Tell Me Everything

by Laura Kay

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Would you entrust your life choices to someone hell-bent on avoiding theirs?

Natasha has everything under control, at least that's what her clients think. As a therapist, she has all the answers but when it comes to her personal life, she seriously needs to start taking her own advice.

Still living with her ex-girlfriend, Natasha's messy love life is made up of dates and one-night stands. After all, why would you commit to one person, when there is an endless stream of people waiting for you to swipe right? Besides, people always leave.

But when Margot arrives on the scene, everything changes. Flailing between mending long broken relationships and starting new ones, Natasha's walking the line between self-actualisation and self-destruction... With denial no longer an option, it is time for Natasha to take control of her own happiness.

~*~ PRAISE FOR LAURA KAY ~*~

'The Split has everything I love in a novel. It's hilariously funny, it's so uplifting, and its characters are irresistibly loveable' - BETH O'LEARY

'Full of humour, kindness, cake and a cat, this is the novel to turn to in difficult times' - KATIE FFORDE

'A warm, funny, comforting read with such loveable characters!' - RUTH JONES

'Uplifting, warm and heartfelt, with a cast of engaging characters who quickly became my friends. A feel-good depiction of love, friendship and family, which is very funny, but with moments of true poignancy too. An absolute must-read' - HOLLY MILLER

'It's like meeting Marian Keyes and Dawn O'Porter in a cosy gay pub in Sheffield!' MATT CAIN

'Wise, wonderful and so much fun. I loved it!' - HEIDI SWAIN

'It was pure fun. Heart-warming and adorable' - JULIE COHEN

'It's rare that a book so important to the literary canon is, at the same time, entertaining, heart-warming, and funny' - ANSTEY HARRIS

'I adored The Split - a hilarious but oh-so-relatable tale of how not to handle a break-up. It made me laugh and sigh and head out for a run' - HOLLY HEPBURN

'An absolute JOY from start to finish. If you're after a smart, funny romcom with characters to root for, this is one for you' - RICHARD ROPER

'Fun, sassy and a joy to read. I loved it!' - EMMA COOPER

'Such a lovely and heart-warming book. And it's hilarious! ... You'd be hard pushed to find a better group of characters to spend time with' - SUZANNE EWART

Release date: May 26, 2022

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

It is not even 9 a.m. and our flat is already hotter than the sun. I stand by the coffee machine inserting capsules and stabbing at buttons until something happens. Georgia is bashing ice cubes out of a tray. She swears as half of them land on the floor but the ones she manages to salvage she picks up in fistfuls and piles into our coffee mugs. She walks over to the fridge and passes me the oat milk, I put a splash in her mug and fill mine up to the top. I stir hers, pass it to her and then add sugar to mine. She grabs two paper straws from the drawer where we keep all the miscellaneous things that don’t have homes and places one in each of our cups. We both lean against the counter, take a sip at the same time and grimace slightly. We don’t like this flavour. It’s too strong. Ours is a very well-rehearsed morning coffee dance. This is the last time we’ll do it.

‘Want some?’ Georgia says as she spoons Greek yoghurt over a bowl of blueberries.

‘No thanks,’ I say, ‘I’m going to buy a smoothie on the way into work.’

‘A smoothie?’ Georgia raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment further. She licks her spoon and puts the yoghurt back in the fridge.

‘Sure.’

A smoothie, a croissant, a bacon sandwich. Who’s to say?

‘So what time are you going to be home later, do you think?’

I glance at my phone, as if knowing the time now will provide some sort of answer to her question.

‘Erm, realistically? Like . . . seven?’

‘Natty!’

‘What?’

I take a sip of my coffee. I know what.

‘You still have to pack!’

‘I will, I will.’

‘Have you even started?’

‘Obviously!’

‘Natasha.’

She looks at me seriously.

‘Look, have I physically started packing? No. But mentally I am fully on top of it. Don’t worry. I’m going to have it done in minutes.’

Georgia rolls her eyes at me but ends up smiling. She’s extra chipper this morning.

