The buzzer was discreet, a small label stuck next to it – ‘A. Greville’, it said, in courier script. The doorway was at the far end of the Goldborne Road, where fruit and veg stalls and dodgy antique vendors spill out on the street and the nasty, showy wealth of Notting Hill starts to fade. My finger hovered above it for a few seconds, the noise and bustle around me jangling my already shredded nerves. I’d been going over the shitstorm that was Saturday again and again, more r epelled by that version of me every time I r eplayed the tape. I’d made a cautious peace with Mum, all by text – I’m sorry I drank too much xx was all I said, knowing that everything I wasn’t saying would leave her raging. She’d tried to call me, then left a voicemail that contained a few of her standard phrases. We can’t go on like this was followed by a date and time to see Amber. And now, here I was, shivering pathetically on the doorst ep, victimized even by the November weather, not sure who I was really here for. Was it Mum? Was it me? Was it even for Amber? I stopped my navel-gazing and pushed the bell. ‘Is that you, Rachel?’ Amber’s voice sounded warm, even via the crackly intercom. I swallowed, my eyes flicking down the road. There was a handbag shop on the corner, buttery leather sacks stacked up in a tempting pile in the window. It took all of my self-control not to skip away and max out my already groaning overdraft. ‘Yes. I’m here,’ I said, forcing myself to push the heavy door open when it clicked. The hallway was cream, fresh red tulips overflowing from a vase on a console table, a silver mirror above it making the space feel welcoming and open. It was warm and cozy, like I’d been wrapped up tight in a John Lewis Christmas ad. ‘Rachel?’ There she was, standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down at me. She had an off-the-shoulder black jumper on, pulled down over skinny jeans, her dark hair piled up in a messy bun. I remember wondering inexplicably if she was cold, if those bare shoulders would be pocked with goosebumps when I got up close to her. She felt like a chic, ageless friend, not some proxy parent sent to judge me. ‘Hi,’ I said, ashamed of the way my voice quavered. ‘Come on up,’ she said, encouraging me with a wide, red-mouthed smile. ‘Sorry there are so many stairs. Bit of an arse, I know.’ She turned quickly on her heel, and I made the climb. Her rooms were two flights up, as elegant and welcoming as the hallway had been. There were two green velvet sofas littered with cushions, a low glass coffee table between them, soft lighting shedding a s epia glow. ‘The bathroom’s to the left if you need it, and I’ve made you a cup of jasmine tea,’ she said, gesturing to a chunky pottery cup on the table. ‘If you think it sounds disgusting, I won’t be offended.’ She laughed. ‘We’ll just tip it down the sink and I’ll make you a coffee.’ ‘No,’ I said, continuing my run of monosyllables. ‘Tea’s fine.’ Her bare shoulders sunk back against the velvet, wintry morning sun filtering through the slatted wooden blinds. I thought randomly of those grainy black- and-white photographs of Freud, peering out myopically from behind thick glasses. What kind of Instagram-friendly version of therapy was Amber offering? She smiled at me, head cocked, as if she could sense the defensive questions that were swirling inside my head. ‘I just think caffeine ramps up the nervous system, and you look like you need the exact opposite of that.’ Her voice was like a caress. ‘You need comfort. You need... you need to rest, don’t you, Rachel? Not sle ep – rest. It’s very different.’
