Sunrise By the Sea by Jenny Colgan

Chapter Thirteen

She tried. She did. In the most un-Italian way – something her mother always insisted she’d learned in Britain – with passive-aggression.

She coughed loudly when the music started. Turned up the television very loudly when the music was particularly discordant and tuneless. Once or twice she even knocked gently on the wall. Nothing. Nothing made any difference. How, she raged, curled up in bed, how could he ignore her, not think about the effect this was having on his neighbour? How could he be so hateful and thoughtless?

What could she do? She could phone the landlord – but that would mean picking up the phone and talking to someone she’d never met. That was absolutely out of the question, and if Reuben was anything like his nephew, he probably wouldn’t care anyway.

She could go next door and talk to him. She almost laughed aloud. No, she couldn’t.

She could crank up the music in her headphones to deafening levels and just go about like that all the time. It did almost block out the noise from next door but it didn’t allow her to concentrate on work or, in fact, on anything. This wasn’t a permanent solution either, as it would almost certainly damage her hearing. Although at this point the prospect of long-term deafness seemed like quite a nice one.

She tried to think of someone to talk to who wouldn’t think she was completely ridiculous not to just confront the situation, and couldn’t come up with anyone. What if he became angry with her? What if he shouted? What if he played even more loudly? What if she had to leave here? Where would she go?

In the end, the GP’s referral came through just in time.

Anita Mehta was a good therapist, and doing her best under trying circumstances (today’s being that her six-year-old had discovered the mute button and was constantly pressing it so she would pay attention to him rather than the screen). But today her head was not perhaps as switched on as it might be. She glanced up at the screen, her eyes tired. They were doing Zoom therapy because Anita was based in the South-East; it was a way of getting the waiting lists down. Plus, leaving the house would add so much to Marisa’s anxiety it was better practice to start this way regardless.

‘Marisa?’

‘Hello,’ said Marisa shyly. She had taken the laptop as far into the bedroom as she could to avoid the many renditions of ‘What Will We Do with the Drunken Sailor’ being laboriously banged out on the other side of the wall.

Anita introduced herself and explained the basic components of CBT – cognitive behaviour therapy – that they were going to use.

‘It’s baby steps,’ she said. ‘Every week I’m going to set you a task – do you have a workbook?’

Of course Marisa had a workbook, neatly filled in in her beautiful handwriting, a freshly sharpened pencil at the ready. Anita was both pleased and concerned at the same time. People who were normally very organised and in control could fight extremely hard to preserve that control, including reducing their world to a tiny space which could not harm them.

‘You’ll need more people than me,’ she said. ‘Are you speaking to your friends? Your family?’

Marisa shrugged, blushing. It felt such an admission of failure to admit that she wasn’t really speaking to her mother at all.

‘My mum thinks I’m just . . . putting it on.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘I know,’ said Marisa.

‘No, I’m asking,’ said Anita seriously. ‘What is in it for you?’

Marisa thought about it for a long time.

‘Nothing . . .’ she started indignantly. Then she paused. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I suppose . . . I mean, I feel safe here. And outside . . . it doesn’t feel safe to me.’

‘Outside is never safe,’ said Anita. ‘That’s a part of life we normally accept. But in your brain, right now, there’s a little feedback loop that’s overemphasising that.’

Marisa shifted uncomfortably.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Anita. ‘And there is no rush to fix it.’

‘MUMMY!’

A soft toy hurtled behind Anita’s head. She placidly ignored it.

‘. . . well, beyond the NHS rush, of course. But we’re not going to rush.’

‘I have another problem that’s making me very anxious,’ said Marisa, explaining about her noisy neighbour. Thankfully, Anita didn’t suggest she immediately run off and confront him or anything else as impossible to her as flying to the moon.

‘Good,’ said Anita. ‘See it as an opportunity.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you need to learn how to leave the house. And he is making your house unbearable. See him as a useful motivating factor.’

Marisa stared into the Zoom.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Totally,’ said Anita. ‘And this week. All I want you to do is go out and stand on your steps. That’s it. That’s your homework. Do your breathing exercises – they’re in the book. Do a visualisation – have you got one?’

‘Yes!’ said Marisa, feeling ridiculously teacher-pleasing. A visualisation was something she was meant to think of when she felt a panic attack coming on: a happy place, somewhere she felt calm and at peace. She was meant to imagine as much of the scene as she could, put herself there until the panic attack had passed. ‘Do you want to know where I chose?’

‘I don’t have to,’ said Anita. ‘As long as it is special to you.’

‘Oh,’ said Marisa, slightly disappointed.

She had chosen the beach at Imperia, in the old town, just as the sun was setting. The sand still held the warmth of the day but wasn’t scorching; the old ladies had come out after their afternoon siestas and were standing in the water in large old-fashioned bikinis, gossiping. Other families were taking their passeggiata, their early evening stroll, done up in their finery, looking forward to an aperitivo shortly, followed by a good long meal. It was one of the happiest places she knew.

‘It’s in Italy,’ she added.

‘Very good,’ said Anita. ‘Do you still have family there you could talk to?’

Marisa had a lot of family there, absolutely loads. But could she talk to them?

‘Is your grandmother still alive?’

Marisa thought of her scary grandmother, always shooing them out of her kitchen and telling them off for dragging sand through the house. Such a contrast to her kind, loving grandfather who was infinitely patient and pleased to see them.

Of course, as an adult she could see that was because he didn’t have to do anything in the house; her nonna was fully in charge. But as a child it hadn’t seemed that way. Her grandfather was for fun and cuddles. Her nonna was to be avoided at all costs.

‘It will be so hard to do this alone,’ warned Anita. ‘After all, how’s it working out so far?’

Marisa looked round her lovely bedroom and thought to herself, actually, not that bad.

Then she heard a new noise from next door; the sound of someone having a loud, extremely sad telephone call. Every word, she thought. Didn’t he realise she could hear every single word, even if it was in Russian? It was completely and utterly infuriating.

‘Okay, I have to—’ Anita started, and a small hand crept in and slammed shut her laptop for her.