Cathy Kelly 6-Book Collection: Someone Like You, What She Wants, Just Between Us, Best of Friends, Always and Forever, Past Secrets

‘Why don’t you go ahead of me in the queue,’ Emma suggested to her. ‘You’ve only got a few things and I’ve loads.’

‘That’s kind of you, love,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t hold those baskets any more and I have to get a trolley no matter how few things I want.’

She moved ahead of Emma and began chatting to the baby’s mother. Emma picked up a magazine she hadn’t wanted from the rack beside the check-out and started reading. She didn’t really want to know how to transform her house with painting techniques as seen on TV, but anything was better than talking about babies nonchalantly, as though every fibre of her body didn’t long for one.

Once she’d unpacked the shopping at home Emma changed into old clothes and started on a frenzied clean up. She’d scrubbed their bathroom and the main bathroom, and was busily thrusting the Hoover nozzle into the corners of her wardrobe when she heard the phone ring. It was Hannah.

‘Hi,’ said Hannah guardedly. ‘Are you ill? I rang the office and they said you’d gone home early.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ Emma replied. ‘How are you? Are you still on for next week?’

They’d planned a trip to the theatre to see Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

‘Yes,’ Hannah said slowly. ‘It’s just that I wanted to tell you something beforehand. I didn’t want to land it on you next week.’

Emma was intrigued. ‘Felix is playing Valmont as a surprise?’ she said, amazed to find she could make a joke despite how depressed she felt. ‘You’ve won the Lotto?’

‘No.’ Hannah sounded so serious.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m pregnant. I wanted to tell you myself, I didn’t want Leonie to have to tell you. Because I know how hard it’ll be for you…’

Emma made a harsh sound that she managed to turn into a little hoarse laugh. ‘Why should I be upset, Hannah? I’m delighted for you. You must be so thrilled, and Felix, of course. When’s it due?’

The words stuck in her throat like lumps of stone but she had to say them, had to say the right things to dear Hannah who’d been such a friend to her.

‘The beginning of December. Actually, I’m scared stiff, Emma,’ she revealed, unable to help herself. ‘I know it sounds terrible, but I’d never thought that long about having a baby and, now that I am, it’s wonderful and all that but…I’m terrified. What if I’m not the maternal type? What if I’m hopeless at it? Everyone seems to think it comes naturally, but people are always telling you certain things come naturally and that’s rubbish.’

‘Stop panicking,’ Emma said reassuringly. ‘Hannah, you’re a competent, intelligent woman who can run an office, who has successfully changed careers and who’s well able to apply herself to anything. Are you trying to tell me that you’ll fall to pieces at the sight of a nappy, or collapse when you have to purée a carrot?’

Despite herself, Hannah laughed.

‘It’s common sense, Hannah,’ Emma continued. ‘It’s going to be your baby and of course you’re going to love it. You may not turn into Mrs Earth Mother in floral frocks who grows her own organic rhubarb, but you’ll be great. You’ll do it your way, right?’

‘I suppose,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s just that Felix seems to think that now I’m pregnant, this maternal glow surrounds me like some madonna in a medieval painting. I don’t even think he fancies me any more,’ she admitted.

‘That’s not unusual either. Some guys can only cope with one concept at a time. It’s that madonna/whore balance. You were the whore – not you personally, Hannah, but because you were his sexual partner. Now you’re the mother of his child, so you’re off-limits sexually.’

‘You’d make a great psychiatrist,’ Hannah remarked. ‘I just thought Felix was being his moody old self.’

‘Hey, you’re his fiancée. You should know. Perhaps I’ve been reading too many self-help books,’ Emma said drily, thinking of the pile of books she’d dumped a few hours previously.

‘You’re a great pal,’ Hannah said warmly. ‘I was dreading telling you about all this. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to show a house to two morons who haven’t a clue what they really want. I’ll see you and Leonie next week, OK?’

‘OK,’ Emma answered automatically and hung up.

She was glad she’d thrown away all the baby stuff. She didn’t want it in the house, mocking her by its very existence. But she still allowed herself to cry bitterly at the irony of it. Hannah, who didn’t want children, was unexpectedly pregnant. And she, who did…What was the point of going over it all again? At least she’d managed to lie convincingly to Hannah about her true feelings. She wouldn’t make much of a psychiatrist, but she was a good liar.

