Waiting for Wednesday

cradled his
mug in his large, dirty hands.
    ‘Under everything, this is a good
house,’ he said. ‘The walls are good, fine bricks. Give me six months to rip
away all the rubbish, all the plasterboard and –’
    ‘No, no, don’t even say
that!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Six months. Those words are very
frightening to me.’
    ‘I was talking. Just
talking.’
    ‘All right, and while we’re just
talking, I thought you said you were going to put a new bath in. I hear lots of banging
and the bathroom looks like it’s been demolished and there’s no sign of a
bath.’
    ‘It is all fine. I do everything, I
sort everything perfectly. Then, at the end, put the bath in. Click click. Just like
that.’
    Suddenly there was a jangling electronic
tone of an old pop song that Frieda couldn’t quite place. Josef’s phone was
on the table beside her. She picked it up. There was a name – Nina – flashing on the
screen. She handed it to him but he saw the name and shook his head.
    ‘Is she someone you’re
avoiding?’ said Frieda.
    Josef was flustered. ‘Someone I see a
bit. But she ring and ring.’
    ‘It’s usually best to tell
people what you feel,’ said Frieda.‘But I’m not
going to give you advice on anything except finishing this bathroom.’
    ‘All right, all right,’ said
Josef. He handed his mug to Frieda and went back upstairs.
    When she was alone, Frieda swallowed two
paracetamol with water. Then she turned to her work email. Most messages she deleted or
simply ignored. But there was one from Paz at the clinic she regularly worked for. She
asked if Frieda could call her. And there was another she hesitated over. It was from a
woman called Marta, who was writing on behalf of her old friend and Frieda’s
patient Joe Franklin. She was apologetic: Joe didn’t know she was writing and she
felt bad about doing so – but did Frieda have any idea when she would be returning to
work? Joe wouldn’t see the therapist she had recommended, and he was in a bad way.
He hadn’t got out of bed for several days.
    Frieda thought of her doctor and her
friends, who were all insistent that she shouldn’t return to work for several
weeks yet. She thought of Joe Franklin sitting in her consulting room with his head in
his hands, tears seeping through his fingers. She frowned and wrote an email:
‘Dear Joe, I can see you at the usual time tomorrow, Tuesday, if that would suit
you. Let me know and best wishes, Frieda Klein.’
    Then she picked up the phone and called the
Warehouse, as the clinic was called. Paz answered and immediately questioned her about
how things were going and her health, the way everyone did nowadays. It was like an
obstacle she had to get past over and over again.
    ‘Reuben is worried about you,’
said Paz. ‘We all are.’
    Reuben was the man who had founded the
Warehouse. As a young man, he had been a charismatic spokeperson for anew kind of therapy, and had been Frieda’s supervior. These days he was rather
battered and disillusioned.
    ‘And?’
    ‘I wanted to see how you were. Someone
contacted us. He wanted to see you. I mean as a patient. I said you weren’t
well.’
    ‘For God’s sake, Paz, could you
stop handing out my medical details?’
    ‘But he pleaded. He sounded
desperate.’
    ‘I’ll call him.’
    ‘You’re sure about this,
Frieda?’
    ‘It’s not-working that’s
the problem.’
    He was called Seamus Dunne. When Frieda
dialled his number he answered instantly. She introduced herself. ‘Is it a good
time to talk?’
    ‘Yes. It’s fine.’ He
sounded suddenly tense.
    ‘You want to come and see
me?’
    ‘Yes. I do. I think – I feel
it’s urgent. I would like it to be as soon as possible.’
    ‘How did you find my name?’
    ‘A friend of a friend recommended
you,’ said Seamus. ‘Very highly.’
    ‘We can meet for an assessment
session,’ said Frieda. Then you can decide if I’m the right person for you,
and I can decide if I think I can help you. All right?’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘Can you make eleven o’clock
tomorrow morning?’
    ‘Yes.’ There was a pause.
‘I think you’ll find me a very interesting person.’
    A nasty little headache screwed its way up
Frieda’s temple. Cockiness. It wasn’t a good start.
    Seamus Dunne was a young man, slim and neat,
with even features and shiny brown hair, slicked back. He was wearing a dark, tailored
jacket, black cords and a purple shirt that shimmered under the light. Frieda wondered
how long he had taken to