Apart from what I shared with Camilla, I’ve never said these exact words out loud to anyone. Deciding to trust Christian has (at times) felt like being given a key to unlock my subconscious. Although painful, telling the truth, the real story, isn’t as frightening or as exposing as I feared. Strangely. I already feel better than I do when I lie or mislead.

I recall an ex-friend telling me that people feel as if they are wasting their time and energy on a liar. I understand a little better now what she meant, although I was furious with her at the time because clearly she was having a go at me.

Discovering who Louise was—it was such a monumental punch in the gut. I was hurt when Charlie started to distance himself from me, even before the holiday. I thought that he—we—were too young, unprepared, too everything-wrong or not-ideal-circumstances. I thought he’d feel trapped, pull away further. I’d read this article in a magazine about attraction that stated that people could sense neediness, that it acted as a subconscious repellent. A part of me felt I’d done the right thing, or so I thought. But, of course, afterward, during the horrendously shocking aftermath and the months that followed, it dawned that I’d killed a part of him, too.

If only I’d known about Camilla’s pregnancy, I’d still have felt pain, of course, but it wouldn’t have been as all-consuming.

It’s not until after I leave that I realize it wasn’t the room that was different. It was me.

The session leaves me feeling disconnected, my mind crammed full of disturbing thoughts. A part of me had hoped before the session that Christian would somehow sense that I’m on the edge of doing something dangerous and desperate. I wanted him to intuitively see beneath the chitchat, to push and probe beneath the look how well I’m coping veneer and save me from myself.

In my darkest moments, I regress to a childlike state and want someone to give me permission to silence Greg.

There’s a side of me emerging that scares me; the desire to protect what I’ve given so much up to attain is so overwhelming, so powerfully strong that I feel frightened of what I might do and how easy it would be to lose sight of what’s right and what’s wrong.

Thirty-Nine

Stuart hovers in the kitchen as I zip up my jacket and fill a water bottle.

“Are you sure you’re all right? As in, all right, all right? You’ve been quiet.”

“Fine. I just need a long walk.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “What route are you walking and how long will it take?”

Stuart has developed an annoying sixth sense when I’m up to something. It’s disturbing and ups my anxiety level another notch.

I make up a route and mutter something about being “a few hours” and “stunning early autumn leaves.” He doesn’t question me further because Jack saves me from more interrogation by wailing through the baby monitor. Stuart goes upstairs to console him.