Page 54 of You Can't Hurt Me

“She was very flattered, she lapped it all up, which is never a good sign for therapists,” he says, gloomily. “She wanted to be popular. It was always about her. I was fearful for her patients. But there was nothing I could do.”

“Why fearful for them?”

“She had no boundaries and that worried me. How would that play out in the consulting room? I wasn’t sure how professional she was. Everything was a game to her.”

His expression changes quite suddenly and he shoots up from his chair.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “I’m meant to be back at the Rosen for an interview.” He strides to his desk, distracted. “We’re almost finished here, aren’t we? I’ll text you about times I can make in the next fortnight.”

“We’re almost there, Nate. A couple more days and it’s done.”

“Really?” He stops for a moment by the door. “How did that happen?”

We both look at each other, his expression reflects back my own bemusement that soon it will all be over. I follow him upstairs and Jade is there too. It’s only as we’re about to leave that I realize. As her slim pale hand brushes his shoulder to say goodbye, I see it.

On her little finger, the gleam of Eva’s cushion-cut emerald cocktail ring. I glance again and her hand has slipped into her pocket, concealing the narrow band of gold.

But I know I saw it there, she knows it too. She catches my eye, the shadow of her smile meets mine.

Back in my apartment, I go straight to my bedroom and lock the door. Amira is here. Tony’s footsteps are in the hall. I can hear the clatter of the kitchen coming to life. I’m not sure they’ve guessed I’m here yet. I take the journal out and open it again. Nausea spirals in my stomach. It’s all there, the details of that night, the way that my father died; these memories finally catching up with me, condemning me too.

20

Two days later, Amira texts with an unexpected press invite. A fundraiser at the Rosen for Nate’s latest high-profile project, identifying brain signals linked to chronic pain in young children. I am torn about whether or not to go. If Nate hadn’t invited me himself, then surely it’s better to stay away. We haven’t spoken since our last meeting.

But then again, isn’t it a good opportunity for the book, to observe the subject in their own domain? Besides I should probably keep an eye on him, given that he probably knows more than he’s letting on. I can always lurk in the shadows and disappear early.

I hesitate, then pick up my phone to text Amira.

I find myself taking extra care over my appearance, opting for a dark velvet dress, darker lipstick the color of blood. It seems I don’t want to melt away after all. Not dressed like this, a vampire’s wife.

The Rosen’s library is all solemn mahogany grandeur. Oil paintings of Victorian scientists glower down from the claret walls as the clamor of voices rise upward. The room is soaked in a rich amber light with marbled pillars and deep leather sofas, and the faintest scent of old books and cigar smoke.

I sweep the room looking for Amira, but with a jolt of surprise I immediately spot Nate and Priya instead, deep in conversation in one corner. He is talking into her ear and her hands rests on his elbow. A look passes between them. My phone vibrates and I see a message from Amira.

Sorry, Anna. Can’t make tonight. Something’s come up.

You’re joking. Like what? Here on my own. Save me!!!

I’m SO sorry. It’s serious. Tony’s upset. Says we need to talk. More later. How can you be lonely when Dr. Pain is there to look after you?? You’ll thank me—have a fab time. Xxxx

I shiver, annoyed at how easily she yields to Tony’s whims over mine, how much she’s changed in these few short weeks.

“Anna, you’re here.” Nate’s voice, suddenly at my shoulder, startles me. He looks caught out somehow and I struggle to tell if my presence is welcome or not. Judging by his expression, I assume the latter.

“I should have let you know. Amira invited me.”

“No, it’s great you’re here,” he says, awkwardly. He stares at me as if he wants to say something more but stops himself, diverted by someone calling his name.

“I’m sorry, bad timing...”

“Of course, I should let you mingle. Go for it.” I turn to walk away and he reaches out, his hand touching my shoulder.

“Wait,” he says, quietly, urgently. “Can we talk...later? If you give me ten minutes. That’s all I’ll need.”

“There’s no rush, I—”

“Just ten minutes,” he interrupts, then disappears as someone calls his name. I watch as he circulates, animated, engaged, a mirror of his guests who light up as they pass by. Why does it still surprise me, his fame, the ease at which he slips back into all this? The high-powered academic courting his followers.

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