‘So, what are you doing with yourself now? Besides living in a flat above a country pub, I mean.’
‘In the manager’s quarters, I think you mean.’
‘Wait—you’re a publican?’
‘Yep. For a couple of years now. I like it.’
‘Riiight. Not such a big change though, is it? Listening to people talk about their lives … Perhaps you haven’t left psychology behind at all. Perhaps you’re just channelling healthy thinking via a different medium.’
‘Or perhaps you don’t have to get so headshrinky about what I’m doing. I like it. That’s enough.’
A short silence, then … ‘Do you want to talk about Duane?’
Duane Marsafino. Another young man with an obituary written about him far too soon. The phrasekilled in actionhadn’t been used, but there was no denying the kid had copped more than he could deal with. Teen mental health—Will’s former specialty—could be a cruel battlefront.
‘You did your best, Will.’
‘I know. That was the problem. My best wasn’t good enough.’
‘You don’t know what happened to Duane that last month. He could have come to see us. He could have—’
‘He shouldn’t have beenreleased,’ said Will. But it was pointless getting into that argument. The public health system was a bureaucratic behemoth that didn’t give three shits about its employees or its patients, not even when those patients were being run in on a gurney by paramedics, not even when those employees were on their knees at a bedside willing, hoping,believingthat the kid might pull through.
Until there was no more believing, just doctors and antiseptic smells and his own personal failure.
‘Why did you call me, then, if it wasn’t to talk about Duane?’ said Voula.
‘I wanted your advice.’
‘Friend to friend? Peer to peer?’
Was this the way Will had used to speak to people? Like everything was a trick question designed to make you question the meaning of life? He cleared his throat. ‘Psychologist to bloke who’s been through some stuff.’
‘Sure. Let me just pick up a clipboard and a clicky pen.’
Will smiled faintly at the old joke. It did what it was designed to do: it relaxed him a little. Voula knew her stuff.
‘I’ve met someone.’
‘Tell me more.’ Again, an old joke. Again, relaxing.
‘I think she’s the one.’
‘Right. Wow. Lucky you.’
Was that what it boiled down to? Luck? Or was there also a sense that both he and Jodie had to be in the right state of mind to allow luck and a spark to combine in some form of metaphysical reaction to become something more profound. Like—
‘Do you love this person?’
Voula had beaten him to it. This was both the answer he wanted and the question he had. Did he love Jodie? How did a bloke evenknow?
‘Tell me how I’ll find out,’ he said. ‘Tell me how I can be sure so I don’t fail at this as well.’ And he needed to find out soon, because Carol had informed him in a very you-need-to-know-this way that Jodie had a leaving date planned for after the markets, which were just days away.
‘Mate, if I knew the answer to that, I’d write a self-help book calledWhen Love is a Sure Thingand then I’d retire to an island and devote myself to perfecting my spanakopita.’ He heard her sigh into the phone. ‘Look, Will … imagine you were still working in clinical psychology. What would you say to someone who told you they didn’t want to aim for something potentially truly wonderful because they were scared of failure?’
‘I’d tell them not to be such a cowardly idiot. Probably I’d dress it up with a little more tact and headshrinky jargon.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m saying to you. Don’t be an idiot. You can dress it up however you like.’