True Affliction - Chapter 5

I let the door fall shut with a soft click, dropped the keys in the bowl, and stood very still in the dark, like the flat might decide who I was before I had to. Nounou trotted past my ankles, nails skittering on tile, made a perfunctory inspection of the hall, then flopped with a queenly sigh against her blanket.

I didn’t put the lights on. The kitchen was cool, the kind of clean midnight that hums. I turned the tap and let water thunder into a glass I didn’t really want, the sound too loud in a room that knew me better quiet.

My phone lit the counter.

Mum (6)

Two voicemails. Three texts that said nothing and everything: Call me, love. Where are you? I’m serious. Call me.

I swallowed, lifted the glass, didn’t drink, and hit call.

She picked up on the first ring. Of course she did.

“Caitríona May Thorne,” she breathed, voice low and lethal with relief. “Do you know what time it is? I have rung and rung-”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I was about two minutes from calling the police and telling them my daughter’s been kidnapped by her own ridiculous heels.”

Despite myself, a laugh scraped out. “I’m home. I’m fine.”

“You always say you’re fine as if it’s a spell.” A tut. “You sound peaky. Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

I glanced at the sink. “Air.”

“Don’t get clever with me.” Another tut, softer. “You’ve scared me half to death, and I haven’t got halves to spare. Where were you?”

“Walking. Clearing my head.”

“At this hour?”

“It’s London. It sulks if you ignore it.”

“Mmm.” That Scottish mmm that heard what I hadn’t said. “And Tom? Has he forgotten how to use his phone or are you both conspiring to send me to an early grave?”

My grip tightened around the glass. “He’s… busy.” The lie tasted like coins.

“Busy,” she repeated, politely shredding the word. “Well. Tell him your mother said he’s to look after you and ring his future mother-in-” She stopped herself with a small cough. “Ring me. Soon.”

“I will,” I said, which was another lie, and we both let it sit there between us like a polite corpse.

Silence stretched. She filled it with the rustle of her kitchen, the click of the Rayburn door, the soft clink of a mug. I could see it in my head: steam fogging the little window, her cardigan sleeves pushed up to the elbows, the thyme plant on the sill gone leggy and heroic.

“Talk to me,” she said, gentler now. “You go quiet when you’ve done something brave or stupid. I can’t tell which it is yet.”

“Maybe both.”

“Usually is,” she said, and I heard the smile.

I set the glass down. The water shivered. My coat carried the ghost of cedar and smoke and a man who had no business existing. I didn’t touch it.

“Mum,” I said, and the word felt too big for my mouth, “is it… is it normal to be scared of yourself?”

There was the smallest pause, the kind she takes when she decides to earn the truth rather than hurry it. “Aye,” she said at last. “It’s the healthy ones who are. The dangerous people are never frightened of themselves, only of being seen.”

I closed my eyes. The kitchen narrowed to breath and tile. “It feels like if I take my foot off the brake, I won’t know what I’ll become.”

“That’s not fear, that’s recognition,” she said, steady as weather. “You’ve met the part of you that wants a bigger life. She’s loud. She doesn’t apologise. You’re frightened because you were taught to be nice when you’re meant to be true.”

My throat worked. “And if my true burns things?”

“Then you learn how to carry water,” she said simply. “You don’t make yourself smaller because other people can’t be bothered to build firebreaks. You hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Good girl.” A breath. “You’ve always been a bright thing. Bright things set off alarms. Put food in your stomach. Drink water. Sleep. Tomorrow you can decide whether it was bravery or stupidity.”

I let out something that almost laughed and almost cried. “I love you.”

“And I love you. More than is seemly.” A beat. “And Caitríona?”

“Hm?”

“If you’re standing on the edge of something and it’s you you’re scared of, I’m not worried. If you were standing on the edge because of some man, I’d be in the car.”

I stared at my own reflection in the black window. “It’s me.”

“Then I’ll stay put,” she said, satisfied. “For now. But answer your phone, or I will turn up, and I’ll bring your aunt and her opinions.”

I smiled, real enough it hurt. “Threat noted.”

“Good. Now go and put toast in that posh toaster and stop pacing holes in your floor. Give my love to Tom.”

