Chapter One – The Perfect Housewife

It’s bright in here.

Too bright.

The lights are burning my retinas so I avert my eyes to the floor.

It stinks too. Burning and clinical, it lashes at the delicate cilia that line my nostrils. It coils with the flickering of fire, snaking into my skull, cascading down the back of my throat. The recognition of urine, rubbing alcohol and harsh cleaning products overlain by a sickly-sweet artificial lavender. I wince as it hits my stomach, trying not to wretch as hear a pssh. My body reacts, flinging my senses and my mind aside. My heart smashes into my ribcage, tightening the band around my chest. My lungs can’t move, they can’t breathe the air I need and I feel the pins and needles shoot through my muscles. Slowly, my mind and my body reconnect as I begin to refocus on my surroundings, naming the source of the noise. Recognising that is isn’t a threat.

Just the mounted air freshener, somewhere above me. My breathing calms, my pulse settles. I take a deep breath into my lungs, forcing the calm. Then it releases again.

Pssh.

I startle, my heart leaps and my body clenches. It takes a moment before I remember. The air freshener. It’s just the air freshener. I exhale, moving my gaze to my lap and shuffle in the uncomfortable hard chair. The bones of my hip seem to grind against its plastic mould. It’s stapled to the row, they’re all fixed in a line. Each seat made for the use of all and none fit for purpose. I twist my hands together, attempting to distract from the adrenaline that is burning in my veins. I don’t dare to look but I know I’m not here alone. I’ve heard a few people coming and going. Someone coughs to the right of me, disturbing my heart again but I don’t look up. I can hear them hacking away, they’re probably sitting on the other row. My backside is feeling numb, it’s starting to get pins and needles, they’re shooting down my hips.

All of my senses are taking a beating. I risk a glance at the large analogue clock on the cream, bare wall in front of me. Quickly I look back down, avoiding the glare of the ceiling light.

She’s late.

I loosen the breath in my chest, it’s on the edge and it won’t relax. My heart peppers, anticipating the sodding air freshener. When will it come? Any minute now. Why is she late? If I dared to be late, she would be furious. Double standards here. Always a different rule for them.

‘Fuck!’ I cry, the pssh came out of nowhere. I hear a small giggle from across the waiting room. I know it’s directed at me, but I don’t look. I don’t need to look. I don’t want to look. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t like it. But I have to be here. She tells me it’s just anxiety, the fight and flight response. There was a time back in what she called ‘the caveman times’ where it was helpful apparently. And it can be helpful now, alerting us to threats, so she said. Stops us crossing the road without looking, like I would ever be stupid enough to do that. But there’s no danger here now, she tells me. It’s just my body telling me I’m in danger. Like a faulty car alarm, the threat response is over-sensitive. Triggering when it is reminded. It’s all in the past. I agreed. I have to. I nod along and I agree with whatever nonsense she spews. I don’t ever want to go back through those doors, that lock without a key. The screams, the wails in the night. The lights were even brighter than in here. They hurt my eyes. The screaming hurt my ears. Everything hurt my body, my mind…

I hear something dragging on the floor from my right, pulling me to the present with a thump. Another drag. Slow. A thud. My mind catches up. Recognises. Someone moving across the room laboriously. I keep my eyes down, but I see a pair of old, haggard shoes in my periphery. Large feet. Trousers too long, dragging on the floor. From the stomp and drag of the gait I would say this one was elderly. Judging by the shoes, the trouser combination, I’d say male. He hauls himself across the waiting room. Drag, stop. Drag stop. They shuffle. Then stop. I hear a dull thump and a sharp exhale, the wind knocked out of him as he lumps himself into the row of chairs to my left. He’s out of breath, I can hear him wheezing. There’s another small giggle from the one in front of me. I ignore both of them.

There’s a few of us but no one speaks in here. The thrum of voices are from each of the clinic rooms around us, that’s where the conversations take place. Never here.

The clock ticks. The noise, boring into my ear drums.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I squeeze my hands tighter. My palms have started to sweat. They slip, and I grip harder, digging my nails in.

Why does she insist on making me wait?

Pssh.

My heart recoils, it hurts as my breathing quickens. It makes me feel sick. No, this time I am going to be sick.

I can’t do this. My fight and flight response is kicking in, telling me there is a threat nearby, and I believe it. I need to get out of here. I need to go home. I can’t do this, I can’t cope, I’m in danger…

‘Eleanor Wilson?’

I jump to my feet, an automatic response to my name. My heart is now in my mouth. It’s drumming in my ears, drowning out the rapping of the clock. My breathing is out of control, the wretched air being forced in and out is desecrating my lungs, setting them ablaze. I’m hyperventilating. I forget about my bag, it flies off my lap, flipping upside down and slapping on the floor. The clatter seems to echo around the room, laughing at me cruelly and I hurriedly bend to pick it up. As I lift it, I realise it wasn’t zipped. Contents rain over the hard linoleum floor. I feel my face burn bright red, as tampons, pads and pills dance around and settle for the entire waiting room to see. The giggle from in front of me intensifies, as I desperately scrape the items back into the bag. My notebook displays my questions, humiliating me, and I scramble, rumpling the pages as I snap it shut, sealing it from view. She doesn’t help, she is standing there. Waiting. Watching me.

