‘Blummin’ ’eck, Sophie. What are you doing in there, more naked therapy?’
‘Clearly not.’ I gave an apologetic smile, glancing down at my jeans and jumper. ‘But you know Hattie doesn’t want anyone else in the attic.’
‘I do. What I don’t know is why.’ Lizzie blinked, hard, her apparent vulnerability contrasting with the image of a woman brandishing a battle-axe on her T-shirt. ‘How can she trust me with running her whole life, but not this?’
‘I don’t know but, if it makes you feel any better, she doesn’t trust her own family with it, either. I’m not allowed to mention it.’
‘Has she done something horrific?’
‘No!’ I paused and decided to reframe my response. ‘Not that I know of, anyway.’
‘Right. Well. If she has, don’t tell me. I don’t want to have to find a new job. There aren’t that many millionaire artists looking for a PA around Middlebeck.’
‘Okay.’ I waited a few seconds. ‘Did you need Hattie for something?’
Lizzie’s eyebrows shot up beneath her fringe. ‘Yes. She was due in a meeting ten minutes ago. I tried calling but she left her phone in the kitchen.’ She paused, letting out an exasperated huff as she turned to go. ‘Please tell her that the twonk, and the twonk’s boss, are waiting. I’ve told them she’s been delayed on a call with a major furniture manufacturer in Los Angeles and will be there as soon as possible. If she can spare the time, she has a business that needs running.’
20
After the meeting, Lizzie accompanied her boss into the kitchen, where I was stirring a pot of tomatoey meatballs.
‘Good meeting?’ I asked, although one glance at Hattie suggested otherwise.
‘Fine. The usual. I need a shower, though, after being confronted with the twonk’s smirking face for ninety minutes. I’ll eat later, if you don’t mind saving me some.’
‘I’ll stay, if that’s okay,’ Lizzie said. ‘Joss is out with his mates tonight and meatballs are my favourite.’
Given that Lizzie had made them, I could hardly refuse. We dished up two bowls of pasta, added the meatballs and a good sprinkling of cheese, and set aside a third bowl for Hattie.
‘Did they mind her being late?’ I asked, once we were eating.
Lizzie pulled a grim face. ‘Not the first few times, but it’s started happening often enough that people are losing patience. I know organisation isn’t her strong point but that’s why she employs me. If I can’t even reach her, I can’t do my job. The odd creative session where she loses track of time is par for the course, but this whole book thing is taking all of her focus, and far too much energy. She’s falling asleep at her desk, skipping meals. Barely has the strength to walk Flapjack. And she signed a contract to design three new Christmas prints. So far, she’s submitted a crow who looks as if Santa’s forgotten to bring him any presents. It’s too much. You need to speak to her, Sophie. Slow it down or something. Find a better balance.’ She stuffed in a spoonful of pasta. ‘I mean, what’s with this book anyway? It’s not as if she needs the money. If she wants to talk about her past, then she should know better than anyone to book in some private therapy. Art it out. Don’t spill her guts to a stranger who’ll then sell it on to as many people as possible. Is a stupid book worth a nervous breakdown?’ Lizzie gave a sideways glance. ‘No offence or anything.’
‘I’ll make sure she’s got her phone, in future. And I can prompt her to check her calendar before we arrange anything. Perhaps the three of us should sit down and schedule the next few sessions in advance, at a pace we can all agree on?’
As Lizzie had talked, I’d been wrestling with whether or not to tell her that Hattie blamed the menopause for her current state but, even if that wasn’t betraying my client’s confidence, I couldn’t see any point when I didn’t believe it.
I also couldn’t help wishing I could mention Verity and the vague mishmash of symptoms that, according to her teenage daughter’s recollection, included loss of appetite and exhaustion. Was Hattie slipping into clinical depression? Could that also explain her stomach pains and brain fog?
If so, did I have a responsibility to end the project early? Or was she right, and facing the past was in fact the best way to heal?
I examined the NDA until satisfied it allowed for discussions with my business partner, then gave him a call.
His advice was clear, and simple. Nothing good would come from chattering behind Hattie’s back. If I was genuinely worried, I needed to try talking to her again, myself.
While I agreed it was the right answer, it definitely wasn’t an easy one. I was used to being direct with my clients and had learned how to communicate difficult information when they were in a troubled state of mind. What I wasn’t used to was talking openly and honestly with a friend. I could try to persuade myself that it was none of my business, and if Hattie didn’t want to discuss what was wrong, there was nothing I could do about it.
Or I could take inspiration from my new art therapist and ask a carefully phrased question or two next time the Gals were gathered.
For the next few days, I barely saw Hattie, as she secluded herself in her studio, working on the overdue designs. I spent some time on the Riverbend database, filing a few boxes of paperwork into different categories and compiling a reference list, walked both dogs every morning and took Agnes to Laurie’s café for lunch when Gideon was working too far away to pop back to check on her. I also did my best to avoid Lizzie, who took every opportunity to describe how much her boss had eaten that day, everything she’d done and how tired or distracted she seemed while she’d done it. There was a fine line between concern and gossip, and Lizzie was clearly prone to overstepping it.
On Wednesday, I ate dinner with Gideon and Agnes, and afterwards, Gideon and I walked into Middlebeck and had a drink at the pub. It was as lovely as our date in Sherwood Forest. Apart from two tiny blips.
‘Tell me about your family,’ Gideon asked as we cosied up on a bench seat in the corner. A perfectly reasonable question. Especially since I was finding out all sorts of secrets about his. ‘You haven’t mentioned your parents.’
Oh dear.
I’d already talked about my family having died in art therapy last week. Prior to arriving at Riverbend, I hadn’t discussed it in years. Occasionally, I mentioned to clients that I had lost close family members, if I felt it would help them to know. But I didn’t even bring it up with Ezra any more.
