The Therapist by B.A. Paris

Five

Isit cross-legged on the kitchen floor, thinking about the inner voice which had told me with such intensity, just moments ago, that I don’t like this house. It’s not true, not really. There are things that I love, like my downstairs study. It has the palest of pink walls, a colour I never thought I’d like, but which I do, and an en-suite, because it was destined to be a bedroom. The desk that once belonged to my father stands in front of the window and in the corner, there’s a sofa bed that came from Leo’s flat. I also love the kitchen, with its pale marble worktops and white bulthaup units – or at least, I will once I’ve finished jazzing it up a bit. It’s too neat and clinical for me at the moment, all clean lines and everything hidden away in clever cupboards. So, I don’t hate the house, it’s more the atmosphere that I don’t like.

Maybe it’s just that there’s no atmosphere; the house was only built five years ago, whereas the cottage where I was born and brought up, and where I lived until a few weeks ago, is two hundred years old. I’m so grateful I was able to keep it. I did as Leo suggested and it’s rented for six months to a lovely couple from Manchester, who want to give country-living a try.

I glance at the photographs spread on the floor in front of me. They are mostly of Debbie and my other friends back in Harlestone, but there are also some of me and Leo, taken during a week’s holiday in the Yorkshire Dales. Reaching out, I pick up one of the other photos, a headshot of my sister. I stare at it for a moment, then reach for another photo, this time of my parents and sister, taken on the day of her graduation, and raise it to my lips, pressing it there, my eyes closed, remembering. I can’t believe that I’m actually going to put these two precious photos on the fridge, where my eyes will automatically be drawn to them every time I open or close the door. And the eyes of other people, who might ask about my family, because then I’ll have to explain. It’s why I usually keep photos of them hidden away in the bedroom. But this move to London is a new start for me in more ways than one.

Moving to a kneeling position, I begin to fix the photos to the upper door of the fridge-freezer, using tiny magnets to keep them in place. When there’s no space left within reach, I get to my feet and continue adding photos until the whole of the door is covered. I stand back to admire my handiwork, and the two of my sister and parents leap out at me from amongst the others. I look around the kitchen; it still needs more colour so I fetch a pile of cookery books from the dining room, which I’ve lined with bookshelves. As I pass the sitting room, I glance through the door and smile when I see that Leo has laid the ‘New Home’ cards face down on the mantelpiece, his little joke after our conversation yesterday.

Back in the kitchen, I stack the cookery books along the worktop. Later, I’ll cut some flowers from the garden and put them on the table, in the red gold-lipped jug I found in a charity shop.

I’m still not dressed so I go upstairs, pausing when I get to our bedroom, still thrown by the size of the room. With the last of the boxes unpacked, and Leo gone, it seems sparser than usual. Overwhelmed by a sudden need to get out of the house, I look through the pile of clothes neatly folded over the back of the chair for my white sundress. The forecast for the rest of the week said to expect cooler temperatures, so today is probably the last time I’ll be able to wear it. But it’s not there. I know it’s not in the laundry basket because I wanted to get another day’s wear out of it. I must have put it back in the wardrobe.

I reach into its vast interior and look through the clothes on the rail. I still can’t find my dress so I pull out some blue shorts and a vest top, noticing that my neat rows of shoes on the wardrobe floor have become jumbled up. I bend to straighten them, wondering if I could go and see Eve. She blogs for a living, mainly about beauty products, and works as much or as little as she wants each day.

‘The perfect job,’ she told me that first day, when she came over to thank me for the invitation I’d posted on the WhatsApp group. ‘I’m so grateful to my sister; she’s the CEO of BeautyTech and she was the one who suggested I start a blog. I write about something I love, I get to test amazing products, I’m given so many freebies that my shelves are overflowing – remind me to give you some – and I can fit it in around the rest of my life. We’re lucky to be able to work from home, don’t you think, Alice? I even blog from my bed sometimes!’