My jaw clenched once. “I will,” I lied again, softly.

She let me have it. “Night, my heart.”

“Night.”

I hung up and the silence came back kind. The glass of water was warmer now. I drank, finally, the swallow dragging all the way down. In the reflection I could see the set of my shoulders, the tilt of my chin, the woman Mum had named without seeing, brave or stupid, I couldn’t tell. The coat on the chair held a scent that wasn’t mine.

I turned off the tap. Fed the queen her late-night biscuit. Stood there a moment longer in the hum of the flat with the city breathing beyond the glass, and let the fear sit where it was, not chased, not drowned. Just held.

Then I did the practical thing she’d ordered.

Toast. Water. Bed.

And in the dark, when my eyes finally closed, the thing I feared most, myself, didn’t look like a monster.

She looked awake.

---

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My phone lit the bedside table.

Alex

Tell me the door’s locked.

Me

Locked. Toast. Water. Happy now?

Alex

Not even close.

Me

You put yourself in my phone. That’s rude.

Alex

You left it with me. I returned it improved.

Me

Presumptuous.

Alex

Necessary. You’ll thank me when you need me.

Heat curled low, shameful, certain.

Me

I won’t.

Alex

You will. Friday if not before.

The dots came, vanished. I held my breath. Then the screen lit again.

Alex

Goodnight, Caitríona. Dream of me. And if you don’t, I’ll make sure you do Friday.

My thumb hovered, traitorous. I typed Goodnight back, stared at it, deleted it.

The phone slipped from my hand, face down on the sheets. But his words stayed, curling hot beneath my skin, refusing to let me sleep.

---

Friday arrived dressed like a dare.

I woke before the alarm, heart already a notch too quick, the flat grey-blue with that particular London light that makes everything look honest. Nounou snuffled from her blanket, blinked at me like you’re up early for trouble, and went back to pretending she didn’t care.

Shower first. Hot enough to sting, to rinse the night off me and quiet the part of my mind that had replayed Goodnight, Caitríona on a loop. Water hammered my shoulders; I braced my palms to the tile and let it drum a rhythm I could breathe to.

He is a patient this morning.

He is a session.

You are in control.

Lies that wanted to be true.

Steam fogged the mirror. I wrapped in a towel, towel-turbaned my hair, and stood there a second, pulse steadying in the hush. The blow-dryer’s white noise gave me cover to think. I rough-dried, then smoothed, roots lifted, ends pulled sleek with the brush until the blonde fell like intention down my back. A glossy veil. A weapon, if I needed it.

Makeup was armour, not disguise. Concealer where worry had tried to live. A clean sweep of liner, not dramatic, just enough to sharpen the gaze. Mascara, heavy, so my lashes became a small threat. Cheekbones coaxed back to life. Lips the colour of bitten fruit, not a red that lied, a rosewood that told the truth softly. I looked like I slept. I hadn’t.

I opened the wardrobe and went straight to the dress as if it had called me in the night: deep violet, pencil-cut, spaghetti straps that said don’t underestimate me. I slid it on, the fabric meeting my skin like it knew the map already, waist hugged, hips cupped, hem obedient at the knee. Strong. Woman. Entire.

Nude stilettos next. The sensible kind, which is to say, murderous. Perfume last. Something white and clean, sinking into amber that warmed as it touched skin. One mist at the throat, one at the wrist, one where my pulse beat low. I let it settle.

In the hall mirror I paused. Blonde sleek. Shoulders bare and unapologetic. The line of the dress uncompromising. I stood straighter without telling myself to. You can do hard things. He’d said Don’t be late as if lateness were an obscenity. I checked the time; half eight looming like a brand.

Trench over my shoulders for the walk, camel, structured, the sensible big sister to the dress’s sin. I slid my arms into it but didn’t belt it, because I liked the way the violet flashed when I moved.

I crouched to kiss Nounou’s head; she tolerated me like a saint. “Guard the realm,” I told her. She sneezed in disdain.

On the threshold I hesitated, palm on the jamb, as if the flat might weigh in. A breath. Then another. He had told me to breathe and I hated that my body listened to him from rooms away.