‘Right, I’m off,’ she says decisively without actually making any moves to go. ‘I’m having a quick drink with Zara after work and then I’ll be home to help you, OK?’

‘Oh, Zara’s not coming this evening?’

Georgia smiles patiently.

‘She’ll be here first thing in the morning.’

‘Of course, to escort me out.’

Georgia ignores me, puts her bowl in the sink, takes the straw out of her coffee and downs the dregs, crunching on a couple of ice cubes. I shudder.

‘OK, have a great day,’ she breezes past me, pausing to give me a swift kiss on the cheek on her way out. She smells nice, clean hair and perfume.

‘You too,’ I shout after her.

I stand in the kitchen alone for a moment, savouring the last drops of my horrible coffee for the final time.

*

In the end I swerve the smoothie and eat a croissant so flaky I end up inspecting myself for stray crumbs all day. The therapy room I rent is no cooler than the flat. It’s on the top floor of a converted town house. I have the window open and an ancient fan whirring away but I’m pretty sure it’s making things worse by pushing the thick air around the room. I’ve had three clients this morning – one midlife crisis, one quarter-life crisis and, finally, a terrible boyfriend. He’s the kind of client where instead of saying, ‘Hmm, and how does that make you feel?’ I want to put down my notebook, grab him by the shoulders and say, ‘Dump him! Dump him now!’ Instead I power through, nod in all the right places and privately count down the hours until I can have a very cold glass of wine.

‘The thing is,’ David is saying, ‘the thing is he’s had such a hard time with relationships in the past, and that’s not his fault. It’s just that now when it comes to commitment he really struggles, you know?’

‘Mmm,’ I nod, not a yes, not a no. I wait for him to keep talking.

‘So when he says it’s not the right time for him to come to my mum’s sixtieth birthday party, like he’s too overwhelmed to do that, even though I told him that it would mean a lot, and like, even though he cancelled on the day and was going to drive us and I had to buy a train ticket and it was really expensive, that’s really because of his deeper trust issues and I should respect that. Like maybe . . . maybe the issue is that I should have more empathy.’

‘Remind me,’ I say, ‘just refresh my memory so I’m clear. How long have you and Will been dating?’

David sits back in his chair and wipes some sweaty hair from his forehead. He knows I don’t need reminding.

‘Three and a half years.’

I let that hang in the air for a moment.

‘It’s a long time,’ he says eventually.

‘So you consider three years a long time. I think that’s valid. A lot of people would consider three years a significant amount of time. I wonder if it might be worth reflecting on just how many years you want to wait for someone to commit to you. And what that commitment might look like. And whether that’s something Will can offer you.’

He nods, tired. I’m tired too. This is perhaps too much for one person to reflect on in thirty-five-degree heat.

‘He’s not a bad person,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you to think . . . I wouldn’t want you to think badly of him.’

I nod.

‘What do you think you’ve said to me that would make him seem like a bad person?’

I do actually think he’s a bad person, a bad boyfriend anyway. This sixtieth birthday party was important. Just go and drink an Aperol Spritz with Margaret, Will. It’s one afternoon!

‘Just, I don’t know. I talk about him letting me down a lot but none of the good stuff.’

‘Do you feel let down?’

He looks at me, surprised at his own words echoed back at him.

‘I do feel let down. I just want him to be . . . I want him to be . . .’

He shakes his head.

‘I want him to be different.’

I nod. We’re out of time.

As soon as David leaves (to catch his train to go glamping with terrible Will and terrible Will’s friends) I grab my phone, order an Uber and race across town to make it in time to teach my class. Sometimes on Friday afternoons I run an Introduction to Therapy taster session. I’ve never committed to teaching the whole course. I don’t particularly like teaching but I do particularly love regular income.

I arrive at the nondescript office building with twenty minutes to spare, enough time for me to drag some plastic chairs into two semicircles, one behind the other, and stick a sign on the door which reads, ‘Please wait outside until class begins at 2pm’. Good to enforce boundaries early on. Boundaries are the bedrock of therapy. Also I don’t want to make small talk with all the very keen people who arrive early. But mainly the boundaries thing. Very important.

