Free The House on the Cliff by Charlotte Williams Page B

So I knew it wasn’t like her to miss a second of her session, let alone more than half of it.
    I felt irritable, restless. Much as Jean frustrated and bored the hell out of me, I was discomfited at being stood up by her. The trouble is, when my clients don’t turn up for sessions, I never feel relieved, no matter how difficult they’ve been. I feel I’ve failed. That I’m no good as a therapist. And sometimes, of course, I worry that they may have taken a turn for the worse.
    That wasn’t likely to be the case with Jean. She wasn’t the depressive type. Too angry, too indignant about the unfairness of her situation—becoming a widow, just as she and her husband had retired, were looking forward to taking it easy. Too furious with me, and my lack of ability to help her. No, Jean’s absence wouldn’t be caused by chronic depression; rather, it would be . . . I thought of what she’d told me, about her husband appearing to her in the dream, thin and pale, as he had been before he died. He’d been—what was it she’d said?— begging her not to forget him. Which meant . . . yes, of course. Obviously. That she was beginning to forget him. And feeling guilty about it.
    I sighed and was just about to turn away from the window when I caught sight of my eldest daughter walking down the street toward the coffee shop. By her side was a man with auburn hair whose face I couldn’t quite see. He was taller than her, a grown man, not a schoolboy. I wondered what she was doing with him, and whether she was skipping lessons. Then, as he turned to open the door of the shop for her and went in behind, I realized with a shock that it was Emyr Griffiths.
    I felt a rush of anger, and my heart began to thump in my chest. I had an urge to run downstairs and accost them in the coffee shop, ask Nella what on earth she was doing bunking off school, and order Emyr to leave her alone.
    There was a knock at the door. It was my next client of the day.
    A sudden panic came over me as I remembered the story of why Emyr had been sacked from his job, but I managed to overcome it. He hasn’t done anything wrong, I reminded myself. Nothing was proved against him. And Nella’s sensible enough. She can handle the situation. She’s probably discussing Safe Trax with him, or something equally innocent. Nevertheless I stayed at the window for a few more moments, staring intently at the coffee shop, as if my maternal gaze could protect my daughter from afar, until I heard another knock.
    I went over and opened the door.
     
    I hadn’t been expecting Gwydion Morgan to turn up for his session. Just three days earlier he’d been lying in bed, face to the wall, refusing to speak to me. But to my surprise, he arrived on the dot, clean-shaven, hair freshly washed. Somehow, he’d rallied, got up, got dressed, and driven all the way up from Pembrokeshire to see me. I couldn’t help feeling pleased, despite my anxiety about Nella.
    I waited until he had settled himself. There was an uncomfortable silence, so I broke it.
    “So.” I paused, hoping he would initiate the conversation.
    “So.” He smiled. He seemed pleased to see me.
    I smiled back, in what I hoped was a kind, understanding way. And then, infuriatingly, I felt a sudden warmth rising up from my neck, flushing my cheeks.
    “You look well,” I said.
    “I’m feeling a bit better, as it happens.” He appeared not to notice the fact that my face was on fire. “Thanks for coming down to the house, by the way.” He ran a hand through his hair in that by now familiar gesture.
    I nodded again.
    “It did help.”
    “I’m glad.” I tried to sound noncommittal.
    “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
    “If you want to tell me.” I paused. “But not if you don’t. You’re free to talk about anything you like in the session, you know.”
    He narrowed his eyes, his head on one side, as though sizing me up. “Am I?” he said. “Right. Thanks.” There was more than a trace of