The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

raised her eyes to May’s and folded her hands in her lap. ‘This morning, I was a struggling forty-four-year-old woman who fantasised about having sex with strangers on the train. This afternoon, I am a wealthy forty-four-year-old woman who fantasises about having sex with strangers on the train. That’s the only difference.’

May raised an eyebrow and tilted her head to one side slightly. She was economical in her movements as well as her words. Clare had once counted the words May spoke in a session and worked out she paid one pound twenty-five for each one. Still, they were worth it. May was worth it. She was the only person in the world who listened to Clare with all her attention and no judgement. Or at least, she suspended her judgement and didn’t let Clare know what she really thought.

‘It turns out the hours I spend imagining sex in toilets or in fields, with rich men or paupers, can be turned into cash. Lots of cash.’

May nodded. ‘You’ve turned your fantasies into money?’

Clare sat back, crossed her legs and smiled. ‘Yes. Pauline de Winter has been paid a very large advance for three books. Apparently she – I – am a big hit all over the English-speaking world.’ Clare looked at her therapist’s face. It gave nothing away. ‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’

‘Of course,’ said May. ‘But I’m more interested in how this affects you, and whether it’s the money or the recognition that pleases you?’

Clare looked at the plant in the corner – a tall Swiss cheese plant in a glazed ceramic pot – and sighed. ‘Both?’ she said but it came out as a question, as if she didn’t want to admit to feeling proud or greedy.

‘I ask because previously you’ve described yourself as feeling stifled, of having a sense you’re not living a full or fulfilling life and that your fear of death stems from the idea of a life unlived, that you will never experience life’s riches, before you are plunged into – in your words – eternal nothingness.’

May was earning her fee today, thought Clare. Words at two a penny.

And there were more. ‘You never rated wealth as one of those experiences.’

‘Maybe not, but there are so many things one can do if one has money.’

May nodded and waited.

‘Travel, for example.’ She thought of her earlier ideas of Marrakesh or Timbuktu, but knew they weren’t really her sort of places. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Prague.’ She hadn’t, but it sounded like the sort of place one should want to go. ‘And the Greek islands.’ She’d never wanted to go to the Greek islands either. She wasn’t a beachy sort of person. Was money making a liar of her?

‘Travel,’ said May, encouraging her to continue.

Clare sank into her seat. She wanted to cry. ‘I don’t know.’ Her chest tightened. She put a hand on her stomach and tried to breathe into it.

‘Okay, Clare. Press your feet firmly into the floor and name five things you can see around you.’

Clare tried to do as she was told but the panic rose within her, her whole body feeling as if it was alternately compressed and released. Her vision went fuzzy and her head spun. She was dimly aware of May’s voice somewhere in the far distance.

‘Long, slow breaths, focusing on the exhalation, in… and out… in… and out… And now look at me.’

Clare’s gaze met May’s. ‘Good, and now notice what you can hear. Keep breathing. Keep pressing your feet into the floor.’

It seemed like hours, but when Clare looked at the clock, only minutes had passed. She slumped into her seat, exhausted. May sat quietly waiting.

‘I’m terrified. I’ve never had money before. What if it changes everything?’

‘What might it change?’

‘What if I can’t write anymore – what if I can’t fulfil the deal but I’ve spent all the advance already and they sue me and I end my days in prison?’

‘Clare, breathe, and consider what you’ve just said.’

Clare closed her eyes and slowed her breathing down again. May wanted her to realise she was catastrophising, that there was no basis for any of her irrational thinking. But what did she know? For the first time since she’d started seeing her, Clare questioned her therapist’s competency. She felt a sinking in her stomach. What if May couldn’t help her?

‘What’s going on?’ asked May.

Clare said nothing.

‘You’re wondering if I can help you – if anyone can help you, is that it?’

How did she know that? She was a mind reader. Clare was ashamed of her doubts, and simultaneously worried that with this woman there was no hiding, no cover.

‘It’s common to question your therapist’s ability when you’re triggered. Part of you wants desperately to be understood and helped, another part is terrified of the same thing because “being helped” means making changes, and change is frightening.’

Clare had heard that before. She’d also read it in several self-help books, but it suddenly made absolute, spine-chilling sense. She had to change and she was scared, but if she wanted to do anything she had to step into her life and make it happen, whatever ‘it’ was.

She smiled. ‘Maybe I do catastrophise sometimes, and I worry I’ll die without achieving anything. But right now I’m alive. Maybe I should focus on that.’

‘How does it feel?’

Clare thought for a moment, waiting for all her negative self-talk to kick in and tell her she was delusional. There was none. ‘It feels good.’ She felt light. Unused to such a sensation, she carried on. ‘I should probably talk about the journey into work this morning. There was a suicide on the line.’ She stopped and waited for her reaction. Nothing. No shortening of breath, constriction of chest, fluttering of heart. What had happened? Surely having money hadn’t cured her. She wasn’t that shallow. It wasn’t that easy. She looked at her therapist, confused.

‘Go on,’ said May.

‘I don’t know any more about the person who died.’ She paused, again waiting to see if the