The House on the Cliff (2 page)

I’d come across cases of koumpounophobia before. They were difficult to resolve. Sometimes, if I couldn’t get anywhere, I sent them over to Dougie, the cognitive behavioral therapist on the other side of the corridor. Meinir, the hypnotherapist on the floor above, was also pretty good on this kind of thing.

Gwydion sighed and passed a hand over his forehead. His glossy hair flopped forward over his face.

“It gets worse when I’m stressed.”

“That’s very common, too.”

At this, he looked a little put out. People are funny like that, I’ve noticed. At first, they’re pleased to find that they have a syndrome with an important-sounding name. Then they start to get worried that their complaint might not be exclusive enough.

“Actually, I am under rather a lot of strain at the moment,” he said. “I’m working very long hours, finishing a series.” He stopped and gave me a searching look. “A TV series.” He stopped again. “I’m Danny in
Down in the Valley
. You’ve probably seen it.”

I nodded in a noncommittal way.

Down in the Valley
is a long-running Welsh TV soap. The girls watch it religiously. But I’d never sat through an episode all the way through, and I’d certainly never seen Danny appear on-screen. If I had, I would have remembered him.

He began to tell me about himself. As well as being Danny in
Down in the Valley
, he’d also starred in a film called
The War of the Dragon Kings
and had played several other screen roles, which, he said, I should look up on an Internet site called Curtain Call Casting. He was currently on the verge of a breakthrough in his career, having been offered a starring role in a major new period drama, an adaptation of the novel
Helen
by Maria Edgeworth, a contemporary of Jane Austen. He was very excited about it and was preparing to start rehearsals in three months’ time. He’d come to me for help because he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to cope with his costume—the buttons on the waistcoat, the jacket, and so on. His manner, as he spoke, was intense; he was evidently deeply committed to his work. Despite—or because of—his reserve, he had a strong presence, and I could well imagine that he was a gifted actor. I could also see that he was very troubled by his phobia, afraid that he might let this longed-for opportunity slip through his hands.

When he’d finished I asked, “I wonder, are there any other difficulties in your life at present?”

“How d’you mean?”

“Anything else worrying you?”

“Such as?”

“Well, relationships, for instance.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, if that’s what you mean. I mean, there have been . . . there are . . . from time to time . . .” He looked away. I was surprised at his diffidence, given that he was such a good-looking man. “But nothing serious. At the moment, anyway.”

“And your family?”

“I’m an only child. I have a very close relationship with my mother. My father . . .” He came to a halt.

“I don’t get on with my father, as it happens,” he continued, after a short pause. “He’s a bit of an egomaniac.” He hesitated. “But to be honest, I don’t really want to go into all that. I just want to get this button phobia sorted, and get on with my life.”

I nodded. “Well, I can see why, with this big part coming up. But I’m afraid if you’re in a hurry, I’m not going to be much help to you. I’m a psychotherapist. What I do takes a long time and a lot of effort. And it doesn’t always work.”

He looked surprised.

“You see, if you came to me, we would definitely need to look into your family relationships, especially those you find difficult.”

A flash of irritation crossed his face, but I continued.

“So if you want to deal with this quickly, you’d be better off seeing my colleague over the way. He has an altogether different approach. He’ll help you identify your negative thought patterns, your specific fears, and so on, and take you through a set of exercises to try to change them. He may use a technique called exposure. First, you’ll talk about buttons, then you’ll see pictures of them, then you’ll be asked to hold one, and so on, until you get over your phobia.” I paused. “Is that the kind of thing you’re after?”

He looked doubtful.

“It’s actually very effective,” I said. “And I can highly recommend this particular colleague.”

“The thing is . . .” He looked away, avoiding my gaze. “It’s not just the buttons.”

He seemed shy all of a sudden, embarrassed. The idea that he might have a sexual hang-up came back to me, but I put it to one side. Bracket your own thoughts, that’s what you have to do when you’re listening to someone. Put them in parentheses, and return to them later. It’s a good rule, and one I try to stick to.

