Her Little Secret

by Julia Stone

Genres: Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

'A brilliant read!'

'Tight and tense! just what you want in a suspense novel'

'I spent most of the novel silently screaming at her to save herself as she is propelled into a hideous relationship tangle ... This book wouldn't let me put it down even when real life was making demands!'

He was meant to be her little secret... but now he's yours.

As a therapist, Cristina knows it's vital to keep her clients at a professional distance. That is until she meets new client Leon. Charming. Seductive. Dangerous.

Leon comes to her grieving after the death of his married lover, Michelle. A woman Cristina realises used to be her client. As they work through his feelings in session after session in close proximity, ignoring her attraction to Leon is at first difficult... and soon impossible.

But as she unravels the truth about his affair with Michelle, one thing becomes clear. Michelle's death was no accident. And Leon is involved.

For fans of You, Before I Go to Sleep and Obsession, Her Little Secret is an utterly chilling new psychological thriller about obsessive love and the danger of crossing lines.

Readers can't get enough of Her Little Secret!

'A well-written plot with a believable yet shocking premise which made for very satisfying reading' FIVE STARS

'An entertaining thriller that is sure to keep readers on the edge of their seats' FIVE STARS

'Fast paced, suspenseful and twisty. Gripping. I couldn't put it down, definitely worth a read' FIVE STARS

'Blurred lines and boundaries in this tense, psychological suspense which will keep the reader on their toes' FIVE STARS

'A riveting read from a brilliant writer who knows what she's writing about' FIVE STARS

Release date: August 29, 2021

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

Downstairs the phone rings and I curse. I’m having a lie-in with Davy – my on/off ex – and it’s snug here. Davy cuddles closer, flings his arm across my waist, a “don’t go” gesture.

‘I’ve got to get it. Could be Clare,’ I say, throwing back the duvet and wriggling loose. He tugs the covers back around him, capturing the escaping warmth as I grab my dressing gown then rush for the stairs.

The answerphone clicks on as I reach the bottom step, buying me a second or so to catch my breath. His voice echoes around my small hallway. A deep dark-brown, educated timbre. Gravitas, but ill at ease.

‘Hallo? I … I wanted to speak to Cristina Hughes …’

The flattened tone suggests depression. My bathrobe flaps about me as I hurry to grab the receiver before he rings off, concerned he’ll disappear without leaving contact details. I know how hard it is to psych yourself up to contact a therapist ‒ preparing what to say, picking a time when you feel ready to make the commitment to talk about your problems. It’s not easy; if you don’t actually get to speak to them in person the emotional crash can be too much.

‘Hallo, Cristina Hughes speaking.’ The hall clock says ten. We’d had a late night. ‘Good morning.’

There’s a pause as the man registers he’s no longer talking to a machine.

‘Hi. How can I help you?’ I prompt.

‘My name is Leon. Leon Jacobs. I wondered if I might make an appointment to see you?’ He speaks slowly as if each word requires careful thought.

‘Of course. Can I just take some details?’

‘I lost my partner … It’s been very difficult … I feel I’ve lost everything.’

I close my eyes, take a deep breath. Bereavement.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s been hard since she died,’ Leon Jacobs continues. ‘I keep thinking about her … can’t concentrate on anything else … And there’s no one I can talk to …’

It’s often like this: like a valve opens in these initial calls, the relief of being able to speak to someone they believe will understand leads to everything pouring out. The trust moves me every time, drawing me into their life from the start.

Behind me I hear Davy coming downstairs. He pauses beside me mouthing, ‘Tea?’ and I shoo him away, trying to focus on Leon Jacobs, all the while aware of the soft pad of Davy’s bare feet on the tiles as he heads to the kitchen.

‘It must be hard for you, especially if you have no one to talk to. How long were you married?’

‘We weren’t married. At least not to each other.’

Illicit lovers then. An affair.

‘Sorry, of course you said “partner”.’

