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My face crumples. Andrew’s page pops up on screen. He’s posted a new set of photos, and my pulse races as I realise they’re all focused on the same girl. A girl dressed in white,a laughing, happy girl.A girl enjoying what should be the best day of her life. The setting of the photos is a chapel, somewhere tropical, possibly an island in the Caribbean.
And that’s when I see a picture of Andrew standing next to the girl, looking all-debonair with his spikey brown hair and smart black suit. It takes a few seconds for the penny to drop, and when it does, I start to shake. This isn’t just any blushing bride. Oh no,this is Andrew’s bride. He’s married someone else!
Numbly, I scroll through the rest of the photo album, each one a giant punch in the face. His parents, her parents; his friends, her friends. Everyone looks so happy and oblivious to the pain I’m suffering; it’s almost like they’re taunting me. Laughing at me.
The final straw comes when I notice the bride’s baby bump.
“No!” Flooded with despair, I slide from the bed to the floor, sobbing hysterically. I can’t hold back anymore. I’m crying so much I start to get hiccups. I’m pleased for Andrew. Pleased he’s living his dream, but at the same time, I’m devastated. “That could have been me,” I whimper. “Oh, God, Andrew, where did it all go wrong? Why do I have to sabotage everything? We could have been so happy, but I never even gave us a chance …” I pound my knuckles against my head. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
Most times, my room is a source of comfort,a time capsule, a shelter from the snowstorm,but today it feels like a rose-tinted prison. I’m drowning in a sea of emotions, plagued by the blackest thoughts. I’m hit by extreme panic as I realise I’m hurtling toward my forties with absolutely nothing to show for my life.
They say you only get one chance. If that’s true, then I’ve bloody well blown mine—living in fear, hating myself, loving the comfort of routine, but at the same time despising it. Time and again, I’ve said no to change, and as a result, I missed opportunities to improve my circumstances. Throughout my life, my fear of the unknown has prevented me from taking risks and now what have I got? A big, fat nothing. No partner, no children, no prospects,just a dead-end job and a stream of debts and miserable weekends stretching into eternity. And in the background of all this, looming over everything like a black cloud, is Jill’s awful birthday gathering on Saturday. Why the hell did I ever agree to it? Oh, I know there are people far worse off than me in the world,people starving, people in war zones,but this does little to quell my misery.
“Carly, is everything all right up there?” My father’s voice filters in from downstairs.
I stagger to my feet, wiping foundation and mascara from my face. “Yeah, Dad, everything’s fine.” I try to sound upbeat.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, never been better.” I smile maniacally through my tears.
CHAPTER TWO
First Session
It’s raining cats and dogs as I march through Oxford Street toward my Friday night appointment at the London Hypnotherapy Clinic. Through the sleeting rain, I race past H&M, take the second turning on the right through Holles Street then onto Cavendish Square. As I near my destination, a gust of wind inverts my umbrella and turns it into a big, yellow water basin. I have to fight to get it back in shape.
For goodness sake, why is British weather so bad?
Cursing under my breath, I soldier on determinedly.
The clinic is situated at 140 Harley Street, a road famous since Victorian times for its wide array of private specialists in medicine and surgery. It takes me ages to find the place because the house numbers don’t add up. One minute they seem to run numerically, the next a random number pops up and I’m back to the old drawing board. After a lot of toing and froing, I stop outside a tall, grey building with a grand, pillared entrance.
140 Harley Street.Thank God.
Closing my umbrella, I skip up a short flight of steps and squint at the shiny plate by the door. The words engraved in brass confirm I’ve got the right place, so I ring the bell and wait. A moment later, a voice speaks through the intercom: “London Hypnotherapy Clinic.”
“Hello, I’ve got a six-thirty appointment with Doctor Craven.”
A buzzer sounds and I step into a spacious reception area. Everything’s done up in white, black and gold, the décor an expensive 20s throwback. A crystal chandelier protrudes from the ceiling and a copy of Klimt’sAdele Bloch-Bauer Ihangs on the far wall.
I take a second to soak it all in.
Wow, this place is nice.
Then a beautifully groomed brunette smiles at me from behind the reception desk.
“Carly Singleton?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Tara. We spoke on the phone. I’m the one who booked your appointment.”
“Oh, yes,” I nod, recognising her voice. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. If you want, you can put your umbrella over there.” She points to a wicker basket in the corner.
“Thanks.”
