Free The Telling Error by Sophie Hannah Page B

clarifier, Simon noted: pedantically obsessed with the accuracy of her own words as well as everyone else’s. It was a personality type he didn’t often encounter, but he recognised it when he did. Clarifiers made good witnesses normally. Except when they were telling you stories that made no sense at all.
    ‘Long before I married Damon, I knew,’ Hannah went on. ‘The first time he said he loved me, I thought, “No, you don’t. You can’t. It’s not possible.” If you’re wondering why I stayed with him …?’
    ‘Go on,’ said Sam.
    ‘Several reasons at first: I’d been single for a long time and was afraid I’d never meet anyone. Then I met Damon, or rather he met me. I was minding my own business, looking at cheap wool blankets in the National Trust shop on Blantyre Walk – folding and unfolding them, frowning and muttering complaints under my breath because none was quite right. I doubt I could have looked more frumpy spinster-ish and less sexually enticing if I’d tried. Damon …’
    ‘Are you OK, Hannah?’ Sam asked when she stopped. ‘We can take a break if you—’
    ‘No. Thank you. Let me carry on.’ Having said this, she pressed her lips shut as if she’d resolved never to speak again.
    Simon and Sam waited.
    Eventually, she said, ‘I didn’t notice Damon until he accosted me and started talking to me as if we’d been friends for years. I was flattered that such a good-looking man would even glance in my direction. I found him compelling to listen to, and, later, to talk to – conversations with Damon were like verbal firework displays. And I was intrigued. Intellectually curious. I wanted to work out what he was up to. That was what I thought at first: that I’d stay with him only until I’d figured out what he wanted so badly from me that he was willing to lie so ruthlessly and convincingly. Thanks, Uzma.’
    Three cups of tea were slammed down on the table like heavy auction hammers. Uzma retreated and started to load the dishwasher; if he’d closed his eyes, Simon could have convinced himself that he was listening to a dangerously out-of-hand bottle fight.
    Hannah had produced a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and was dabbing at the corners of her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You’d think I wouldn’t be too fussed about him being dead, in the circumstances.’
    Right. You’re only his wife.
Proximity to Widow Weirdo was making Simon’s flesh itch. He knew he was being unfair, but the fact that Hannah was so suspicious of her late husband, and not in the least ashamed of being so, made him suspicious of her.
    ‘Of course you’re upset about Damon’s death,’ Sam said gently. ‘You … loved him?’
    ‘Yes, I did. Very much. I got hooked on the fake stuff, that was the problem. I responded with the real thing.’
    ‘Fake … love?’ Sam asked.
    Hannah nodded. ‘No man had shown an interest in me for some time, so I succumbed to the pull of the phony. My love for Damon was as real as his for me was a sham, but the sham nourished my spirits more than an absence of authentic love would have. I was happy for long spells sometimes. Then it would hit me again: he’s acting. I tried telling my heart it had been tricked and mustn’t fall for it, but it didn’t listen to me any more than any heart ever does to wise advice.’ She looked doubtful suddenly. ‘I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t so wise. Fake love’s better than no love. It must be, or else why do the majority of my patients stay in non-nurturing romantic relationships?’
    ‘In your work as a psychotherapist, have you ever come across a situation like yours with Damon?’ Sam asked her. ‘People claiming their partners don’t love them but are just … convincingly pretending?’
    ‘No, never,’ said Hannah. ‘Don’t worry – the irony isn’t lost on me. I’m excellent at my job – sorry, I don’t do false modesty. I’ve never failed to get to the bottom of a patient’s relationship issue.