Five minutes later, contact details exchanged and appointment booked, I hang up. It seems he got my number from a find-a-therapist website, had seen that I’d just started taking on clients again. He’s read my blog ‒ my first posting, at the end of my year-long sabbatical, after Dad died.

Dealing with Grief.

Even after all these years as a therapist, it can still take conscious effort for me to push my own emotions and memories to one side; to stay in the room, listening, rather than off in my own head. It’s a skill, Epoché. It means suspension of judgement, not reacting automatically to things the client says.

Bereavement.

An affair.

He’s triggered a lot in that first phone call.

The smell of burnt toast wafts from the kitchen. Davy hasn’t got the hang of my new toaster yet. He’s scraping the singed bits over the bin, a light dusting of black crumbs cover the surrounding floorboards and his trainers.

‘Work,’ I say.

‘Yeah, you was doing The Voice.’ He claims I adopt a “posh voice” when I speak with clients. ‘Tea’s there.’ He gesticulates with his elbow, intent on the task of salvaging his breakfast. Two mugs stand on the draining board, the teabags no doubt stewing in the depths of the tepid milky brew.

‘You got any jam?’ he asks, plonking the toast on a side plate, satisfied with his efforts.

‘Marmalade. But it’s the chunky-cut stuff with peel.’

He turns up his nose, gives a resigned shrug. ‘It’ll do. I’ll dig the bits out.’

Had the previous night been planned I would’ve made sure I stocked up on Davy’s breakfast requirements: white bread, salted butter, strawberry jam, builder’s tea. But it had been a bit of an impromptu evening. Hard to believe it’s been over twenty years since we divorced but some things don’t change. We’re still great friends and ‒ as long as neither of us is in a relationship with someone else ‒ we fall back on each other for affectionate, uncomplicated sex now and then. It’s cosy rather than passionate; neither of us having to hold in our stomachs or worry about our stretch marks.

Davy plasters his toast with butter while I eat my yogurt staring out the window at the back garden. For months I’ve been planning to requisition the summerhouse from its role of shed/dumping ground and turn it into a garden office where I can meet my clients. Of course, I’ve never got round to doing it, blaming the cold weather, the price of paint, my morose winter lethargy. Until my sabbatical I always used the front room to see clients, which meant keeping the décor bland and having to tidy up before each person comes. It would be nice to spoil myself with a designated professional space. With Leon Jacobs’ appointment in the diary for the following week, a new office could be the thing I need to gear me up for a fresh start.

‘You busy today?’ I ask Davy. ‘If not, I could do with a hand.’

By lunchtime we’re well under way with project refurb. Davy is like one of those wind-up toys: once the key is turned and he’s set in the right direction, he’s off. We’ve always made a good team on practical projects: Davy’s good humour balancing my indecisive faffing; both of us willing to turn our hand to hard work, neither of us too perfectionist in the execution.

I step back from the oblongs of colour I’ve painted on the wall. It’s taken a while but I’ve got it down to three: Tranquil Garden (the traditional shade of green found in ’70s schools and old lunatic asylums); Pink Clouds (psychologically calming according to research experiments in prisons, but a bit teenage bedroom); and Fresh Cream (the bland neutral of magnolia).

‘Well, which do you think?’

Davy’s been puffing his cheeks beside me as I vacillate. Home décor’s not his thing.

‘One wall of each.’ He scratches his head like Stan Laurel, although his build has become more Oliver Hardy over the years. ‘What’s it meant to look like? You’re the shrink.’

‘I’ve told you ‒ I’m a therapist, not a psychiatrist.’ I thump the lid down on the paint pot, hard enough that it hurts my hand. ‘You have to do a degree and years of training to be a psychiatrist.’ I rub the heel of my hand, circling my wrist to ease the throbbing.

‘It don’t really matter what it’s called ‒ you still help people sort themselves out. That’s why they come to see you. ’Cause you understand how to fix them, not ’cause of some fancy title.’ He stretches his arms above his head arching his back, his T-shirt pulling up showing his hairy belly. ‘I’m starved,’ he says, patting the exposed flesh.

