corridor, painted with the same chilly blue, my heart beginning to hammer nervously in my chest. I hate these appointments, constantly feeling as though each one is a test I must pass to be able to carry on with my life, even though Dr Bradshaw is always perfectly pleasant. I give a tiny tap on the door and push it open, making my way inside.
‘Steph. How are you?’ Dr Bradshaw swivels around in his chair and gives me a warm smile. Around my age, with warm, crinkly eyes and a neatly trimmed, bang on trend beard, he is ridiculously good-looking for a psychiatrist – not at all what I had imagined when I first began seeing him. Not at all what Mark would have expected either, if he had ever managed to come along with me.
‘I’m OK, I suppose.’ Handsome or not, I am always nervous when I see him, anxious to make sure I say the right thing so he doesn’t decide to cart me off to the loony bin.
‘You missed your last two sessions – is there any reason for that?’ He picks up a smart, leather-bound book and a fountain pen, poised and ready to write down my answers. When I asked him once why he didn’t get with the times and use an iPad, he told me he preferred to do things the old-fashioned way, conscious that some of his patients might be put off by the modern technology. Another point in his favour for being so considerate. Handsome AND kind, I’m sure he’s made someone a wonderful husband.
‘Just busy. Henry has started school and I’m still working freelance so everything has been a bit hectic. No other reason.’
‘And what about the pregnancy? How’s that going?’
I purse my lips at him. I didn’t even know I was pregnant the last time I managed to make it to an appointment.
‘Mark told you, didn’t he? Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?’
‘Well, Steph, that works one way, I’m afraid. Mark is welcome to give me any information he thinks is relevant to our sessions, but you can be assured that anything that you say to me in here stays in here. I won’t discuss anything said here with anybody else.’
I sigh, reluctant to speak about it, but now Dr Bradshaw knows about it, I know he won’t let it lie.
‘I’m scared, OK? I’m scared that what happened after I had Henry will happen again.’ Tears spring to my eyes and I reach across his desk for the box of Kleenex that he keeps, just for these moments. Dr Bradshaw eyes me coolly from across the desk – tears mean nothing to him; he must see them all day long.
‘There’s nothing to be scared of, Steph. We know about it this time and we can deal with it. There is no need to spend this pregnancy in a state of fear. I’m here to help you, Mark’s here; we’re all ready to support you and make sure we treat the post-natal depression before it manages to get a hold of you, OK?’ I nod, shredding the tissue between my fingers.
‘Are you still writing in the diary?’ he asks, as he scribbles in his posh journal and I nod. ‘And how are you feeling in yourself? Are you worried about anything else, aside from the new baby?’
I take a deep breath, knowing the decision I make now could affect what happens next. It could affect whether Dr Bradshaw decides to prescribe more pills for me (no, thank you) or whether he lets me try to make sense of it all on my own, with his help, some cognitive behaviour therapy to talk it all out. I decide to bite the bullet. It’s just one event and, now I think about it, in the safety of the doctor’s office, it’s not even that much of a big deal.
‘Someone left something on the doorstep. Some flowers. I thought I knew who they were from, a new friend I’ve made.’ See, I want to say to him, I am trying, I’m trying so hard to be normal. ‘I asked her about them but she said she had never seen them before, that they definitely weren’t from her.’
‘And what do you think?’ He raises his eyebrows at me, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them in a typical therapist listening pose.
‘I don’t know,’ I stress, searching his eyes to see if I can tell what he is thinking. ‘I want them to just be a goodwill gesture from someone who is concerned about me. I don’t want to think there’s anything sinister about them but … it made me feel uneasy, that’s all. They were left on the porch while I was asleep. I don’t like the thought of someone creeping around outside the house while I’m there – why not knock on the door? But I’m sure it’s fine, probably a neighbour or something.’ As I speak I realise I sound paranoid, so I quickly backtrack, trying to convince the doctor (and myself, if I’m honest) that it really is no big deal. A bubble of anxiety rises in my chest and I swallow hard, trying to force it back down.
‘OK. Steph, we’ve been through this before, haven’t we? People know now that you are pregnant, correct? And Mark tells me you’ve been quite poorly with it – so, I think it probably is a case of someone having heard you’ve been a little under the weather and just wanting to give you a little boost, something to cheer you up. It’s easy to see things that aren’t there, especially when you’ve suffered with depression issues before and have battled through it.’ He gives me a sympathetic smile, and resumes his scratching in his notebook.
I nod, blinking back the last of my tears. I must be seeing things that aren’t there, if Dr Bradshaw thinks it’s innocent. I realise this is the reason I made my appointment – I wanted reassurance from someone who isn’t Mark that I’m not going crazy; that there is nothing in it, just a kind gesture from someone who would prefer to remain anonymous. I thank Dr Bradshaw, making a show of looking at my watch to say our time is up – usually his line, but today I’m taking advantage of it and getting out of here.
Ten minutes later I’m standing on the pavement outside the doctor’s office, wrapping my coat around me against the bitter chill of the wind. I have made another appointment in two weeks’ time, but I’m honestly not sure if I’ll keep it. I feel a lot better now I’ve had some reassurance that the posy is nothing to be scared of, and Dr Bradshaw seems to believe my assertions that I am OK dealing with things. I feel lighter than I have done in days. As I step off the kerb I hear someone shout.
‘Steph! Steph, wait!’
I turn, my hair whipping across my face, and see Laurence striding towards me, cheeks reddened by the cold.
‘I thought that was you! How are you?’ He stoops to kiss my cheek.
‘Laurence. I didn’t see you there – I’m very well, thank you. Just on my way home.’
‘Me too. Let me walk with you.’ He looks back over his shoulder towards the building I have just left, and I feel my cheeks flush red as I hope Laurence doesn’t realise where I have just come from. To my dismay he nods towards the building,
‘Have you just been in there?’ he asks. ‘Research, I’m guessing? From what I’ve heard he’s a right old quack. I’ll be interested to see what article you write on him.’ He gives a little laugh and grasps my elbow gently as we cross the road. It’s been a long time since Mark remembered to do anything as gentlemanly as that.
‘Erm, right, yes. Research. That’s it.’ I feel flustered, both by his words and the fact that his hand is burning right though my coat to my skin. As we reach the other side of the road and he pulls his hand away, I fancy I can still feel his touch, branded onto my elbow. We walk slowly together towards home, and I feel odd, as I did the first time I met him, like there’s something comforting and familiar about him. Like he knows me completely already, while I know nothing about him. I realise after a moment that he has been talking and I’ve not taken in a word he has said.
‘I’m sorry, what did you say? I was in a world of my own.’
‘I said, Mark has asked me to keep an eye on you and Henry while he’s away. That’s if it’s OK with you? My being next door and everything.’
He looks down at me, eyes searching my face and I feel yet another blush rise to my cheeks. What the hell is wrong with me? Without thinking, I prickle back at him, ‘I’m a grown woman, Laurence; I hardly think that anyone needs to keep an eye on me. I’ve managed on my own for years without