I had hoped the temperamental air conditioning might have kicked in but, if it has, I can’t feel it. I try to open the windows but they’re locked shut. A safety measure. I wonder if it is possible to boil alive in an office block. It smells of old carpet and microwaved lunches. It’s eerily quiet.

I decide, since I have a few minutes to myself, to eat the Twix that’s been melting in my bag all day and read the news, by which of course I mean, scroll through Twitter. I have a message from Georgia asking me for the thousandth time if I’ll definitely be home at seven. My stomach flips at the prospect of the evening. How long can packing really take?

I’ve just finished the first stick of my Twix when the door opens.

‘Excuse me? Natasha?’

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and quickly fold the wrapper around the second stick.

A woman is standing in the doorway clutching a takeaway coffee cup in one hand and her phone in the other. She’s wearing skinny jeans. Super tight and black. I don’t know how she’s coping with the heat. She smiles and makes to step into the room, assuming she’s found the correct one.

I stand up.

‘There’s a waiting area outside. Please go and take a seat and I’ll call you all in at two. There’s actually a sign on the door.’

It comes out much harsher than I intend it to. She stands completely still for a moment. It happens too quickly to be sure but I could swear I see a flicker of a smile play on her lips, just for a second.

‘Got it,’ she says as she backs out and down the hall.

I eat the rest of my chocolate hurriedly and watch the clock, waiting until it’s exactly 2 p.m. to go and fetch them all. My own voice, shrill and officious, rings in my ears: There’s actually a sign on the door.

When I pull the door open to let them in, I lean against it, making room for them all to file in past me.

‘Welcome,’ I say. ‘You can all come in now and find a seat.’

The girl in skinny jeans is the first to make her way towards me.

I reach out my hand to shake hers and she shoves her phone in the back pocket of her jeans in order to do so.

‘I’m Natasha.’

‘Margot.’ She says, ‘Sorry about before.’

Margot. A childhood friend had a dog named Margot. ‘If you catch her in the wrong mood she’ll have your arm off,’ my friend’s mum used to say, lovingly.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, feeling guilty about admonishing her. Should I apologise? Really it was more about Twix time getting interrupted than anything else.

‘I just like to set clear boundaries right from the start,’ I say.

She nods.

‘Of course, that makes sense.’

She brushes past me. I carry on holding the door open for everyone else but, instead of greeting them properly, I can’t help but watch her as she makes her way into the room. She sits down in the seat directly in the middle of the front row and puts her bag under her chair.

I wait for everyone else to file in and find a seat. They all mumble introductions to each other as they pull brand-new notebooks and pens out of backpacks and sip from identical reusable water bottles. There’s fifteen of them all together. A fairly typical bunch. Becoming a therapist is an expensive business so these courses attract a pretty homogenous crowd. Most of the women are older than me, a couple by decades. All but one are white. There are two men, perhaps in their forties. Margot is an exception to the rule. I wonder if she’s rich and being funded by family or whether she plans to take my path – two jobs, no sleep, mercifully low rent.

I introduce myself and do my usual spiel about the afternoon taster session, what we’ll cover and what we should hope to achieve but it’s hot and it’s the end of the week and I can tell I’ve lost some of them before I’ve even begun. It’s a shame because I know what this taster session is costing them.

‘I need a volunteer,’ I say and before anyone else can even lift a finger, let alone raise a hand, Margot stands up and walks over to the empty chair next to mine, set slightly apart from the rest of the group. She takes her coffee and a bottle of water with her and places them by her feet.

‘Happy to help,’ she says. I can’t quite identify her accent but I think it’s Australian. Or maybe New Zealand. The way she says ‘help’, hilp.

I look at the rest of the group. I wonder if they’re expecting me to admonish her for just walking up here and not waiting for me to choose someone or let anyone else get a look in. Should I assert my authority somehow? Set another bloody boundary? They just look weary but I can tell their interest is somewhat piqued. No one looks too put out to still be in their seats.

