio, trying to get a feel for this person. Waitressing and modelling were included as previous jobs, and I tried to picture my Alex serving hotel meals in a tight black skirt, or pouting sexily in mail-order lingerie. By closing my eyes briefly I could see her, petite and pretty, with an elfin face and hennaed hair, and coal-black eyes.

I reached for my phone once more and glared at Fitz’s text. Is that all you have to say? Aren’t you curious too? Or do you know things that I don’t? Then the phone vibrated in my hand and started to ring.

‘Hi, Fitz.’

‘Hi. How was your day?’

‘Mmm…it wasn’t the best. I was tired after last night, training a bunch of managers who didn’t want to be there. How about you?’

‘Well, I’ve been told to fuck off a few times and kicked in the shins, so not too dissimilar, I suppose.’

I laughed. ‘Just a bit more direct.’

‘Yeah, right. Where are you?’

‘Sitting in my hotel room, summoning the energy to go out and get some dinner.’

I heard the rattle of cutlery in a drawer and then a spoon in a pan, stirring. ‘I’ve been tired too,’ he said. ‘Late nights, mid-week, just can’t do them now.’ There was a slight pause, maybe while he peered into whatever he was cooking, lifting the spoon to his lips, tasting it. ‘It was good to see you. Who’d have thought?’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘Well,’ he said, after another silence, and this time I pictured him doing a small shake of the head, deciding not to say what had been in his mind, ‘I looked at the website. It’s hard to say if it’s Alex, obviously, without a photo. Like I said, it must be a common name.’

‘I suppose so. I could try to find out some more, maybe. Or I could just phone, say who I am and ask to speak to her? I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘Depends.’

‘On…?’

‘Well, if it is her, wouldn’t you want to give her some warning? To just phone out of the blue, it backs her into a corner. And then—’

‘Go on.’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, say it.’

‘I’m wondering how much you actually want to see Alex. Last night you didn’t seem so sure.’

‘No. I’m not. But it’s tempting too. If it is her. Straighten things out somehow.’ My face in the mirror reflected my doubts. ‘I’m not even sure why that’s important, now.’

‘Let sleeping dogs lie?’

‘You think I should?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just going with your thoughts.’ I remembered how good Fitz used to be at offering insight that made everything seem so clear. Not as Linda does, when I talk to her about Phil, not by listing pros and cons, but by going straight to the heart of the matter. ‘This is your call,’ he was saying now, when what I wanted was direction. ‘But you’d have to be prepared for anything. Anything. Like it or not.’

There was the sound of a spoon tapping the side of a pan. I wished I could see inside Fitz’s head. ‘What are you cooking?’