Fifteen years ago – St Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church
In the lull between the funeral service and the drive to the cemetery, I escape through the back door of the church. I don’t care about the cold any more. I need to fill my lungs with fresh air to expel the cloying smell of incense and candles.
I want a few moments to myself but I jump when I realise I’m not alone. Mark’s here too, leaning against the brick wall and smoking a roll-up. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, the way his dad used to. I’ve never seen him smoke before. It’s a habit he must have picked up in the army.
‘Did you think you could do better?’
His scratchy voice startles me. ‘What?’
Keeping his eyes on me, he lifts his head to inhale. When he exhales, the stench of nicotine turns my stomach.
‘Did you think you could do better than my brother? Did you think someone better was going to come along and sweep you off your feet?’
‘That’s not why …’ My throat is tight, and I can’t get the words out.
He pushes himself against the wall so he’s upright, and comes to stand in front of me, knowing how to use his size to intimidate me.
‘Everyone thinks you’re such a goody-goody.’ His low voice belies his fury. ‘But I see the real you.’
I lift my chin up, determined to face him down. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘A bit of fucking remorse, for starters.’
I suck in a breath. ‘You have no idea how I feel.’
‘You should feel responsible. You broke him.’
His words seem to stop my heart.
Then adrenaline whips my blood, and I slap him.
I don’t realise what I’ve done until my fingers are tingling, and the blotchy impression of my handprint starts to bloom on his cheek.
He stares at me, his eyes like fire, red from crying.
‘The truth hurts, doesn’t it?’
Chapter 14
It’s Monday, but because we were supposed to be in Paris, I don’t have any patients and no reason to go to the office. On the one hand, it gives me one more day before I have to face the clinic – and Rich – but on the other, I could really have done with the distraction.
Mark’s return is a complication I didn’t need. And any hope I might have nurtured that we could be cool with each other was extinguished last night.
My therapist brain urges me to have compassion for him. He’s coming from a place of grief. He lost his only brother. The idea of losing Yan makes me want to retch. But Mark’s been living with this wound for fifteen years. How can it not take a toll?
It explains his reaction last night, but I’ve got my own shit to deal with. I haven’t got the emotional bandwidth to be the target of his anger.
Not that I checkedmyanger particularly well. Most of it he deserved, but the one thing I regret is telling Mark he was like his dad. For all Mark’s faults – and he has plenty – he’d never lay a finger on a woman. And I guess I must have known that even when I was sixteen, or I’d never have dared slap him.
Rather than going round in circles about last night, I decide to tackle my book proposal.
I came across some advice about overcoming writer’s block and I’m determined to put it into action. The trick is to tell yourself you’re only going to read what you’ve already written –no new words required; just ease back into the project slowly, and without any pressure.
I open the Word document and start reading.
During my time as a couples’ counsellor, I’ve seen hundreds of patients who seek professional help because one partner has been unfaithful. Experience has taught me that cheaters generally fall into one of five categories:
1. They need it for their ego