‘Thank you for volunteering,’ I say to her and then I turn to the group. ‘OK so . . .’

I look at Margot as if I need her to remind me of her name. Apparently I’m going to assert my authority like I’m in high school. It’s pathetic but I feel briefly back in control.

‘It’s Margot,’ she says kindly, not breaking eye contact with me. She smiles slightly. She knows my game.

‘Margot and I are going to demonstrate what an initial therapy session might look like between a client and a therapist. Now,’ I turn to address Margot again, ‘you obviously don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to – in fact, for the purposes of this session, you don’t even have to tell me anything that’s true.’

Margot shrugs.

‘I’m happy to tell the truth.’

I nod.

‘OK then. During this exercise I am your therapist and you are my prospective client.’

She widens her eyes at me, indicating she gets it. She nods impatiently.

‘And it goes without saying,’ I say, ‘that this is a safe space and anything you share here stays within these four walls.’

I glance around the group and everyone nods. They’re all sitting up a bit straighter, pens poised. They’re hoping for something juicy.

‘So Margot,’ I smile at her, ‘how are you doing today?’

‘I’m good,’ she says brightly.

There’s a ripple of laughter throughout the room and Margot smiles at me, not acknowledging it.

‘Good.’ I smile serenely back at her and then around the room, refusing to be put off. ‘And how do you feel about today’s assessment?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

More laughter, quieter this time.

‘OK, so what brings you here?’

She shrugs and takes a sip from her cup. It smells sweet, like vanilla syrup. I don’t think she’s being deliberately obtuse. I think she’s waiting for my questions to become interesting.

‘Maybe you can just start by telling me a bit about yourself?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like where you’re from? What you do? Single? In a relationship? Are you close with your family? The basics. If you’re comfortable with that, of course.’

She looks at me warily.

Christ this is going to be difficult.

‘I’m from New Zealand originally but I’ve lived in the UK for like . . . twelve years now. My parents are still together. I love them but we’re not close. I mean, we’re literally eleven thousand miles apart. I’m a barista but I’m also a writer and a comic. I’m . . . dating.’

She looks at me, trying to convey some sort of meaning. It seems important to her that I know the last part. Maybe it’s for the sake of our captive audience. I remain impassive.

‘A writer?’

‘Yep.’

‘What, like, books?’

She rolls her eyes at me. They’re green and almost comically expressive. Underneath them are deep, dark circles.

‘I write stories, poems. Sometimes I perform them, sometimes they’re in books. That kind of thing.’

‘Great. And a comic? So that’s like . . .’

‘Jokes,’ she says. ‘I stand on stage and tell jokes.’

She stares at me, looking for clues of recognition or, perhaps, judgement. I hope there are no traces of my natural repulsion to performance of basically any kind on my face.

‘And did you want to talk about your work in these sessions?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Dating?’

A smile plays on her lips and she pushes some hair from her face. It’s dark and glossy and she has a fringe that looks to be in the awkward stages of being grown out.

‘No.’

‘OK, well what would you like to discuss?’

She pauses. I think she’s trying to decide whether to tell me something real or make something up. In the moment it’s very difficult to be open in front of a group of strangers, no matter how confident you are.

‘I can’t sleep.’

Ah, the truth.

‘Talk about that a little.’

‘What is there to say? I go to bed, I read, I listen to some podcast that’s meant to send you to sleep, I close my eyes, I stay awake.’

She kicks her sliders off and goes to tuck her feet underneath her on the chair but she stops with one foot still on the floor.

‘Is this OK?’

‘Would you be more comfortable?’

‘I guess I would.’

‘Then it’s OK.’

She tucks the other foot underneath her. I glance around the room, the whole lot of them are taking notes. Tucks foot under self.

‘So yeah, I’ve tried everything. I took sleeping pills for a while but it wasn’t for me. I’ve been hypnotised. Yoga. Crystals. Everything you can think of. My mother thinks it’s something deeper. That there’s something in my psyche keeping me awake.’