A lump rose in my throat, but I forced it back down, the memory of the sobbing mess I’d become the last time we met working like a cattle prod on my psyche. I had a budget meeting after this, a detailed discussion about joint ownership schemes in satellite towns. That girl – that pathetic version of me – was not welcome here. A flash of Guy’s face, of my desperate hand clawing for a hold on his suit jacket. I sat down and took a sip of the jasmine tea. It was scalding hot, but I forced myself not to wince. ‘It’s delicious,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’m glad,’ she said, sinking further into the plump cushions with a confidence that they would melt and mould to meet her. Every particle of her exuded self-belief. Me – I sat up a little straighter, my spine taut. ‘How does it feel to be here, for us to be meeting again?’ she asked. ‘I’m happy to be here,’ I said. God, I sounded as unnatural as a politician on the back of a sex scandal, forced to read a pr epared statement on the Six O’Clock News. ‘Thanks for making the time.’ ‘You don’t have to thank me, Rachel. It’s a real pleasure to see you again.’ ‘I know. It’s your job. I don’t need to thank you.’ She paused, a gentle smile playing across her face. ‘I’m going to r epeat what I said, but this time I want you to try to actually hear it. It’s a real pleasure to see you again.’ I tried to smile back. ‘Thanks.’ She laughed, but not unkindly. ‘Try closing your eyes this time, actually absorb what I’m telling you.’ I shut them, feeling idiotic. The words flooded out of her like a poem. ‘It’s a real pleasure to see you again. It’s a real pleasure to see you again.’ The lump rose again in my throat, and I snapped my eyes back open. She was watching me. ‘You heard me that time, didn’t you? I saw you start to let the words penetrate.’ I wanted to simultaneously hold her at bay and excel at this. It was exhausting. ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘It’s important, Rachel,’ she said, intense. ‘It’s important for you to know that I see you. This isn’t a job for me – it’s a privilege to be able to help people in psychic pain. To help them stop hating themselves and start letting the love that wants to flow to all of us, start guiding their lives.’ A surge of hopelessness sw ept across me, Saturday night flickering in my peripheral vision. Love never seemed all that keen to flow towards me. It mostly seemed to enjoy punching me in the face. ‘Right.’ Amber laughed. ‘Too much? Too much new age bullshit for session two?’ I laughed too, despite myself. ‘Well, I like Goop as much as the next person...’ I said. We paused a second, eying each other. She spoke first. ‘You’re smart, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘I bet you did really well academically.’ ‘I got a First, yeah,’ I confirmed. The year of my A levels I’d wanted nothing more than es cape, barricaded in my bedroom at the top of the house with a stack of books. Mum and Dad were so proud of my diligence, in denial about the lengths I’d go to to avoid the booby traps that lurked downstairs. Esther k ept her Instagram feed open. I hoped she had no means of knowing how often I looked. ‘So does your career give you satisfaction now? You’re a civil servant, right?’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. I’d told Tim I had a doctor’s appointment, which felt at least half true, a fifty per cent improvement on my normal rate of honesty. ‘I mean, it’s important.’ ‘That’s not the same thing,’ she said, soft. ‘Everyone’s job is boring some of the time, isn’t it? Going to an office, seeing the same old people...’ ‘So what does give you satisfaction? What gives you joy?’ I felt a surge of irritation at her relentless, teasing questions. ‘Not much right now, I’m guessing?’ I shook my head. ‘Rachel, it’s important that we listen to that.’ ‘I’m listening,’ I said, aware of the edge in my tone. I could tell she heard it too: Amber didn’t miss a trick. ‘What I’m hearing – and tell me if this sounds remotely true to you – is that
sometimes you have to go to extremes just to feel something. To fight for that joy that’s actually your birthright.’ My head turned away from her, my burning eyes dropped to the ground. Here we were, right where Mum wanted me to be, discussing what a monumental fuck-up I was. I spat my words out. ‘When I’m crying on the floor of a toilet or puking my guts up on the Kings Road with an ambulance on its way – trust me, there’s not much joy going on.’ I was shaking now, my face scalding hot. Amber stayed quiet, the few seconds of silence stretching like elastic. ‘And I believe you. You’re an intelligent, assured woman. I know you don’t want to be risking your life.’ ‘You say that, but the fact is I do it to myself...’ It sounded tinny in my ears. It was Mum’s phrase, that one. Her syntax, not mine, even though I couldn’t deny its truth. ‘Yes, and I think that’s the paradox. A fucking annoying one, I’m afraid.’ There was something oddly thrilling about hearing her swear. I raised my eyes, let them meet hers – I stayed staring at her, almost craving what she would say next. ‘All you’re doing is trying to find comfort, to find connection – what all of us need to survive. But the tragedy is that in trying so hard to find it, you leave yourself more alone than ever.’ And then the tears came – not the kind of sobs that send waves of relief through your body and bring an exhausted peace; these tears felt like liquid rage. A rage that was bigger than the past few months. A rage that could annihilate me if I let it. ‘Why am I like this? Why am I like this?’ I couldn’t stop, the phrase pouring out of me again and again, my head in my hands, sooty tears running through my fingers. Then I felt Amber’s hand, warm and steady, land between my shoulder blades. ‘Let it come out. Let it out.’ Her palm started to work on my heaving back, circular motions that soothed me, despite myself. ‘Do you know what a mantra is?’ she said, her voice as soft as a whisper. ‘It’s a phrase we r epeat again and again, until it’s part of us. This is yours, isn’t it? This is what you’re living by. And I want you to know that you can throw it away.’ The rage was for her now, for her stupid, trite little homily. This bawling fuck-up was who I was, not a coat that I could slip out of and fling across the room. ‘Yeah, because it’s that’s fucking easy,’ I muttered, jerking my body away from her and curling backwards into the d epths of the sofa. She crossed the room, sat back down in her seat, her calm smile never wavering. ‘And what if it is? What if the truth you think you’re telling yourself – what if it’s a lie? What if it’s a lie that isn’t even yours?’ ‘What does that even mean?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve learnt something very wrong about your value – about what defines you. And I think it’s our job to trace that lie to its source and take its power away so you can stop st epping onto the stage that’s your life and acting it out. Let’s give you a whole new script to work from.’ For a second, I dared to hope. I dared to imagine living without the endless punishing monologue in my head that told me that love was for other people. That happiness was for other people – thinner, nicer people who could say no to a fourth drink. People whose families weren’t just pretty on the outside, but all the way through, like the writing through a stick of rock. ‘What does that even mean, practically speaking?’ I asked. ‘How old were you when you started believing this garbage about yourself? Do you remember?’ I thought back. Josh was so golden, so clearly Mum’s favourite. And then Sophie came along, all cute gurgles and chubby fists. And then
finally – finally she arrived. By then there was no air left for me to breathe. I pushed the complicated explanations, the half-truths of my history, away. ‘I’m not sure I ever believed anything different about myself.’ Amber looked almost stricken. ‘That makes me sad, Rachel. I’m sad that being part of your family didn’t make you feel like you were a gift.’ It was as if my thoughts were subtitles that she could simply read and r epeat back to me. ‘My family definitely don’t think I’m a gift right now.’ I gave a mirthless laugh. Would a baby remember, somewhere in their psyche, that their aunt was a drunken, disgusting mess at their christening? Amber allowed a few seconds of silence. ‘Do you think that they’re a gift?’ ‘I know that they love me,’ I said, measuring out the words carefully, like they were part of a complicated recipe that I’d never cooked before. ‘You say that like it’s a favour they’re doing you,’ she said, with that half smile of hers. ‘That’s not how I meant it,’ I said, even though it was. It was too soon for me to trust her with all of me. With all of us. ‘I think it’s a question that is worth you reflecting on before we next meet.’ She gave a self-d eprecating shrug of her bony shoulders. ‘Sorry, presumptuous. I mean, if we meet again.’ ‘Yes, please,’ I said. It blindsided me, how much it sounded like a plea. I glanced down at my watch: the session had slipped by so quickly. A strange desperation overtook me, as if I was in the dark of a confessional box. ‘I didn’t tell you... I promised you I wouldn’t drink and... I meant it. But instead I got shit-faced on coke and champagne at Nancy’s christening. I fucked someone else’s husband in the toilets. I’m not...’ I hid my face from her all-seeing gaze, staring down at the polished wooden floorboards as I gabbled out my confession. ‘I’m sure Mum’s told you all of this anyway. Let’s both stop pretending I’m something I’m not.’ My face was wet, my hand grasping for my bag so I could make my es cape. ‘Something better. Someone who’s actually a nice person.’ I ground to a halt, not ready to risk looking up. The atmosphere felt oddly, hypnotically calm. I let my eyes meet hers. She was staring at me as if I was some kind of fascinating, exotic wild animal. ‘Slow down,’ she said. ‘Take a big gulp of air.’ I looked at my watch again, pulled my bag onto my knees. ‘It’s twelve anyway,’ I said. ‘I should go.’ ‘I’m not a big stickler for rules,’ she said. Wasn’t that the truth? But it would be a while before I found that out. ‘Feel your feet on the ground, breathe de eply into your belly.’ I felt my body still. ‘First of all, yes, your mum did mention there’d been some kind of incident, but I stopped her right there.’ I grinned with a triumphant kind of gratitude. ‘What – like attorney/client privilege?’ ‘Something like that,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Thank you,’ I said, my breath coming less jagged now. ‘And if you want to share it – rewind it together – we can. But it’s your choice. This is your session. You’re in charge. I’m here to help you, not make you feel even shittier.’ It was so skillful, the way her casual swearing helped me forgive myself for all of my messy chaos. We’re all trying and failing, it seemed to imply. All a work in progress. I gave her a garbled account: the humiliation of turning up alone among all of those polished couples, the first drink which morphed into the fifth, the chaotic public mess I’d become, scraped off the floor of a toilet by my horrified family. I almost uttered Esther’s name, but it stuck fast in my throat. She made me ashamed for all of us. Amber was quiet at the end, almost pensive. ‘Perhaps it was too soon.’ ‘Too soon?’ ‘All I’m hearing is pressure.’ Her red-tipped fingers popped into the empty space around her face. ‘You’re back there, on stage again. All of them wanting you to be well. Wanting you to be happy. Sometimes trying to live up
