Page 51 of The Silent Patient

It’s even hotter today. It’s hotter in London than in Athens, apparently. But at least Athens has a beach.

Paul called me today from Cambridge. I was surprised to hear his voice. We’ve not spoken in months. My first thought was Auntie Lydia must be dead—I’m not ashamed to say I felt a flicker of relief.

But that’s not why Paul was calling. In fact I’m still not sure why he did call me. He was pretty evasive. I kept waiting for him to get to the point, but he didn’t. He kept asking if I was okay, if Gabriel was okay, and muttered something about Lydia being the same as always.

“I’ll come for a visit,” I said. “I haven’t been for ages, I’ve been meaning to.”

The truth is, I have many complicated feelings around going home, and being at the house, with Lydia and Paul. So I avoid going back—and I end up feeling guilty, so I can’t win either way.

“It would be nice to catch up,” I said. “I’ll come see you soon. I’m just about to go out, so—”

Then Paul spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear him.

“Sorry? Can you repeat that?”

“I said I’m in trouble, Alicia. I need your help.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone. I need to see you.”

“It’s just—I’m not sure I can make it up to Cambridge at the minute.”

“I’ll come to you. This afternoon. Okay?”

Something in Paul’s voice made me agree without thinking about it. He sounded desperate.

“Okay. Are you sure you can’t tell me about it now?”

“I’ll see you later.” Paul hung up.

I kept thinking about it for the rest of the morning. What could be serious enough that Paul would turn to me, of all people? Was it about Lydia? Or the house, perhaps? It didn’t make sense.

I wasn’t able to get any work done after lunch. I blamed the heat, but in truth my mind was elsewhere. I hung around in the kitchen, glancing out the windows, until I saw Paul on the street.

He waved at me. “Alicia, hi.”

The first thing that struck me was how terrible he looked. He’d lost a lot of weight, particularly around his face, the temples and jaw. He looked skeletal, unwell. Exhausted. Scared.

We sat in the kitchen with the portable fan on. I offered him a beer but he said he’d rather have something stronger, which surprised me because I don’t remember him being much of a drinker. I poured him a whiskey—a small one—and he topped it up when he thought I wasn’t looking.

He didn’t say anything at first. We sat there in silence for a moment. Then he repeated what he had said on the phone. The same words:

“I’m in trouble.”

I asked him what he meant. Was it about the house?

Paul looked at me blankly. No, it wasn’t the house.

“Then what?”

“It’s me.” He hesitated, then came out with it. “I’ve been gambling. And losing a lot, I’m afraid.”

He’d been gambling regularly for years. He said it started as a way of getting out of the house—somewhere to go, something to do, a bit of fun—and I can’t say I blame him. Living with Lydia, fun must be in short supply. But he’s been losing more and more, and now it had gotten out of hand. He’s been dipping into the savings account. And not much was there to start with.

“How much do you need?”

“Twenty grand.”

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