‘Like anxiety?’

She nods. ‘Or guilt.’

‘Guilt. Why guilt?’

‘I guess it would keep you awake.’

‘What would you have to feel guilty about?’

She shrugs.

‘Everyone’s guilty of something, aren’t they?’

I’m aware that the room is suddenly completely silent, no one’s even scribbling.

‘Do you think everyone’s guilty of something?’

She smiles again.

‘Yes.’

I write ‘intense’ in my notebook and nod like I’m mulling over what she’s said.

‘So what would you be hoping to achieve in our sessions if we worked together?’

She sighs heavily.

‘I don’t think we’re going to achieve anything. But what’s the harm in trying? Plus . . .’ she grins, she’s about to put a shield up, our moment of clarity dissolving in front of us, ‘it’ll make my mother happy.’

‘Tell me about your mother.’

She laughs and everyone else does too, relieved, the tension broken by this classic therapy line of questioning.

‘Are you going to tell me that I can’t sleep because I hate my mother and want to have sex with my father, is that it?’

I smile and there are more titters around the room.

‘We don’t have to talk about your mother if you’d prefer not to.’

She nods, shakes her coffee cup, decides it’s empty and places it on the floor next to her feet.

‘So what about you?’

I feel my whole body tense.

‘What about me?’

‘Where are you from? Single? In a relationship? The basics.’

I put my notebook down.

‘We’re not here to talk about me.’

This is good, I tell myself, despite my cheeks flushing. This is good because this is something I can point out later to the group. An example of setting boundaries.

‘You don’t tell your patients anything?’

‘You’re not my patient. I’m not a doctor.’

‘Aha! So we know you’re not a doctor.’

She looks at me hopefully, trying to make me laugh. Not uncommon for real new clients. And especially not uncommon for performers.

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you from Essex?’

I’m temporarily thrown. Not many people can detect my accent after many years of being ironed out at university, and by spending time with people who my twin sister Natalie would describe as ‘annoyingly posh’.

‘I am.’

I immediately regret answering. She’s thrilled, which confirms it was the wrong thing to do. I glance around the room and unbelievably they’re still taking notes. From Essex originally . . .

‘I knew it. I’ve been watching Love Island. I can recognise all the accents now. Before I moved here I thought you all – talked like this.’ She does an impression that lands somewhere between the Queen and Dick Van Dyke.

‘It seems to me that maybe you don’t particularly want to be here.’

She looks straight at me, unblinking.

‘Why would you think that?’

‘It seems like you’d rather not talk and that you’re quite sure I won’t be able to help. I wonder what brought you here.’

‘Um, curiosity, mainly.’

‘Curiosity to see whether it would help you sleep?’

‘No. More like . . . curiosity about the process. About you. Therapy in general. I’m writing something so this is like . . .’

She waves her hand around in the air, looking for the word.

‘Research?’ I suggest.

‘Yes! Exactly that. And if it helps my sleep, then . . . bonus.’

‘Right.’

I draw a big question mark in my notebook. I can’t tell who I’m speaking to now, real Margot or fake client Margot.

I thank her and turn to the group to ask if they have any questions. No one raises a hand, which is ridiculous. None of them have ever done any therapy training before and they’ve just witnessed a car crash of a ‘session’. I have questions and I’m meant to be teaching the class. They’re all too hot and tired or too shy. Maybe they’re nervous around Margot too.

‘OK, well now we’re going to have everyone split into pairs for a few minutes and have a go themselves. Remember the focus at this point is practising active listening with your partner. One person should play the role of therapist, one the prospective client, and you should interact using what you’ve just seen as a blueprint.’

A blueprint for a deeply dysfunctional session.

There’s an odd number so there’s going to have to be one group of three. Normally I’d just make the odd one out join another group. Come on, Natasha. Group of three. I open my mouth to allocate someone to join another couple but instead I find myself turning to Margot.