‘I’ve got some cake in the bread bin. Madeira. The one with icing.’ I’m keen to make amends for snapping at him.

‘You know the way to a man’s heart. I’ll get the kettle on while you make up your mind.’

By the time he returns from the house with the mugs of tea I’ve painted the first coat of magnolia over all the samples. Better safe than sorry.

The night before Leon Jacobs’ appointment my stomach’s dancing. It’s a familiar feeling with a direct line back to the first time I ever performed on stage: only “Third Shepherd” in the school nativity, but I thought I’d physically burst with the combined excitement of having Dad and Mum in the audience and the anxiety of wanting to do my best.

Tonight I’m not approaching bursting point, but I still can’t resist a final inspection of my new office, even though I know it’s ready and there’s no more to do.

There’s a tingle of pleasure as I unlock the door and take stock. I run my finger along the spines of the textbooks on the shelf above the two-drawer filing cabinet in the corner. ACT, CBT, NLP, TA: so many acronyms but their familiarity is reassuring ‒ I know these things. I straighten the coasters on the coffee table, ready for the jug of water and glasses I’ll bring from the kitchen first thing in the morning. Make sure the obligatory box of tissues is discreet but within reach.

It’s perfect. It says Professional.

Back in the house, the final step in my preparation is to select my outfit. Not that there’s much to decide. From the start I’ve modelled my style as a therapist on Clare, originally my tutor and now my supervisor. We meet once a month to discuss my cases and even now she always wears the same “uniform”: dark top and trousers, low-key, unmemorable jewellery. Our aim as therapists is to blend into the background, to be slightly anonymous, “not to get in the way of the process”. For Clare it seems natural. For me it’s all part of the role, as essential for me to become The Therapist as the tools of any method actor.

I lay the chosen outfit on the back of the armchair in my bedroom, place my watch on top. The wind-up Timex Dad gave me when I started secondary school at Wellington Drive; the first occasion I’d ever needed to find my way anywhere on time.

A deep breath.

I’m ready. The therapist will see you now.

Waiting for Leon to arrive the next morning I’ve little idea what to expect. Unlike prospective employers, it would be frowned on for a therapist to search social media for background information, check out websites, or scour LinkedIn CVs, even if we might be tempted. All we have to work with is what the client chooses to share with us. At this moment I only know the little Leon has told me on the phone. Bereavement; an affair.

He rings the doorbell a few minutes early, catching me out. I’m still in the downstairs loo, checking my unruly hair, which I’ve pulled into a tight chignon, spraying it into an immobile helmet so it doesn’t flop in my eyes at the wrong moment. The lipstick I applied five minutes ago now feels too loud so I hastily rub it off with a tissue, check my teeth in the mirror. Smile.

As I open the door he extends his hand and I have to juggle my leather-bound folder to the other arm in order to respond.

‘Leon Jacobs.’ A firm professional handshake. Around fifty, he’s a very good-looking man in a boyish kind of way, more Tom Cruise than Bruce Willis. But taller than Cruise, an inch or so off six foot I guess. Fashionable short beard, full head of dark hair. Smart grey suit and open-necked shirt, as if he’s on the way to or from work.

‘Hi. I’m Cristina.’

He nods. His smile is tight-lipped, like his body language. Controlled and contained, with that confident air typically instilled by a boarding school upbringing.

I lead the way around the side of the house and across the lawn to the paint-fresh summerhouse. Mercifully the walk is short enough that there’s not much need for small talk and my enquiry about how easy he found parking proves sufficient.

Once seated on the suede-effect IKEA sofa he looks around slowly, taking in every inch. And following his gaze, I feel exposed: my pride in this room snatched away, worrying that he sees it for what it is ‒ a jazzed-up garden shed. It feels like I’ve gone to too much effort. It all seems too staged, like a film set.

Focus. This is not the moment for doubts. With Leon, my first new client, sitting before me I have to assume my role.

