‘Guess how much it’s worth,’ Marco said, as we’d pulled up outside the vast Edwardian building. ‘Go on, guess.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Five million. A five-million-pound house. You could fit ten of your flats in there, easy.’
This time a young woman opened the door; a pale housemaid with a strong Eastern European accent and white-blonde hair. She led us through the hallway to Doctor Wilson’s study.
‘Mr Wilson, it is your guests.’
The housemaid turned, smiling, revealing lines of tiny, regular teeth like a cat. ‘He says to go on inside.’
Doctor Wilson had risen from his desk smiling, eyes impossibly blue and glassy, like polished jewels.
He nodded to Marco and asked us both to sit.
‘Excuse the mess’ – he indicated the paperwork on his desk – ‘I’m only just back from holiday.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Yes, weekend in St Tropez. Anita was pining. All too brief, unfortunately. Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee. Stella?’
I nodded. Doctor Wilson held his hand up, three fingers raised, to the maid who was hovering by the door.
‘Lovely girl,’ he confided as she closed the door behind her, ‘you wouldn’t know she came from a war-torn country. She laughs a lot.’ He folded his hands on the desk. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
‘Thank you for seeing us again at such short notice,’ I heard Marco say, ‘I know how busy you are.’
Doctor Wilson was nodding, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes on me. He’d picked up a small statue no bigger than a fist from his desk and turned it towards me.
‘Do you know who this is?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s Shiva. The destroyer. His purpose is to destroy in order to rebuild. What do you think you have in you – inside you, Stella – which needs to be destroyed?’
He looked from me to Marco and back again.
‘Hindus believe that death is not an end, only a beginning. It makes way for a rebirth. So let’s talk about how we can create your death, Stella, how we can do this.’
I must have looked startled because he laughed and said, ‘Metaphorically speaking, of course.’
The maid came into the room, padding softly, carrying a tray. She poured the coffee at the end of the long mahogany desk, sneaking looks at the three of us occasionally from beneath lashes so fair they were almost white. Doctor Wilson was addressing Marco.
‘You, sir, I’m afraid, will have to leave. You can take your coffee into the conservatory. Estelle will show you where it is.’
I turned my head and watched him go, realising I was holding on to the arms of the chair so tightly my knuckles were white. Nothing frightens me more than scrutiny.
‘So, Stella, let’s talk. Open up. Tell me about yourself.’
‘I don’t want to talk about me.’
‘Well, we need to start somewhere. How about you tell me what you do for a living? Do you enjoy your job?’
‘Oh, oh no. It’s not what I planned to do.’
‘What did you plan to do?’
I hesitated, looking down at my lap. ‘I studied art history. Hoped one day to curate a gallery, maybe in New York.’
‘No more acting?’
‘God, no.’
‘I remember the show. “Let’s take a walk to Honeypot Lane, let’s meet the fam-a-lee”.’ He stopped singing and looked at me, eyebrows raised.
I laughed nervously. ‘Well, that was a long t—’
‘You in your little dress and that dog. You remember there was one episode, when – uh – when the dog had to wear the little bonnet you made it, for the parade?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you told him off, right? You said “Make sure you walk behind me” and what do you know? He did! Right up on two legs. Man, that was one clever dog.’
‘Nine. There were nine of them. They kept dying.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘People used to think we were cursed. The show, I mean. We went through so many golden Labradors I’m surprised the RSPCA didn’t press charges. One of them was poisoned.’
I looked down at my hands. That wasn’t quite right, was it? I’m thinking. One dog or two? Or more? I could remember seeing a bulky shape hidden beneath a tarp in the corridor, and my mother ushering me past. ‘Don’t look, Stella, love,’ she was saying. ‘Keep walking.’
‘You know my favourite? That brother of yours, the oldest one.’
‘Eddie.’
‘Eddie! That’s him. Eddie Marigold.’
‘All the Marigold children had “e” sounds at the end of their names: Bonnie, Lucy, Katie, Eddie, Mikey – even the dog, Frisky. It was lame.’
I’d spiked his gentle good humour a little. He lifted the statue of Shiva again, studying it.
‘What kind of person would you say you are, Stella? Happy? Calm? Morose?’
‘God, I’m – I don’t know – neurotic? A little bit prone to fantasy.’
‘I deal with a lot of addicts, Stella. Drugs, booze, porn, gambling.’
I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination that heard the stress he put on the last word. But he couldn’t know about my dad, could he? The betting slips and scratch cards and the clamorous beating of hooves. I blinked rapidly.
‘One thing they all have in common is a refusal to see themselves as they are – as they truly are. And when that happens it makes my job more difficult, do you see? I wonder what will help you to understand the depth of your problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘Well, yes. You’ve been drinking too much, taking risks. I heard about the violence, the paranoia you’ve been displaying. It’s much more pleasant for you not to look at yourself though, I understand that. Do you know what arrested development is?’
‘Something to do with drug addiction, isn’t it?’
‘It’s theorised but yes, it’s thought so. The impact of trauma can have the same effect too. A stunting of the emotional growth and psychological development at the age when the addiction or the event occurs. Now, your childhood was far from normal, and the death of your mother at such a sensitive age – well – that is bound to have had an effect on you.’
‘This is ridiculous. I’m not drinking because my mother is dead. I’m sick. I’ve been ill. I can’t sleep. I’m only here to get the pills, that’s all I want, it’s the only thing that works.’
My teeth were grinding in my head. The ceiling fan paddled lazily overhead. Incense was burning on the desk, a language of smoke and perfume.
‘The last time I saw you, Stella, your hands were shaking so much you could barely sign the consent forms. I thought I was going to have to sedate you.’
‘My father died. I’m in shock.’
Doctor Wilson crossed his legs so that his right foot rested on his thigh. He was rangy, long-limbed. It made him look like a diligent spider in a web.
‘Your father died nearly two months ago. I appreciate that grief is subjective but—’
‘But what?’
‘Do you think you’re managing?’