The Tens, Vanessa Jones [i like reading books .TXT] 📗

into her sternum and she let a whistle of air out. 'That made me jump!' she said, almost cheerily. 'Look, can you excuse me? I'll be right back. It's actually a patient of mine. Nothing to worry about. Will not be long.'

By the time Carla was outside mollifying the visibly frustrated man, Sophie had reached across the room to pick up a book that was glaring at her from the shelf. It wasn't planned, to grab the book, but now that it was in her hands she realised that it had been harping at her curiosity every single therapy session since she started. Often counting the books on the shelf— ten— as a nervous habit, as a distraction from the pronounced vulnerability that occurred every time she uncurled in her therapist's office.

The book's cover was brown and looked almost mouldy in certain lights. It was the size of an envelope but held the weight of The Bible. A cursory glance suggested it was doused in marketing, or even of some ancient significance. She flipped it over to reveal the front cover. Pressed out in bronze lettering was the title, Venus, with no author attribution, in fact, nothing else on the cover except the title. Inside were hand sketches of the planet, with various animals and symbols— some recognisable and ordinary, some not. How adorably absurd, Sophie thought to herself. And reached to put the book back.

As she tipped the top part of the spine back into the shelf, her sight was caught by the open gape of Carla's handbag. Nestled between an umbrella and some kind of fabric, was an object so familiar that Sophie felt a rush of nausea. Sophie would have recognised the glint anywhere. Instinctively, she bent down to pick it up but snapped her hand back, jolted by the guy outside who started shouting at Carla, his words garbled by the thick glass and the speed at which he was talking. Carla had her hands clasped patronisingly at her chest like she had just announced to a two-year-old that they were going to sing a song. Sophie watched as he leaned his face in closer and drew in a mean breath and she waited for Carla to be struck. But the guy lifted his chin and let his lips fall into a dangling frown and he shuffled away, his arms lifeless.

Carla, with her hands still clasped, turned to the window and looked directly at Sophie. Her eyes darted to her handbag on the floor and back up to Sophie's face with a tender recognition. Quickly, her face squeezed into a large grin.

Sophie quickly sat back down in her well-worn position as Carla stormed back inside, out of breath. She’d been running.

'So sorry about that. He's just a little agitated. I was trying to help him. Medication problems. You gotta feel for him, you know? Now, where were we?' Carla cocked her head, daring Sophie.

'I hope you don't mind, I just had a quick squiz at your books. That brown one is so gorgeous!' Sophie was rushing through her words but had her mind on what was in Carla’s handbag.

'Yes, it's a lovely little gift book someone gave me once. Sophie, are you okay? You seem rattled. Did my other patient upset you? I assure you he's fine.'

She looked at the ceiling to avoid looking at the bag and to buy time to work out how she could get another look inside. A closer look. Just to be sure that what she had seen was right. 'No, I'm completely okay. I'm sure you've got a handle on it. I was actually forcing myself to remember to grab some of that yummy tea on my way home. Where do you get it?'

'Mmm yes. I can't really remember. I'll have a think and let you know next session, okay? Drink up! You have hardly touched today's cup.'

Sophie mechanically sipped and bluffed her way through the rest of the therapy session but it was obvious to both of them that she couldn't stop thinking about what was in her bag. Keys held by a distinctive copper keyring. Alex's keys.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Once again forgetting to pick up the beloved tea, Sophie scrambled inside her house frantically throwing open the top two kitchen drawers. Swishing aside cutlery and ancient receipts, batteries, bits of homeless plastic, cords and cables. Desperate to see the oval keyring that she was so used to seeing in their house, in Alex's hands, in his pockets, on the kitchen bench where she had to repeatedly toss them out the way. She yanked his bedside drawer out from its home and tipped the contents—an expired nasal spray, three pens, clean tissues, more cords— all over the bed, swiping them aside with her hand. His set of keys weren't there.

Exasperated, she kicked the pyramid of clothes in the corner of their bedroom. 'You could have at least had the fucking decency to do your washing before you left Alex,' she shouted at no one. Her toe connected with a clunk of metal. Desperately, she hoped it was his keys. But it was merely the buckle on his best weekend belt and, sadly, the pockets of his jeans turned up especially empty, except for a scrap of paper. Scrutinising the paper, Sophie gasped when she understood what the hand-scrawled address revealed. It was an address she was extremely familiar with. Carla’s office!

Why did he have her address written down? Was he a patient too? The temptation to phone Carla and demand to know if Alex was a patient was overwhelming. Of course, she would not be able to tell her for confidentiality reasons. But surely, surely, she would allude to something if she showed enough distress? Was this why Carla had his keys?

Sophie felt her blood cool right down and fall away from her head. The simple explanation of Alex being Carla's patient and having accidentally