‘There’s an odd number,’ I say, frowning at my notebook as if it contains some sort of complicated calculation about how to split the fifteen students in the room. ‘So you stay with me.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

I look up at her and she’s leaning back in her chair, seemingly utterly relaxed. She reaches up to push her hair out of her face and I see she has a couple of tattoos on her upper arm that I didn’t notice when she came in. A simple line drawing of a flower and a tiny anchor.

There’s a low rumble of noise as the rest of the students get started around the room but it feels oddly intimate now that we’re without our audience.

‘Do you want to have a go at playing the therapist?’ I ask her.

She shakes her head immediately.

‘No. I want to see more of you in action.’

I nod. I wonder if I should insist on switching roles but instead I say, ‘For your research?’

She grins and reaches up to her forehead to move the hair that’s fallen in her eyes.

‘Ugh, this thing is driving me insane!’ She blows up at her not-quite-grown-out fringe.

I look at her and smile, trying to convey calm, to conceal my heart thudding in my chest. I scold myself. This is ridiculous. I am the one in charge here. I’m a professional woman. Be professional!

‘You should clip it back.’

She waves her hand dismissively.

‘I can’t be bothered. I just feel like one morning I’m going to wake up and I’ll be able to tuck it behind my ears. I’ve been growing it out for fucking ever. I feel like it’s got to be over soon.’

‘I’m not sure it just happens overnight.’

I find myself wanting to tell her about the time in primary school when my sister cut my fringe off right to the hairline and how I had a spiky visor growing over my face for months.

‘You’ll see.’ She flashes me a grin and I find myself smiling dopily back.

Oh god. I look around the room at everyone diligently working. Am I really going to sit at the front of the class flirting with this incredibly annoying girl? I mean, yes? No. No. I’m going to get a grip.

‘OK, so let’s just pick up where we left off since we’re . . . slightly more advanced than everyone else.’

I’m fully winging it now, having never role-played twice with a student and never having role-played with a student without an audience.

‘Tell me, how has your week been?’

I settle back into my chair, gripping my notebook tightly.

She picks up her bottle of water and takes a sip.

‘My week, my week. What have I done this week? Had a few gigs. They were fine, nothing special. I’m working on some new stuff but there’s something missing at the moment. It’s fine though. I’ll get there. It sometimes just takes a while to click.’

She pauses to take another sip of water.

‘What else? What else? I’ve had the flat to myself. So it’s been nice to watch whatever I want on TV, leave the kitchen in a state, that kind of thing. Work is fine. I’ve sold a lot of iced coffee. I’ve been drinking a lot of iced coffee. Erm, I was going to go on a date but then I literally was too tired. Too. Tired. So that’s tragic, isn’t it?’

She pauses, checking to see if there’s anything she’s missed out. ‘Yeah that’s it, I think. Pretty standard week.’

She takes another sip of water.

‘You?’

I ignore her.

‘How’s your sleep been?’

She smiles broadly.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Natasha, that your assessment approximately seven minutes ago did not cure me of my insomnia. I am still very much awake, much of the time.’

‘I didn’t mean that! I meant, do you experience any different patterns? Is there anything, now you’ve had time to reflect, that you’d like to tell me about?’

She opens her mouth to reply immediately but then closes it again. As though she’s decided to actually think about what I’m saying instead of firing off some smart-arse response.

‘I’m tired all the time.’

‘And what does that feel like?’

‘Being tired?’

‘Describe it.’

She pauses again. Leans forward and puts her bottle of water down as if she can’t properly think and hold it at the same time.

‘It feels like wading through treacle. I’m almost used to the slow thoughts, you know? I’m always slightly foggy but it’s the heaviness of my limbs. It’s like I’m weighed down with rocks some days. And my eyes.’

She gently touches under her eyes with her fingers. Purple.

‘My eyes sometimes feel like they’re being dragged halfway down my face. They feel like that all the time. At night too and I think, this is it. I can’t feel like this and stay awake, it’s impossible. But I close them and my brain is just like . . . ding! It comes alive. It’s like turning on an engine. It just fires up.’

She looks at me desperately then. It’s so fleeting if I’d blinked I would ha. . .