The surface of the desk was hidden under piles of books and papers and files and journals. There were pens and mugs and plates.
‘It’s not the mess,’ said Frieda. ‘What I can’t help noticing is that it’s the same mess as when I came in here three weeks ago. I’m not clear why you haven’t introduced new mess. Why it hasn’t changed.’
He laughed. ‘You’re dangerous, Frieda. I should only agree to meet you on neutral territory. As you’ve probably heard, Paz and the rest of them don’t think that I’ve ticked enough boxes, dotted enough
‘Paz is looking out for you,’ said Frieda. ‘So am I. You talk about ticking boxes. Maybe it’s a warning sign. And maybe it’s better to hear from the people who love you before the people who don’t love you start to notice. Allegedly there are such people.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Reuben. ‘You know what you’d do if you really wanted to help me?’
‘What?’
‘You’d come and work here full-time.’
‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’
‘Why not? You could still have your own patients. And you could keep an eye on me.’
‘I don’t want to keep an eye on you, Reuben. I’m not responsible for you and you’re not responsible for me. I like to have autonomy.’
‘What did I do wrong?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Almost from the moment you came here as an eager young student, I saw you as the person who’d take this over from me some day. What happened?’
Frieda gave a frown of disbelief. ‘One, you were never going to hand your baby over to anyone. And two, I don’t want to run anything. I don’t want to spend my life checking that the phone bill’s been paid and that the fire doors are kept closed.’ Frieda paused. ‘When I first came here, I knew that it was – just at that moment – the best place in the world for me. It’s hard to keep something like that up. I couldn’t.’
‘You think I haven’t? Is that what you’re saying – that it’s gone downhill?’
‘It’s like a restaurant,’ said Frieda. ‘You cook a great meal one night. But you’ve got to do it the next night and the next. Most people can’t manage that.’
‘I’m not making fucking pizza. I’m helping people cope with their lives. What am I doing wrong? Tell me.’
‘I didn’t say you were doing anything wrong.’
‘Except you have concerns about me.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Frieda, carefully, ‘you should delegate a bit more.’
‘Is that what people think?’
‘The Warehouse is your creation, Reuben. It’s been an extraordinary achievement. It’s helped people. But you can’t be too possessive of it. If you are, it will collapse as soon as you leave. Surely you don’t want that. It’s not the same place as it was when you started it in your back room.’
‘Of course it’s not.’
‘Have you ever thought that your present lack of grip on things here is a way of letting go, without having to admit that’s what you’re doing?’
‘Lack of grip? Because my desk is in a mess?’
‘And that perhaps it would be better to do it more rationally?’
‘Fuck off. I’m not in the mood for therapy.’
‘I was going anyway.’ Frieda stood up. ‘I’ve got a meeting.’
‘So, am I on some kind of probation?’ said Reuben.
‘What’s the problem with crossing
‘Who’s your meeting with? Is it to do with me?’
‘I’m seeing my trainee. It’s our regular session and we won’t be talking about you.’
Reuben stubbed his cigarette out in what was already an overflowing ashtray. ‘You can’t just hide away in your little room talking to people for the rest of your life,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get out in the world and get your hands dirty.’
‘I thought that talking to people in a little room was our job.’
When Frieda came out of Reuben’s office she found Jack Dargan hovering in the corridor. He was a gangly young man – ardent, clever and impatient – and he was on attachment to the clinic, just as Frieda had been when she was his age. He sat in on group-therapy sessions, and he had a patient. Each week Frieda met him to discuss their progress. On the first day they had met, aware that it was a cliche, knowing that she was aware of it and despising himself, Jack had fallen head over heels in love with her.
‘I need to get out of here,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
They passed a man coming towards them, a lost expression on his round face, his spaniel eyes baffled.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘I’m looking for Dr McGill.’
‘In there.’ She nodded towards the closed door.
As she walked out of the clinic, past Paz, who was talking on the phone garrulously and throwing her ringed hands around in extravagant gestures, she felt suddenly like a mother duck with a solitary duckling walking after her. There was a bus coming up the hill as they came out on to the road and she and Jack climbed aboard. He was flustered. He didn’t know whether to sit on the seat beside her or to take the one in front or behind. When he did take the one next to her, he sat on her skirt and leaped up again as if scalded.
‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s a cafe some people I know run. It’s their new venture and near where I live. It’s open through the day.’
‘Fine,’ said Jack. ‘Great. Yes.’ And ground to a halt.
Frieda stared out of the window, saying nothing, and Jack looked surreptitiously at her. He’d never been quite this close to her. His thigh touched hers and he could smell her perfume. When the bus swung round a corner, his whole body pressed against hers. He knew nothing about her life. She had no ring on her left hand so presumably she wasn’t married. But did she live with someone? Did she have a lover? Maybe she was gay – he couldn’t tell. What did she do when she left the clinic? What did she wear when she wasn’t wearing her mannish suits, her plain skirts? Did she ever let her hair down, dance, drink too much?
When they got off the bus, Jack had to walk swiftly to keep up with Frieda as she led him through a maze of streets, into Beech Street. It was full of one-room restaurants and cluttered cafes, little art galleries, shops selling cheese, ceramic tiles, stationery. There was a one-day dry-cleaner’s, a hardware shop, a twenty-four-hour supermarket with newspapers in Polish and Greek as well as English.
Number 9 was warm inside, and plainly decorated. It smelt of baking bread and coffee. There were only half a dozen wooden tables, most of them empty, and some stools at the bar.
The woman behind the counter raised her hand in greeting. ‘How are you since this morning?’
‘Good,’ said Frieda. ‘Kerry, this is my colleague, Jack. Jack, this is Kerry Headley.’
Jack, pink with gratification at being called Frieda’s colleague, muttered something.
Kerry beamed at him. ‘What can I get you? There aren’t many cakes left – Marcus is going to make some more soon. He’s collecting Katya from school at the moment. There are a few flapjacks left.’
‘Just coffee,’ said Frieda. ‘From your shiny new machine, thanks. Jack?’
‘Same,’ said Jack, although he was already twitchy with caffeine and nerves.
They sat at a table by the window, facing each other. Jack took off his bulky coat and Frieda saw that he was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a vividly striped open-necked shirt with a lime green T-shirt visible underneath. His trainers were grubby and his tawny hair was wild, as if he’d spent the day pushing his fingers into it in exasperation.
‘Is that what you wear when you see your patient?’ said Frieda.
‘It’s not the exact clothes. This is just what I wear. Is that a problem?’
‘I think you should wear something more neutral.’
‘Like a suit and tie?’
‘No, not like a suit and tie. Something boring, like a plain shirt or a jacket. Something more invisible. You don’t