I could only agree. I work as a freelance translator and although I usually translate sitting at a desk, I often do the reading part of my work in bed, especially in the winter. Like Eve, I love what I do and don’t miss having colleagues, or commuting. I also like that it varies in intensity. I’m in a lull at the moment, waiting for a book to come in from the Italian publisher I work with. I’ve enjoyed having a couple of weeks off, especially as the months leading up to the move were intense. But I need to start working again, before the boredom that I can already feel creeping up on me, takes hold.

I leave the bedroom and as I walk past Leo’s study, I see that his office chair has been left at an angle. I go in, lay a hand on its back and spin it around so that it sits in line with his desk. As I glance out of the window, I realise that I can see every single house in The Circle from where I’m standing. Their windows look back at me like eyes, and I give an involuntary shiver. Is that why they built the houses in a circle, so that everyone can watch each other?

Downstairs, I find my keys and slip on my trainers. I’m not going to disturb Eve, she’s probably busy. I have legs, I can go for a walk. I explored the area just outside The Circle with Leo but we never made it to Finsbury Park.

Crossing over the road outside, I cut through the square to the main entrance, which takes me all of five minutes, and that’s walking slowly. It’s lovely, though. With its benches and play area, it’s perfect for both children and older residents. Something for everyone; that’s the beauty of the place. But the play area, complete with swings and slides, is definitely in need of a few coats of paint, which explains the messages Leo and I saw on the WhatsApp group about maintenance.

I don’t know London at all and the cacophony of car horns and sirens that hits me as soon as I leave The Circle is overwhelming. The overcrowded streets and people jostling to get past are also new to me and I realise how cocooned I’ve been in Harlestone, where the loudest noise are the combine-harvesters reaping crops in the surrounding fields during early summer. Still, there’s something invigorating about the buzz, the feeling that I’m part of a bigger picture, and I quickly pick up my pace to match that of the Londoners. With the help of Citymapper, I make my way to Finsbury Park. By the time I arrive, I feel as if I’ve completed an assault course.

In Harlestone, I can walk for hours over the fields without meeting anyone. It only takes me an hour to walk around the park but I’m pleased to have somewhere I can go without fear of being run over. Also, I need to stop comparing my life before, and my life now.

I arrive back at The Circle and as I tap the code in at the side gate, the main gate opens and Maria’s people carrier drives through. She waves, so I turn right, walking past numbers 12, 11 and 10 until I get to number 9.

‘Hi, Alice!’ she calls, as she gets out of the car. ‘How are you? Have you settled in?’

‘Yes, more or less. I’ve just been for a walk.’

‘It’s beautiful today, isn’t it? I didn’t have any appointments this afternoon so I decided to leave work early and pick up the children from school.’ Two boys scramble from the car while she lifts out the littlest one, who must be about three years old, and slides the heavy door shut. ‘Go on, into the house, boys. Ask Daddy to get you some juice.’

‘I’m sorry you couldn’t come on Saturday night,’ I say, walking down the drive towards her.

She gives me a rueful smile. ‘Me too.’ She has the gentlest of faces, with wide brown eyes and high cheekbones. ‘The babysitters we usually use deserted us.’

‘Yes, Tim said. It was nice that he was able to come.’

‘Tim?’ A frown creases her forehead. ‘I don’t think so. He was here with me and the boys. Unless he went over to yours, once I’d gone to bed.’

‘He must have done, because he was definitely there.’

She shakes her head in amusement. ‘Cheeky sod. He never said anything to me about it.’ Grabbing her handbag from the floor of the passenger seat, she moves to the door and shouts into the hall. ‘Tim, you never told me you went to Alice and Leo’s on Saturday!’

‘Hold on!’ he calls back. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

‘Selective hearing,’ Maria mouths as he comes to stand in the doorway beside her.

‘Sorry, what did you say?’ He looks over to where I’m standing. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Are you our new neighbour?’

And I find myself staring at a man I’ve never seen before.