Waiting for Wednesday

turned to them, not even to Sandy. She could listen but
she couldn’t talk; give help but not ask for it. It was strange that in the last
days she had felt closer to Fearby, with his neglected home, his huge filing system and
his wreck of a life, than she had to anyone else.
    The doorbell rang and for a moment she
thought she wouldn’t answer. But then, with a sigh, she turned away from the bath,
and went to the front door.
    ‘Delivery for you,’ said the
man, half obscured by a tall cardboard box. ‘Frieda Klein?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Sign here, please.’
    Frieda signed and took the box into the
living room, levering open its top. As she did so, she was hit by a smell whose powerful
sweetness reminded her of funeral parlours andhotel lobbies.
Carefully, she lifted out an enormous bouquet of white lilies, tied at the bottom with
purple ribbon. She had always hated lilies: they were too opulent for her and their
fragrance seemed to clog her airways. But who had sent them?
    There was a miniature envelope with the
flowers and she opened it and slid out the card.
    We couldn’t let him get away with it.
    The world narrowed, the air cooled around
her.
We couldn’t let him get away with it.
    Bile rose in her throat and her forehead was
clammy. She put out one hand to steady herself, made herself breathe deeply. She knew
who had sent her these flowers. Dean Reeve. He had sent her daffodils before, telling
her it wasn’t her time, and now he had sent her these lush, pulpy lilies. He had
set fire to Hal Bradshaw’s house. For her. She pressed her hand hard against her
furious heart. What could she do? Where could she turn? Who would believe her, and who
would be able to help?
    She had a sickening sense that she had to do
something, or talk to someone. That was what she believed in, wasn’t it? Talking
to people. But who? Once it would have been Reuben. But their relationship wasn’t
like that any more. She couldn’t talk to Sandy because he was in America and these
weren’t things to be put into words on the phone. What about Sasha? Or even Josef?
Wasn’t that what friends were for? No. It wouldn’t work. She couldn’t
find the proper explanation, but she felt it would be a betrayal of their friendship.
She needed someone outside everything.
    Then she remembered someone. She went to the
bin outside her house and thrust the flowers into it. Back inside, she rummaged through
her shoulder bag but it wasn’t there. She went upstairs to her study. She pulled
open one of thedrawers of her desk. When she cleared out her bag, she
either threw things away or kept them here. She went through the old postcards,
receipts, letters, photographs, invitations, and found it. A business card. When Frieda
had faced a medical disciplinary panel, she had encountered one kindly face. Thelma
Scott was a therapist herself and she had immediately seen something in Frieda that
Frieda hadn’t wanted to be seen. She had invited Frieda to come and talk to her
any time she felt the need and given Frieda her card. Frieda had been sure that she
would never take her up on the offer, almost angry at the suggestion, but still she had
kept it. She dialled the number, her hands almost trembling.
    ‘Hello? Yes? I’m sorry to call
at this time. You probably won’t remember me. My name is Frieda Klein.’
    ‘Of course I remember you.’ Her
voice sounded firm, reassuring.
    ‘This is really stupid, and
you’ve probably forgotten this as well, but you once came to see me and you said I
could come and talk to you if I needed it. I was just wondering if at some point I could
do that. But if that’s not convenient, then it’s completely all right. I can
find someone else to talk to.’
    ‘Can you come tomorrow?’
    ‘Yes, yes, that would be possible. But
there’s no hurry. I don’t want to force myself on you.’
    ‘What about four o’clock, the
day after tomorrow?’
    ‘Four o’clock. Yes, that would
be fine. Good. I’ll see you then.’
    Frieda got into bed. She spent most of the
night not sleeping, besieged by faces and images, by fears and dark, pounding dread. But
she must have slept a bit, because she was woken by a sound that at first she
didn’t recognize, then gradually realized was her mobile phone. She fumbled for it
and saw the name Jim Fearby on it. She let it ring. She couldn’tbear to talk to him. She lay back in the bed and thought of Fearby and had a sudden
vivid, sickening, flashing sense of what it would be like to be