The threat is here.

I fling everything into my cream Louis Vuitton ‘backup’ backpack and throw it over my shoulder. I can feel my pulse in my face, the sweat is starting to pool under my arms and my head rushes. I want to listen to the flight and fight response. I want to run, go, escape. Get out.

But I don’t. My body takes the lead over my mind. Somehow, my feet find a way to step in front of each other. I watch them as they take me over to clinic room five against my will. She is holding the door open for me. She always does. I don’t know what her expression is. I imagine she is glaring at me, staring at me. Judging me.

I make it over the threshold, the light dims a little. I hear the door swing to behind me and I look up. The chair is there, waiting. Blue, fabric. Frayed in places. Shabby and old. No more comfortable than the plastic rows just outside. I make the four steps and take my seat like a good patient. I’m facing the large window. I see the sun hanging lazily in the summer sky, casting its rays across the car park. The construction workers are digging out the tarmac in the corner, ugly metal fences bordering the works off. I hear the muffled clip of her heels on the floor as she walks around the desk and takes her seat. Now she faces me. Her chair is new, ergonomically designed with comfortable armrests. The wheels glide across the carpet as she pulls herself in. My eyes find her and I fake a small smile but my heart doesn’t rest. Not yet. I feign control over my breath. Inhale; five, four, three, two, one. Exhale. Another count of five. It settles, slightly, but it is watchful. Anticipating. She rests her elbows upon the desk and places her delicate chin upon the backs of her hands. Her lashes are thick with mascara, the spider’s legs magnified by the fashionably large, gold rimmed glasses on her nose. Her lips are expertly lined with a taupe liner, pulled into a sad smile as she studies me.

‘Hi, Eleanor. So, it’s been a week. How are you doing?’

I flinch. ‘I’m okay, thank you.’

‘Everything okay, Eleanor?’ I cringe again at the jab. She noticed, of course she did. Her brows bend, taking me in.

‘Yes. Yes. Just… Please, could you call me Nora?’ I catch the look of disapproval flashing in her eyes. She quickly recovers, but I know. I’ve seen it.

‘Of course, my apologies. How are you doing, Nora?’ Her voice is soft, gentle. Calming. Designed to put her patients at ease. I inhale deeply, feeling the sickness and irritation rising. I have to ask her this every time. I wish she’d put as much effort into remembering her patients names as she puts into that infuriating tone.

‘Yes. I am okay, thank you.’

‘Good… Good…’ She flicks a whisp of golden hair out of her face, nodding her head as she takes her notes. I clasp my hands together again and try to stop the itch I can feel developing in my leg. Don’t fidget. I focus on the pen in her hand. It’s pink, an ostentatious feathered heart stuck at the top of it. I imagine she thinks it makes her look approachable. It doesn’t. She looks like a fucking child. She looks up suddenly, and smiles at me again.

‘How is the anxiety?’

‘Good.’ I lie.

‘And have you been hearing any voices that don’t sound like your own?’

‘No.’

‘Seeing anything unusual or out of place?’

‘No.’

‘Any more flashbacks?’

‘Sometimes yes.’

‘And how are you getting on with your grounding techniques?’

‘They are helping a bit.’

‘Excellent. Make sure you keep practicing them when you’re feeling better. They’ll be easier to recall when you need them.’

I nod compliantly. She makes more notations. ‘And you’re still taking your quetiapine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any side effects?’

‘A bit of dry mouth. That’s all I’ve noticed so far.’

‘Excellent. Okay, pop over to the scales.’ She motions to the antiquated device in the corner behind me. I stand from my seat and walk to it obediently. I step onto the pad but I choose to stare at the wall in front of me. She has arrived from her desk and is tottering on her obscene heels to check I’m doing it right.

‘Okay, 63.2 kilograms…’ I hear the scrape of the pink biro on the notepad as she mutters to herself.  ‘You can step down now. I’ll just take your blood pressure.’ She only gestures, she doesn’t look at me, ‘Have a seat, Eleanor, you don’t need to be standing for this one.’

I clench my jaw at the refusal to call me by my name. But I sit without complaint. I hold my arm out so she can place the cuff around it. It’s cold as she slips it on. I hear the whir of the machine and it tightens, filling with air. She hasn’t put it on right, it tightens and tightens. I don’t look at the machine, but I hear it pumping. It’s constricting me now, I can feel my pulse straining against it. I think it’s stopping the blood flow, my hand feels numb, my elbow feels funny. She’s going to break my arm, I can feel the bones snapping, my muscles splintering…

Finally, I hear the blessed beep and the air is released. I hear a small mmm from her, as she takes the reading. I don’t want to know what it is. The biro scratches at her notepaper. My pulse is alert, thumping under my delicate skin. She removes the cuff and struts back around her desk. She crosses one limb over the other and leans back in her nice chair. Now she is grinning widely at me. No lines appear on her face. Far too much Botox for any real expression. I can see the telltale puffiness of filler in her cheeks and lips. She’s over done it. But I smile back politely.