I start with my introduction, a well-rehearsed spiel after fifteen years: from the logistics of session length and fee structure, to reassurances about my professionalism ‒ my monthly supervision with another qualified therapist, details of my registering body should he have a complaint, respect for confidentiality.

‘Any notes I take are merely an aide-memoire. No one will see your file but me.’ I pass him a copy of the “working contract” to sign, seeking his agreement to the process I’ve outlined.

Leon pulls a fancy pen from his inside pocket as I continue, ‘Boundaries are very important in our work together.’ I lean forward and tap on the document to show him the paragraph. ‘As it says in the contract, to maintain your privacy I will only contact you if we’ve agreed it in advance. If I bump into you outside the therapy room I won’t acknowledge you unless you speak to me first. And if you’re on social media I can’t accept friendship requests.’

He looks up, raises his eyebrows. ‘Seems very formal.’

‘I prefer to think of it as respectful of your privacy. You might be with someone who doesn’t know you’re seeing a therapist and it could put you on the spot if you had to introduce me.’

‘Ah yes.’ He passes the form back. A neat, cramped signature, unusual for someone left-handed. He’s added the date even though he’s not been asked. ‘As you can tell, I’ve not had therapy before. It’s a new and somewhat unnerving experience.’

‘Unnerving?’

‘Exposing my vulnerable underbelly. I’m not used to talking about myself. Not one for emotional unloading.’

‘We’ll go at your pace. There is no need to discuss anything that makes you uncomfortable if you aren’t ready.’

‘I feel in safe hands. You clearly get results. The testimonials on your website are very impressive.’

Ah my website, barely touched in years; my bereavement blog, ironically, the only sign of recent life.

He continues: ‘Integrative psychotherapy. An interesting holistic approach. I did some research to make sure I understood what I was getting into. Tailoring the therapy to the client. It makes perfect sense.’

Validation. I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Thank you.’ I look at my watch, not really registering the time; a subconscious signal to both of us, the starter’s gun. ‘It would be good if you could tell me a bit about yourself. Could we start with your family background?’

He tells me he has a brother and two nephews he never sees. An elderly father who lives abroad. Mother died when he was in his twenties. I was right about the boarding school: he was sent away at seven years old. His delivery is emotionless, even when he mentions losing his mother.

‘As a family we were never close,’ he says, looking down at his lap.

‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Hunter S Thompson said, “You can’t miss what you never had …” That said, I’m conscious that I’m quite alone in the world. Even more so at a time like this.’

‘Do you have friends you can talk to?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. I live alone and I’m not really a social animal. That’s why I wanted to come to see you. Your description of bereavement … it just summed up what I’ve been feeling.’

He is lost, completely alone. ‘If you feel ready, can you tell me what happened, how you came to be bereaved?’

A lengthy silence follows, his gaze now fixed on the ceiling. When he starts speaking he keeps his eyes averted.

Her name was Michelle.

She was a mature student on a course he runs at the college where he is head of department. A secret affair.

He hadn’t spoken to her for a fortnight; she hadn’t come to her classes. While concerned, he didn’t want to keep ringing her mobile, wary of her husband.

‘It was a Tuesday,’ he says. ‘I was setting up for a lesson. A couple of students had arrived early. One of them wanted to ask me about his idea for his final project. Just a normal day.’

That’s how it always happens. On a normal day. In the real world there are no thunder claps, biblical plagues or music that heralds doom.

‘One of the school administrators interrupted us. I could tell from her face it was urgent. Her job is pastoral care for students and I thought one of them must have been taken ill or had an accident on site. I never thought …’

He never thought it would be Michelle.

‘The administrator had phoned Michelle’s home to find out why she hadn’t been in class for two weeks.’ He pauses and the seconds tick past but I hold the space, allow him time. ‘There had been a car accident the week before.’