He plays with your mind and your breath.

He doesn’t get your day.

At the corner, I caught myself in a shop window: woman in a trench with a sliver of violet like a bruise of royalty, hair glossy, mouth set. Strong. Sexy. Boundaried. It wasn’t a costume. It was the truest thing I’d managed all week.

By the time I hit Marylebone High Street, my stride had settled into that calm, razor line that makes people move for you. I thought of the roses on my desk, of the small black card with silver teeth, of the way his thumb had learned my pulse. I let the thoughts come and pass like traffic. If I fed them, they’d eat me.

The townhouse came into view, brick warm in the light, windows wide-eyed. I checked my watch. Early, by a minute. Good. I like to arrive first to my own life.

On the steps I paused long enough to slide a palm down the front of the dress and feel it answer me back. A small, private thrill of being exactly as I intended. Then I squared my shoulders, set my mouth, and pushed the door.

Maya looked up, clocked everything in a glance, and grinned like she’d been waiting her whole life to see this dress on me. “Good morning, Cait. Jesus wept. Who gave you permission to look like a felony before ten?”

“Do your emails,” I said, setting my bag down. “And stop ogling my shoulders.”

“I would, but they’re ogling me first.” She leaned over the desk, stage-whisper conspiratorial. “Hair like a shampoo advert. That dress? Violent. The shoes? Illegal. Somewhere a man is apologising and he hasn’t even met you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Have we finished?”

“Not remotely.” She flicked her screen awake, the smug already warming. “Housekeeping: your ten o’clock has confirmed.”

“Alex?” My voice didn’t move. My pulse did.

Maya’s mouth curved. “Mm-hmm. Our hot-and-rich patient slash minor deity. Also, tiny scheduling note.” She primmed her lips, trying for solemn and failing. “He’s booked himself in for five per week.”

I stared. “Five what?”

“Sessions.” She twirled a pen. “As in: every weekday. Ten a.m. Standing appointment. From now on.”

“That’s not-” I cut myself off. “You can’t just-”

“He can,” she sang. “Apparently he saw Reece at the crack of dawn. They said words like ‘intensive work’ and ‘time-limited block’ and then there were muffins, Cait. Warm ones. I’m only human.”

“Reece signed off on this?”

“Printed. Stamped. Gift-wrapped.” She turned the screen so I could see my diary annihilated by five neat A. Ashcroft - 10:00 entries marching across the week like soldiers on parade. “It’s quite sexy in a tyrannical way.”

“Sexy isn’t a clinical category.”

“It is today.” She wiggled her brows. “Also, he sent a message for you. Verbatim: Don’t be late. I’m choosing to hear that as ‘Have a lovely morning, Dr Thorne.’”

I swallowed heat and annoyance in the same breath. Relentless. Of course he was. “Five a week is excessive.”

“It’s also loaded,” Maya said brightly. “With cash. I checked.”

“Maya.”

“What? I’m supporting your retirement.” She leaned in, dropped her voice. “You’re a professional. He’s a hurricane. Wear a hard hat.”

“I am wearing a hard hat,” I said, smoothing an imaginary seam down the violet. “You’re just distracted by the colour.”

“Deep violet.” She sighed. “Honestly, it’s rude how fit you look. If he doesn’t repent on sight, I’ll ring the optician.”

Despite myself, my mouth tilted. “You’re over the top.”

“And you love me for it.” She slid a slim folder across to me. “Room’s prepped. I hid the roses so you don’t throttle him with them.”

“Thoughtful.”

“I’m a giver.” She glanced at the clock. “Do you want me to usher him in with a hymn, or will your heels handle the liturgy?”

“My heels will manage.” I picked up the folder, pulse settling into a dangerous, anticipatory thrum.

As I turned, she called after me, sing-song sweet: “Oh, Cait?”

I paused.

“If this is war, you’re winning already. Try not to enjoy it too much.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. The parquet took my heels and made each step sound like a decision. Ten o’clock ticked closer. In my drawer, a silk square waited like a dare. In my chest, something hot and unreasonable lifted its head.

Five a week.

Relentless.

Fine.

So was I.

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