‘Well, Eleanor, it looks like you’re getting on really well at the moment, everything is looking good.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So I’ll book you back in with me in a week’s time, let me get my diary.’ She ruffles through her desk drawers, producing a thick pink book. She flips it open the glittery pink ribbon holding the place. Running a pointed acrylic down the page and studying it, she taps. ‘Now, I’m away on a training day next Tuesday… Next Thursday at two instead okay with you?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘Perfect. I’ll see you then, Eleanor.’

I see myself out. The bright lights of the waiting room blind me as I open the door, I quickly avert my eyes. I don’t look up until I am out of there, following my legs out of the clinic and into the July afternoon. The sun hits me as I step out into the car park. In any other circumstance it would be welcome, but not here. Not today. Today it burns me. It glowers down on me, showing up my sins. I walk quickly, out past the construction workers shouting and yelling over the sound of the digger. The jackhammer rattles my body, my bones jarring in time.

I race out of the clinic and down the street. It’s busy. I scurry past the tourists and shoppers in a haste. The air is hot and humid, the sweat sticking my Max Mara dress to my skin in all the wrong places. I can feel the cloth stretching over my belly, exposing it for the world to see. I resist the urge to touch it, to pull it away. Cyclists expertly dodge the drunken brunchers; giggling and hollering at each other. My pace sends shooting pains through my stomach, but I don’t relent. I round the corner, glance left and right and step out into the road. A cry stops me in my tracks and a disgruntled cyclist flies in front of me, missing me by inches. My heart screams, but it is already on high alert. I am already anticipating a threat. My body takes over, leaving my mind somewhere in the atmosphere, it hurries me on across the road and up to the shelter. The bus is there, it is waiting for me. Gratefully, I race on, flashing the driver my return ticket and seat myself in the free seat at the front. It is busy on here too, I hear the hubbub of conversation, jovial laughing and screams of a newborn. Pain shoots through my stomach again. I grip onto my bag, counting.

Five things.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

I am back on the bus. I gather my surroundings. Mercifully I know I only have two stops until I am released from this hell. Two stops and a five-minute walk. I hear the ping, the bus slows in response. A young man bounds off. The doors shut behind him, and the bus pulls away again. One more stop. Only one more to go.

I stand, clicking the stop button. I hear it ping, but I press it once, twice more. Just to be safe. The driver scowls at me, I can see him in his mirror, he’s not happy with me but I don’t care. I need to be sure he heard. He slows, indicates and turns to the side of the road slowly. I am still standing, but I hurry to the front before he has come to a stop. I feel him apply the brakes and he releases the doors. They’re barely open before I’ve squeezed myself through and raced down the street. Past the Georgian houses, with their black railed front gardens and perfectly manicured lawns. They get larger and more decadent as I reach the end.

I take the next turning, and the next. I break into a sprint, the house in view. The largest, at the end of the road. It looms over me as I approach. Keys jangling in my hand I tear down the pavement, through the grand gate, down our sweeping drive and up the stairs to the front door. My hands are shaking, I can’t get the key in. Finally, I feel it slot into place. Turning it, I hear the click, and I let myself in.

I close the door behind me and lock it fast. And breathe.

I am home.

I am safe.

I stand there, leaning against the door in the cool hallway, catching my breath. The adrenaline that was fuelling my body is ebbing away, leaving behind a broken, fragile shell. The sound of the blood in my ears fades. It’s quiet. Of course it’s quiet. I know Simon isn’t here.

I pad down the tiled hallway and reach the staircase. Slipping my shoes off, my toes burrow into the soft, shag carpet runner as I ascend the stairs. My fingertips graze the banister delicately. I barely make a noise. Reaching the top, I turn into the landing area. I face the doorway. The door is closed. It’s always closed now. I feel the pain shoot through my stomach as I walk past the master bedroom, the bathrooms, the other spare rooms on my left, away from the closed door. I turn and leave the floor behind me as I ascend the next set of stairs. Up to the third floor. I make my way silently to the smallest room up here. The bed is still unmade, sheets crumpled and curtains shut. Just as I left them this morning.

I crawl in, not bothering to remove my dress. The cup and the bottle are still on the side, alongside the pills. I tuck them under my tongue and pour a shot of Hendricks, bringing it to my lips. It burns my throat as it goes down. One won’t be enough, so I pour another. Down the hatch. I sink back into the bed, closing my eyes and I wait for the sweet oblivion to take over..