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“Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yes, Tara told me. She read it in theGuardianthis morning. It’s absolutely horrific. Such a sweet girl. What a waste of a young life.” He hesitates. “How did you know Jessica was one of my patients?”
“That first day I came to your office, I saw her in the waiting room. She had the appointment just before mine.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. You’ve got a very good memory.” His voice sounds oddly distant.
There’s an awkward pause. “Did you know her well?” I ask.
“No, not really. I think I saw Jessica a total of three times, but we weren’t really making much progress, so she decided to cancel her treatment early.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“BDD.”
“What’s that?”
“Body dysmorphic disorder.”
“Right ...” I’m familiar with it: an anxiety disorder that causes sufferers to spend a lot of time worrying about their appearance.
I run my fingers through my hair. “So, do you think the police will want to speak to you?”
“Why on Earth should they? I wasn’t part of her inner circle. I barely knew her.”
“Yes, but I just thought that maybe …” I break off, feeling slightly stupid.
His tone softens a little, almost like he’s humouring me. “I think it’s highly unlikely, but if the police do decide to contact me, I’m ready to answer any questions they throw at me. But I don’t see how anything I say could help the investigation. Apart from the obvious, Jessica seemed a perfectly- normal, well-adjusted young woman. I knew nothing of her personal life. To get a proper insight, the police would be far better off speaking to her family, her friends, her boyfriend. Not someone who spent less than three hours in her company.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” We talk for a few minutes more, and I keep saying how terrible it all is, and he keeps saying what a nice young woman Jessica was. Finally, he draws the conversation to a close.
“Darling, I have to go. I’ve got a patient arriving in five minutes, and I need to do some prep work. Just to check, are we still on for tonight?”
“You mean going to a restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Brilliant. I can’t wait to see you. And Carly?”
“Yes?”
“Please, don’t fret too much about this whole business with Jessica. What happened to her is tragic, but we need to put things in perspective. The world can be a cruel and terrible place, with light and dark in equal measure. Always has, always will be, and we can’t do a damn thing to change it.” He pauses. “What I’m trying to say is, don’t let this ruin your day. I know how stressed you get about things, and I don’t want this to become another issue for you to worry about. This is my problem, not yours, so if and when the police decide to contact me, I’ll deal with it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I love you. Now, go and get some lunch. Relax and listen to some music. I’ll see you tonight.”
He tells me again that he loves me, then hangs up, and it takes me a second to soak it all in. Nick’s right, of course. There are bad stories in the news every day—murders, rapes, kidnappings—and we’re so desensitised to it, most days we barely give it a second thought. We read the morning paper on the commute to work, poring over all the evil on display, then calmly switch off and order ourselves a Starbucks coffee or a McChicken sandwich. Tunnel vision is a coping mechanism vital to humanity’s survival; the ability to filter life’s joys and miseries into neat little compartments that we view on a ‘need to know’ basis. Jessica’s murder is truly terrible, but is it any worse than the dozens of atrocities committed around the world on a daily basis?
Probably not. But I still can’t stop my hands from shaking, not least because it has stirred up memories buried deep in my own subconscious. For a second, I’m back in the brightly-lit hospital lounge with the yellow wallpaper. Ronan and I are sitting in orange bucket chairs arranged in a semi-circle. The horse race is playing on TV …
No!I shake my head.Stay strong, stay strong.
In a trance, I push open the door to Coffee Republic and amble through the swathes of bodies to the serving counter. I smile at the waitress, place my order and take my tray to a secluded spot by the window. Absently, I chew my muffin, but the taste doesn’t register.
I tell myself to calm down, not to get so worked up. I tell myself that Nick’s right: Idostress too much about things. Why the hell am I letting this bother me so much? I didn’t even know her.
