Amanda Brittany - Tell the Truth - Or they’ll tell it for you…

He said I was over-reacting – that I should calm down. ‘I’ll get my solicitor onto it right away,’ he’d gone on, far too calm. ‘We’ll sort something out to suit us both. This can work. We can stay friends.’ And then he’d disappeared through the front door without a backward glance.

I confess to getting pretty angry with some inanimate objects after a couple – five – glasses of wine. But the truth was I’d been thinking for a while that our relationship wasn’t right. He worked long hours. I barely saw him. I’d wondered more than once if we were only together for Grace’s sake. But it still hurt. The memories of when things seemed perfect kept prodding my mind. And his timing was awful. How could he leave when he knew what I was going through with Mum? Or was that partly why he left?

‘We are lucky to have brilliant psychotherapist Rachel Hogan, who once worked for the prestigious Bell and Brooks Clinic in Kensington, in the studio with us today,’ Emmy was saying, bringing me out of my reverie. She didn’t mention that I now ran a private practice in a summerhouse at the foot of the long, narrow garden of my rented end-terrace in Finsbury Park.

The camera was on me, and my heart hammered in my chest. You can do this, Rachel. You can do this. The point was, if I did this right, they might ask me back for a regular slot – that’s what Emmy had said – so I needed to throw a metaphoric bucket of cold water over my feelings, and get on with it.

Emmy had been one of my clients for about a year. Looking at her now – her pale ginger hair spiralling over her shoulders, her sparkly green eyes, the sprinkle of freckles on her nose, her beaming smile – you would never have guessed the torment she’d been through. The persona she’d created for TV never gave that away. Although for a time, the medication had helped pull it off.

‘Hi, guys,’ I said, waving at the camera, trying not to imagine the number of people watching. ‘I’m here to talk about childhood memories. We’ve all got them, but how real are they? And what about those we’ve repressed, ones that lurk in the dark corners of our minds? In our subconscious.’

My confidence grew as I spoke – it was a subject I knew well.

Emmy chipped in. ‘I remember my second birthday party. My parents bought me a toy monkey with a huge red bow. And when I was three I had a little pushchair for my dolls, and I would take them for walks round the garden.’

I was wrong-footed. She’d lost her mum when she was a child, and now, in front of millions, I was about to extinguish her recollections.

‘Sadly, it’s unlikely they are real memories,’ I said, running my finger over my dry lips, as I looked her way.

‘Oh,’ she said, raising a brow, and giving a strange little laugh. ‘So, you’re saying I don’t remember my second birthday party?’ She’d lost her smile.

‘Well, it is possible, but rare to recall things from before the age of three or four. In fact, few memories are stored before the age of six. You may have kept the monkey and pushchair for years.’

‘I did, yes, Vanessa the monkey was my favourite toy until I was about twelve.’ Her smile was back – always so professional. ‘And before you ask, I’ve no idea why I chose that name.’

‘Maybe you’ve seen photographs of you pushing the pushchair?’

‘Oh yes, tons. My mum took mountains of pictures of me when I was little.’

There was a slight dip in her voice that only I would pick up on. I felt awful. I knew I’d hurt her, and wanted her to look my way so I could mouth that I was sorry, but she didn’t catch my eye.

Once the camera was back on me, I said, ‘I had a toy rabbit called Mr Snookum as a child.’ I smiled. ‘I still have him stashed away in my loft. My mother told me she gave him to me on my fifth birthday, and I’m sure I remember her handing him over and telling me to always take care of him.’ My voice quavered, and a lump rose in my throat. My poor mum. My poor, poor mum. I swallowed, and took a breath. ‘But I can’t be sure the memory is real. Vivid recollections of my childhood start much later, particularly her painting on the beach at Southwold.’ I gave a little cough to ward off my stupid emotions. ‘She’s an artist.’ Why am I sharing this with the nation?

My slot seemed to go on for ages, as I continued to discuss childhood amnesia, and the different methods of retrieving infant memories. I did my best to put on a front, hoping I was making a good impression.

Then it was the phone-in. The bit I’d dreaded most.

A woman suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder came on the line, and I went through breathing and muscle relaxing exercises with her, and suggested meditation and yoga. ‘Spending time with nature can be beneficial too,’ I concluded.

Next, a man suffering with agoraphobia called in.

‘Do you think it’s something in my childhood that I can’t recall, causing me to stay in my apartment day in, day out?’ He sounded defeated, on the verge of tears.

What a ridiculous position I was in. How was I meant to answer someone I knew nothing about?

‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Call your doctor as soon as possible. They can advise you.’ Pathetic!

‘We have John Burton on the line, Rachel,’ Emmy said, once the agoraphobic man had hung up. She pressed her finger to her ear, as though listening through her earpiece.

‘Hello, John,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

‘Polly put the kettle on,’ he sang. ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.’

‘Do you remember that nursery rhyme from your childhood, John?’ I said, feeling uneasy, and glancing over at Emmy.

There was a pause, before he said, ‘Yes.’

Emmy furrowed her brow, and shrugged. Surely they would cut him off. Blame a poor connection.

‘What age do you think you were when you heard it?’ I asked, trying to sound professional.

‘Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away.’

The hairs on my arms rose, despite the heat of the studio.

‘I’m crying out,’ he said. ‘But they won’t listen. And now you must pay, Rachel.’ The line went dead, and within moments we went to a commercial break.

‘Oh my God,’ Emmy said as soon as we were off the air, jumping up and dashing over. She plonked down next to me, and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Why the hell did they keep him on the line so long?’

I didn’t reply; instead, I dashed off set, barely looking at the concerned faces following me through the door. I rushed through the labyrinth of corridors, desperately seeking an exit, my heart thumping. Eventually I spotted the automatic doors that led to the car park, and raced through them, freezing air hitting me like a smack. I stood for some moments, my eyes darting around the area, trying to catch my breath.

I drove home, relieved Emmy was still on the air and couldn’t call me. I needed time to process what had happened, before discussing it. I collected Grace from Angela, keeping the conversation with my next-door neighbour brief so she didn’t see how anxious I was. ‘You knocked them dead, sweetie,’ she said in her throaty middle-class way, as I dashed down her path, holding Grace’s hand.

‘Thanks,’ I called back, certain she couldn’t have seen the live show.

Inside my house, with the bolts pulled across the door and the deadlock on, my heartbeat slowed to a normal rate. Grace settled herself in the lounge, building with Lego, and I padded into the kitchen to make tea, the song ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ worming its way into my head on repeat, driving up my anxiety.

I rummaged in the freezer for fish fingers for Grace’s lunch. As I closed the freezer door, I noticed a photo of Lawrence and me on holiday a couple of years ago, pinned amongst the magnetic letters. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and touched Lawrence’s face with my outstretched fingertip. We were happy once. Weren’t we?