“It’s hard for me to talk about it.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

I wondered what was wrong. In my view, phobias about things like buttons and spiders are fairly easy to understand, though not to cure. They’re the safe, convenient places we choose to store all our anxieties about the big things we can’t control, starting with the fact that we’re born, we die, and we don’t know why. Getting scared of buttons is easier than getting scared of that. Until it gets harder, of course.

Eventually he raised his eyes and looked straight into mine. “I’d need to know you better before I could . . .”

I tried to listen, but I began to feel like a startled rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car.

“I’m hoping to find someone . . .”

A car with very big headlights on a very dark, rainy night.

“. . . someone I can trust.”

I felt a sudden flush of heat rising up from my chest. I looked away, hoping it wouldn’t spread to my face.

Countertransference, I told myself. When you get emotionally entangled with your client, start to believe that you love or hate them with a passion. Just displaced emotion from other relationships in your life. It had cropped up rather quicker than usual in this case, even before the transference. (That’s when the client starts to think they love or hate you with a passion.) But I wasn’t too worried. I was pretty sure I could handle it. The situation, if kept well under control, could even prove enlightening, for both of us. As I said, I’ve learned to trust myself over the years.

Gwydion blinked, and I blinked, and the moment passed.

I glanced at the relief on the opposite wall. It was white, and calm, and serene. The circle seemed to sit naturally among the squares, quietly confident that it was in its rightful place.

“Well, Gwydion,” I said. I looked back at him and smiled my kindest, most sensible smile. “I consider myself quite trustworthy. If you decide you want to come and see me, I’ll do my best to help.”

2

I saw another four clients after Gwydion Morgan, all regulars, all spinning stories that still managed to fascinate and move me, whether the stories themselves or the spinning of them; and then I drove over to Nella’s school. She was due to be singing at a concert that afternoon. She’d only recently taken it up—all the girls did it for music GCSE, she said, it was an easier option than learning an instrument—but so far I’d never heard her utter a note. On the rare occasions when she practiced, she shut her bedroom door firmly, turned up the volume on her stereo, and forbade me to enter until she’d finished. And she hadn’t wanted me to come to the concert, but I’d insisted on being there.

I was running late, so I drove over to the school a little faster than I should have done, swung the car into the forecourt, and parked hurriedly. Then I ran over to the main hall, joining the last of the parents as they were filing in. I found a seat, nodding politely at the people I knew, and looked over at Nella. She was standing to one side of the stage with her classmates. When she caught sight of me, I waved discreetly, but she didn’t wave back. Instead, she turned away and began to talk to her friends.

The teacher went over to the door, shut it, and the chatter in the room quieted down. Then he went up onto the stage and introduced himself, thanking us for attending. He seemed rather too grateful for our presence, which didn’t bode well.

The first performers were two painfully shy boys with electric guitars, one of them chugging out a dull blues riff while the other improvised haphazardly over the top. While they were playing, my mind wandered back to the photograph I’d received that morning. Probably just a disgruntled client, I told myself, but all the same, it was odd. I’d have to try to find out who the man in the photo was; perhaps that would tell me who’d sent it . . .

Next up was a plump, ungainly girl with glasses, who sawed her way through a piece on the cello. She had the air of a young woman who hadn’t got a lot going for her in life but was determined all the same to beat Bach’s flibbertigibbet arpeggios into submission, and get herself an A-grade in the process. By the end of the piece, although it was excruciating to listen to, I felt like standing up and cheering.

Looking somewhat weary, the teacher came back onstage, sat down at the piano, and announced that the singers would now perform. As Nella had predicted, they were all girls, like her. Not a boy to be seen among them.

The first was a pretty fifteen-year-old with carefully streaked and blow-dried hair, whose mannered rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” was note-perfect. Despite the song’s nonsensical lyrics—not her fault, of course—and her absurdly dramatic gestures, her performance was greeted with wild applause. Afterward, Nella shuffled out onto the stage, head bent, hair covering her face, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jeans.

