Free In Too Deep by Samantha Hayes Page A

her until early January. Her office was in a shared building alongside other therapists ranging from a reiki practitioner to a chiropractor and a child psychologist. There was a small waiting room with a laminated sign –
Please enter
– stuck to it leading off the main entrance hall of the Georgian building. The beige carpet was a little stained, and the magnolia walls rather grubby and chipped, but the place exuded an air of safety and comfort, which was what I needed more than anything.
    But even then, as I reported to the receptionist, lowering myself into one of three matching velour chairs, I was tempted to leave. Paula wasn’t going to bring Rick back, and while I’d never seen a counsellor before, I had a friend who’d had therapy a couple of years ago. She’d recounted how stuff had been unearthed that she hadn’t even realised was buried. I didn’t want anything unearthing. Far from it. I’d always tackled things head-on with Rick by my side and wasn’t sure how I’d cope alone if anything terrifying was exhumed.
    I waited for Paula to call me through, trying to convince myself that her job wasn’t to judge, that ultimately I was paying her to sit there and be pleasant whatever she thought of me. That she wouldn’t pin the blame on me for my husband vanishing without a trace. That it couldn’t possibly be my fault.
    ‘Mrs Forrester?’
    When I looked up, a woman was standing in a doorway off the waiting room. She beckoned me through with a warm smile, and I offered her a nervous one in return. My legs felt weak and my heart pattered out a thin, uncontrollable beat.
    ‘Please, make yourself comfortable,’ she said, allowing me to go first into her consulting room.
    I think I forced out a
thank you
, a
nice to meet you
, but just stared at her hand as it reached out for me to shake. Paula wasn’t fazed by my near muteness and lack of social skills. She understood from the start.
    ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I finally managed. I’d been thanking so many people those past few weeks, yet I was never sure for what.
    ‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘And a belated happy New Year to you.’
    I didn’t say anything.
    ‘What brings you to me today, Mrs Forrester?’ She glanced at a thin file beside her on a glass-topped desk. The room was furnished minimally. ‘Is it OK to call you Gina?’
    ‘Yes, please do.’ I could answer
that
question easily enough.
    I’d not alluded to anything about my situation when I made the appointment. ‘It’s quite complicated,’ I began. ‘But in a nutshell, I need to find a way to cope. Figure out how not to fall apart, I suppose.’
    ‘OK . . .’ she said slowly, before pausing. It was a spacefilled with warmth. ‘Is there anything specific you’re having trouble coping with?’
    We were sitting in matching chairs – low and pale grey, comfortable yet not overly so. The room was painted pure white, I noticed, much fresher than the waiting area, and as I searched for the right words, I focused on the circular aubergine-coloured rug. My eyes tracked the pattern on it. Maze-like. I saw myself standing in the centre, turning in circles. Tiny and lost in the thick pile.
    ‘My husband went missing at the end of last November,’ I said robotically. It was the only way I could get it out, by making it sound as if it hadn’t really happened. As if I was an actor delivering a crucial line in a play.
    ‘That sounds really hard for you,’ Paula said as unemotionally as she could, yet I still registered the shock on her face, the slight widening of her pupils, the tightening of her facial muscles. I knew then that her mind would be racing with questions and scenarios, wanting all the details. I began with the events of that Saturday morning. It took nearly thirty minutes to get it out, and afterwards I felt exhausted.
    ‘Firstly,’ Paula said, abandoning her pen to the table. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. ‘I’m hearing a lot of guilt and self-blame in