Page 13 of You Can't Hurt Me

Jade’s phone dings. It’s from Nate. “He’s still a bit delayed but I can take you down to his office in ten minutes. Tea?”

“Sure, thanks.” Turning, I notice the wall behind her, the only one that’s bare with a row of ghostly square outlines where pictures must have once hung. “So where have they gone?” I nod over to them. “Another Nate thing?”

She flicks her hand in the air. “You’d have to ask him. I think they were Eva’s drawings and sketches. There was so much of her stuff lying around, he’s decided to give some of it away. He’s starting on this floor and working his way up to the bedrooms.”

It’s a pointless task: however much he tries to remove all traces of her creativity, her presence is everywhere like a tangible energy. I catch sight of one of her sculptures near an archway that leads into a smaller space.

I get up and walk over. “Would you mind?” I sound tentative, even though I’m already stepping through. “Just for a bit of color.”

She wavers, checks her watch. “Go on, then. I doubt you’ll find much in there, but fine, if you’re quick.”

I can tell immediately that Jade is right. It is lackluster and gloomy, as sterile as roses wrapped in cellophane. I touch the chrome ridge of one of the mid-century leather chairs that face each other, glance at the requisite box of Kleenex on a table between them. What exchanges must’ve taken place here, the many stories that Eva heard? Above a low divan are shelves lined with books. Freud, Jung and Klein all present and correct.

Reading about her online, I couldn’t help thinking that Eva’s decision to become a psychotherapist didn’t quite make sense. It didn’t seem as though helping other people was a calling. If anything her work had reflected a certain level of self-absorption, along with a recurring theme of seeking out extreme sensation, neither of which seem ideal traits for a career in counseling. It was hard to imagine she was motivated by guilt or selflessness and yet somehow it didn’t matter. Her honesty was refreshing. When I had chatted to her that time, I wanted to dislike her but I couldn’t. I expected a dilettante but she was surprisingly serious about her pursuits.

Wikipedia didn’t give much away about her background except that she grew up in Cornwall where her father had been a local councillor. He and her mother still lived in the farmhouse close to Padstow.

I spot a small framed photograph on her desk, Eva from a different time. Her jet-black hair is shorn into a pixie crop that accentuates her cheekbones. She leans back on an old Triumph motorbike, slim and tanned in cut-off denim shorts and a faded pink vest. Behind her stretches an epic landscape of sand dunes and sky.

It’s all there in that one expression; defiant, completely free and very much in control. I can’t resist. I have to take a picture of it. Jade has her back to me, making tea in the kitchen. I discreetly pull out my iPhone and focus on the image of Eva. As I drop the phone back into my pocket, I sense movement in the doorway behind me. I swivel around.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Hi.” I flush to the roots of my hair and look down as if I’ve been caught red-handed in the headmaster’s study.

“It really is such a privilege to see journalistic curiosity in action,” Nate says, a subtle shimmer in his eyes. He pauses for a brief moment in the open doorway, turns on his heels and walks away.

7

I rush after him and he stops, turns to me with a stony expression. “I’m so sorry,” I say, taking out my phone again. “I can delete it if you want.” He doesn’t say anything, his silence cuts in reproach.

“I feel bad, I can explain. It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, and what does it look like?” he says evenly.

“Look, it’s only for a visual prompt for background color when I’m writing it up. It helps me to remember. Honestly, that’s all.” Words spill out in a guilty rush and he gives me a wary look. “Honestly, I’m happy to get rid of it.” My finger hovers on the bin icon.

“I guess if it’s useful for your piece...” he says, finally. “And if you want to know, it was taken in Morocco on the edge of the Sahara.”

“She looks lovely,” I say, glancing down at the screen image in my palm, the way she smiles directly at Nate in a secret sort of way, their two helmets at the edge of the picture. “Was it an amazing place to visit?”

He gives me a strange look. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t take the picture. Motorbikes aren’t my thing.”

“Ah, I see. Sorry, I assumed...”

“Well, I trust you won’t be publishing it.” He sighs. “Come on then, let’s get into this.”

I follow him out of Eva’s study back through to a small featureless meeting room off the hallway. A copy of Nate’s book lies on the table. Neatly laid out are two notepads and two glasses of water. There are also two printouts of the interview questions I sent over, as requested. He sits down opposite me, scans the list and glowers.

“Before we begin, how were you after the tests?” He studies me, a flicker of curiosity returning to his eyes. “Any late-hitting headaches or dizziness?”

I think for a moment back to that morning in the Rosen, the cold scientific scrutiny in his gaze as he observed my discomfort. But something else too. The subtle enthrallment, pleasure even, that had unsettled me.

“I guess I found it quite educational playing lab rat for the morning.”

“Really? Well, I’m glad it wasn’t too painful an experience for you after all.”

“Are you? I thought that pain was sort of the point.”

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