I held my breath and my heart began to beat. I tried not to sit on the edge of my seat. As the teacher played the opening notes to the song, I willed her to look up at the audience, but she continued to gaze stubbornly down at the floor.

She began to sing. Her voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. I felt irritated, frustrated. What was the matter with my daughter? Why wasn’t she confident, sure of herself, like the girl with the streaked hair? She was just as pretty, probably just as good a singer. If only she’d . . .

Then she raised her head. This time, her voice came out loud and clear. I swallowed. Tears came to my eyes. She had a beautiful voice, and this was the first time I’d ever heard it. For an instant, as she sang, she looked my way. She must have seen the emotion on my face, and it must have encouraged her, because, as she came to the final verse, she seemed to let go of her inhibitions and forget where she was.

When she finished the song she glanced up at me triumphantly, as the audience began to clap. I clapped along with them, as hard as I could. Somebody gave a cheer as she left the stage, and I saw her laugh as her friends clustered around her, congratulating her.

The next pupil came on, a tall girl with a clarinet. I listened politely as she started her piece, but by now I’d had enough. As the notes cascaded out, the odd squawk and hoot escaping from the instrument, a feeling of intense heat came over me and I passed my hand over my forehead, closing my eyes for a moment. As I did, I saw Gwydion Morgan’s thick, black eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks.

The heat subsided, and I opened my eyes. Don’t panic, I told myself. It’s just hormones. And the shock of hearing Nella sing, so beautifully, so unexpectedly.

The clarinet let out a high-pitched squeak, and a ripple of laughter went through the audience. The girl began to giggle, stopping for a moment to fiddle with the neck of the instrument while the teacher waited patiently at the piano. The audience shifted on their seats, and a few of the parents got up quietly and left, having seen their children perform. I took the opportunity to slip out of the hall with them, giving Nella a quick wave as I went. I knew that if I went over and congratulated her, she’d feel embarrassed. She looked away, but I noticed her trying to suppress a smile.

Outside in the car park I walked quickly over to my car, unlocked the door, and was just about to get in when I heard someone behind me, calling my name. I turned to see a man in his thirties wearing a loose checked shirt and jeans. He was carrying a guitar case. For a moment, I didn’t recognize him, and then, as he came up closer, I remembered him as a former client of mine.

“Emyr,” I said. “Hi.” I paused for a moment. “What are you doing here?”

I’m often buttonholed by ex-clients as I go about my daily business—Cardiff’s a small place, after all—and usually I’m pleased to see them. But Emyr’s slightly overfamiliar manner had always made me feel a little uncomfortable.

“Same as you. Watching the show.”

He smiled and came up closer. He had a wide smile—rows of straight, white teeth—and light brown freckles on his face. He stood a head taller than me, and his hair was that golden auburn color that you often see in Wales, despite the fact that the Welsh are always thought of as dark and short.

“Just like to see what the youngsters are up to,” he went on. “Keeping my ear to the ground.”

“Youngsters.” Maybe that was the problem. Emyr had a penchant for teacherish words like “youngsters.” He’d come to see me a couple of years before with low-level depression after losing his job, but as he’d simply wanted to fulminate about the injustice of the situation, rather than explore his reaction to it, there hadn’t been much I could do for him, so he’d left after a few sessions.

“I saw your daughter sing,” he went on. “She’s a talented lass, isn’t she?”

“Thank you. Yes, she is.” I was about to tell him that before today I’d had no idea that Nella could sing a note, but for some reason I thought better of it.

“So what are you doing these days?” I asked instead.

“I’m an A&R man. In a manner of speaking.” He gave a wry grin. “I’m setting up a new community music project. Council grant. We’re looking for youngsters who might like to use our studio. Twenty-four track, state of the art. Completely free of charge.” He fished in the pocket of his jeans, produced a slightly battered card, and handed it to me.

I glanced down at the card. It was garishly colored and bore the legend
SAFE TRAX
in a rather dated graffiti-style script that Nella, I felt sure, would dismiss as “lame.” Underneath were his name and a contact number.