The notion of psychiatry hit her – why didn’t she see a counsellor? Everybody went to therapists these days. It might help her deal with how she was feeling, it might unlock the painful knot that threatened to take over her whole body. It might be a complete disaster, of course, but she’d give it a try.

Checking the phone book for registered counsellors, she came upon a list of names. Several lived nearby and she closed her eyes and picked one.

Elinor Dupre. It sounded exotic and French. Maybe she didn’t speak English and it’d be very easy, Emma thought, therapy where neither party understood the other. She dialled the number, expecting an answering machine or a secretary and a waiting list at the very least. To her surprise, a woman answered in crisp, received pronunciation tones:

‘Elinor Dupre speaking.’

‘I…er, hello, my name is Emma Sheridan and I got your name from the phone book,’ stammered Emma. ‘Do I need to get a referral from a doctor or anything…?’ she broke off.

‘No, you don’t. It would help if you told me why you wanted to see me, though. I may not be able to help.’

Her voice was soothing, calming. Emma had this ridiculous desire to spill out everything over the phone, but confined herself to saying: ‘I can’t have children and it’s taking over my life, that’s all.’

‘I think that’s a very big problem in anybody’s life,’ replied the calm voice as if she understood everything instantly. ‘I certainly wouldn’t dismiss it as “that’s all”,’ she added gently. ‘When would you like to see me?’

Emma didn’t know why but she began to cry into the phone. ‘So sorry,’ she blubbed. ‘This is stupid, I don’t know why I’m crying or why I’m calling you.’

‘Because it’s the right time to do so,’ said the woman firmly. ‘You have made a decision and when that happens, there is a certain release experienced. I have an unexpected cancellation tonight at six thirty. Would you like to come then?’

‘Yes, please,’ Emma said fervently. She didn’t know how she’d even wait until half six. Suddenly, talking about how she felt to someone who could understand was the most important thing in the world.

Elinor Dupre’s home was a tall Georgian house at the end of a small cul-de-sac. Her office was in the basement and Emma could see a light shining in one of the basement windows as she parked the car. Before she’d had the chance to knock on the door, it was opened.

‘Do come in,’ smiled Elinor Dupre, her natural warmth belying the formality of her words. A serene-faced woman in her late fifties, Elinor wore a striking, richly patterned kimono and her long dark hair was tied up in a simple knot. She wore no make-up and her only jewellery was a watch hanging from her slender neck on a long chain.

She led Emma downstairs to an airy room with a fireplace, bookcases and two armchairs in it. On a small table beside one of the armchairs was a box of tissues.

Elinor sat down in the other chair, putting a notebook and pen on her lap, leaving Emma to sit beside the tissues.

She arranged the cushion behind her so that it felt comfortable, then sat looking around anxiously, suddenly not wanting to meet Elinor’s gaze. Now that she was here, she didn’t know why any more. What was she going to say? Was this all a ridiculous waste of time and money? And why didn’t Elinor speak? She did this all the time; it was her job; she knew what came next. Emma hadn’t a clue.

As if intuitively knowing what was going on in Emma’s mind, Elinor finally spoke: ‘There are no rules to these sessions,’ she said. ‘It seems strange at first when you’re waiting for something to begin, but psychology is not like that. You’ve come here because you needed – ’

‘Your help,’ interrupted Emma.

‘Actually, you will be helping yourself, Emma,’ Elinor said gravely. ‘There are different types of psychoanalysis, but I practise cognitive therapy, whereby you will really be solving your own problems. I will be a guide, a helper, that’s all. Sometimes I will ask you questions to help me understand but, for the main, you are in the driving seat.’

Emma laughed hoarsely at that one. ‘I wish,’ she said bitterly.

Elinor said nothing but angled her head slightly, as if asking why.

‘I don’t know why I said that,’ Emma said quickly.

‘Because you feel it is true?’ Elinor asked.

‘Well, yes…sometimes…I don’t know.’ Emma stared around her blankly. She didn’t know what to say.

‘There are no right or wrong responses,’ Elinor said. ‘Say what you feel, how you feel, why you think you’re not in the driving seat.’