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What’s the point of that? I say doubtfully.
The truth is, she says, we don’t know exactly how EMDR works. But it seems to help people work through what happened, to give them a sense of perspective. And it’s particularly helpful in cases like this, where someone’s unable to remember the details of what happened. Are you willing to give it a try?
All right, I shrug.
Carol moves her chair so she’s a couple of feet from me and holds up two fingers.
Concentrate on a visual image from the beginning of the break-in, she says. Keep it static for now, though. Like when you pause a movie.
She starts to move her fingers from side to side. Obediently, I follow them. That’s it, Emma, she says. And now let the movie start. Remember how you felt.
It’s hard to concentrate at first, but as I get used to the movement of her fingers, I can focus enough to replay the night of the break-in in my mind.
A thud in the sitting room.
Footsteps.
Whispers.
Me getting out of bed.
The door crashing open. The knife in front of my face—
Deep breaths, Carol murmurs, just like we practiced.
Two, three deep breaths. Me getting out of bed…
The knife. The intruders. The argument between the two of them, terse and urgent, as to whether my presence meant they should get the hell out of there or go ahead and rob the flat anyway. The older one, the one with the knife, gesturing at me.
Skinny bird. What’s she gonna do?
Breathe, Emma. Breathe, Carol instructs.
Touching his knife against the base of my throat. ’Cos if she does try something, we’ll cut her, right?
No, I say sharply, panicked. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.
Carol sits back. You’ve done very well, Emma. Well done.
I breathe some more, getting back my composure. I know from previous sessions it’ll be up to me to break the silence now. But I don’t want to talk about the burglary anymore.
We may have found somewhere else to live, I say.
Oh yes? Carol’s voice is as neutral as ever.
Simon’s flat’s in a really horrible area. Even before I made the crime figures worse. I bet the neighbors hate me. I’ve probably knocked five percent off the value of their homes.
I’m sure they don’t hate you, Emma, she says.
I put the sleeve of my sweater into my mouth and suck at it. An old habit I seem to have started again. I say, I know moving’s giving in. But I can’t stay there. The police say with this sort of attacker, there’s a chance they’ll come back. They get a sense of ownership, apparently. Like you’re somehow theirs now.
Which you’re not, of course, Carol says quietly. You are your own person, Emma. And I don’t think moving on is giving in. Quite the opposite. It’s a sign you’re making decisions again. Regaining control. I know it’s hard at the moment. But people do come through this kind of trauma. You just have to accept that it takes time.
She glances at the clock. Excellent work, Emma. You’ve made real progress today. I’ll see you next week at the same time, shall I?
NOW: JANE
30. Which statement best describes your most recent personal relationship?
? More like friends than lovers ? Easy and comfortable ? Soulful and intense ? Tempestuous and explosive ? Perfect but short-lived
The questions on the application form seem to get odder and odder. To begin with I try to give each one careful consideration, but there are so many that by the end I’m hardly even thinking about my answers, I’m just dashing them off on instinct.
They want three recent photographs. I choose one taken at a friend’s wedding, a selfie of me and Mia climbing Snowdon a couple of years back, and a formal portrait I had done for work. And then it’s done. I write a covering letter, nothing over-the-top, just a polite note emphasizing how much I like One Folgate Street and how I will strive to live there with the integrity it deserves. Even though it’s just a few lines, I redraft it half a dozen times before I’m happy with it. The agent said not to get my hopes up, that most applicants never get past this stage, but I go to bed really hoping I will. A new beginning. A fresh start. And as I drift off to sleep another word floats into my brain as well. A rebirth.
2. When I’m working on something, I can’t relax until it’s perfect.
Agree ? ? ? ? ? Disagree
THEN: EMMA
A week goes by with no response to our application, then another. I send an email checking they’ve received it. There’s no reply. I’m starting to get pissed off—they made us answer all those stupid questions, choose the photographs, write a letter: the least they could do is write back saying we haven’t made it to the next stage—when finally an email arrives from [email protected], subject “One Folgate Street.” I don’t give myself time to get nervous. I open it immediately.
Please come for an interview 5 P.M. tomorrow, Tuesday March 16, at the Monkford Partnership.