He hadn’t known for days, carried on with his everyday life, going to the supermarket, paying his bills, doing the washing up; all the while not knowing that she lay in hospital in an induced coma. To add to his trauma, he was unable to visit her for fear of meeting her husband and family. Even in the guise of her tutor from college he was worried he’d show emotion, give away the connection between them.

He didn’t attend the funeral.

I make a note on my pad: No closure rituals. Danger of complex grief?

‘Have you told anyone this before?’

‘No. There is no one I could tell.’

‘How do you feel, describing what happened?’

‘I really don’t know. How do I sound?’

‘Unemotional. Like it’s someone else’s story. Like you’re not allowing yourself to feel anything.’

‘I don’t know how I should I feel.’ His flattened tone and shrunken posture convey everything he’s unable to say. ‘I don’t think I have the words.’

‘Tell me the first things that come to mind.’

His eyes flick from me to the floor and he sits very still for several seconds.

‘Desperate for answers. Helpless. Annoyed with her for having such a stupid damn accident, for not being here with me … Wanting to talk to her, just to have one last conversation.’

‘What would you want to say to her if you could have that conversation?’

‘I don’t know … I’d just want to sit with her, be there for her … Tell her that she can’t leave me alone like this, that I need her … We belong together …’

His voice is quiet, but tinged with anger: blaming her, blaming fate. In textbooks this is the second stage of grief: denial – anger, followed neatly by bargaining – depression – acceptance … But in reality it’s not a formulaic five-phase process; for some there are loops, for others leaps, while many are unable to move through at all.

He sighs deeply, bringing me back to the room. ‘I’d tell her I need her. That this doesn’t change anything. I’ll always love her.’

I leave a space for him to continue but he doesn’t say more.

‘How would Michelle have known that you loved her?’

He shrugs. ‘How does anyone know? Words, gestures, the things I did for her, the tokens of affection.’ It’s a superficial answer.

‘Where do you feel your love for her?’

He places his hand on his chest, over his heart, and breathes in deeply, screwing his eyes tight shut. It’s a while before his pallor returns to normal. ‘She was everything I ever wanted. From the moment I first saw her I wanted to get to know her …’

He opens his eyes, rubbing at them as if he’s tearing up, then clears his throat. But, even so, when he speaks his voice is choked. ‘It was at a charity dinner. I can see her now ‒ her emerald green gown, her perfect skin, the way she moved … So elegant. So beautiful. She was helping with the gift auction and I placed the highest bid for an appalling painting, just so I could speak to her.’ He lowers his head and it’s some moments before he speaks again. ‘And now, she’s gone, but I still have the wretched thing …’

Having escorted him out at the end of the session I sit down heavily on the sofa he’s just vacated. I’m exhausted. Juggling so many emotions ‒ his, my own. Trying to wrestle away my judgements and stay focused.

What do I feel about him? Certainly he’s a charming and good-looking man and I can see why Michelle could fall for someone like that. But she was married. And he knew that. Yes, I can see he’s grieving, feel his pain, but a thought arises that I feel guilty for: it’s so much worse for her husband.

There’s a tension in my temple saying something doesn’t sit well with me and I know what’s causing it. Clare would call it counter-transference. This feeling is not really about Leon, but what he represents to me. The deceit of an affair, the lies and secrecy of my own mother and her lover. The selfish destroying of love and families. Had I hidden this gut reaction? Had I appeared the professional I work hard to be?

Looking across the room to my empty chair I try to see myself through his eyes. Arrayed on the wall my certificates proclaim my capability. It’s the first time I’ve seen them from this angle. Hung by Davy, none of them are aligned. He’s not measured the space and this year’s Psychotherapy Practising Certificate is crammed against the window, like an afterthought.

The next evening Davy comes over and we cosy up on the sofa to share a few beers and watch something unchallenging on TV.

I tip Davy’s favourite smoky bacon crisps into a bowl before he can start eating them straight from the packet, then flop down next to him. I’ve been thinking about the discussion with Leon, debating the pull of first attraction, his description of when he first met Michelle.

I wait for the advert break to get Dav. . .