to other people’s expectations can be the loneliest place on earth.’ I couldn’t acc ept her compassion, not yet. ‘I was a disgrace.’ My hands clenched into in voluntary fists. ‘Why do I ke ep doing it to myself, when I know —?’ Amber gently cut across me. ‘All I’m hearing is what you did wrong. You’re judge and jury all at once – it’s pretty impressive. I’m feeling like there are a few co-defendants here.’ She held my gaze in that unnerving, intimate way she had, tapping a finger. ‘Firstly, Guy,’ she said, voice dripping with contempt. ‘He’s the one in a relationship, not you. He’s the one committing adultery. And by the way, he’s not someone’s husband, but I’m noticing that you found a way to make your crime – if we can even call it that – sound even worse than it is.’ It’s a weird kind of irony, the way she sketched out a courtroom. Perhaps she sensed where we were headed, even then. ‘You do that a lot, don’t you, Rachel?’ she continued. ‘Find petrol to throw on the fire of your self-disgust?’ I flinched. ‘I’m sorry!’ she said. ‘I work so intuitively, and sometimes I articulate what I’m sensing a little too quickly. Feel free to tell me to shut my mouth.’ ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I said, forcing myself to smile. What hurt was that my carefully concealed acts of self-harm were so obvious. Amber continued, soft. ‘Sometimes, when we do something we can’t even explain to ourselves, it’s another part of us trying to express a truth we can’t bear to consciously own.’ ‘Yeah, no, I understand about the subconscious,’ I said, shame making me pompous. Amber paused. ‘But we can never really understand the subconscious, can we?’ She laughed. ‘It’s kind of its survival strategy! It can be scary when a part of us goes rogue, finds a more extreme way to force us to acknowledge the reality of a situation.’ ‘So, Saturday was a terrorist attack, is that what you’re saying? I’m like – emotional ISIS?’ When Amber laughed, it felt like the most incredible release of tension. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t just you who needed to hear the message,’ she said. ‘It can be the truth-teller in the family who’s the real hero, even if it doesn’t look that way.’ ‘Do you think that’s what I was trying to do? Make my family listen?’ How was she so perc eptive when I hadn’t even spoken Esther’s name? I sat with her version for a second, and my shame started to miraculously recede, to reshape itself into something almost noble. She gave a sage nod. ‘You don’t strike me as a disruptor, Rachel, with your A grades and your first- class degree.’ I remember being surprised by how thorough Mum must have been, the level of detail she’d bothered to impart. It made me feel instantly guilty for the fact that I was sitting here, slyly sliding blame over to her for my own re volting behaviour. Then I started to think about the endless boring work meetings that were coming my way, the inevitable chat with Julia about whether or not she should go vegan. I needed to get a grip. I picked up my bag. ‘I should go.’ ‘Of course,’ smiled Amber. ‘I’m sorry that I overran.’ ‘No, it was really nice of you to give me that time...’ I said. It was harder than I expected to actually leave. ‘Just think about what we talked about,’ Amber added. She nested her fingers together and stretched them out in front of her, silently acknowledging the session was closing. ‘I think you’re a very special young woman – a bright spirit that wants to shine – and I’m hoping once we’ve done our work together, you won’t even need me to tell you that. You’ll own it.’
Her faith in me – even if Mum had paid for it – made sharp tears prickle behind my eyes. It was amazing and agonizing all at once. ‘Thanks,’ I said, standing up so fast that the blood rushed to my head. She must have seen my fingers grasp for the arm of the plush sofa. ‘I know you have to get to work, but let’s just take a couple more minutes to really close out the session,’ she said. I sunk down heavily: suddenly the outside world felt like way too much. Amber reached under the coffee table and pulled out a black box. Inside was a huge lump of pink crystal which she planted ceremoniously between us. ‘Forgive me the hippy dippy stuff, but this is a piece of rose quartz. A shaman who...’ her voice had a tremor to it. ‘He’s been life-changing – he blessed it in service of all my clients.’ Her eyes were bright, as if the very thought of him was overwhelming to her. ‘Let’s just place our fingers on it.’ I stretched out a tentative hand. As the pads of my fingers settled on it, something unquiet inside me settled too. ‘That’s it. Let it heal you,’ murmured Amber, her lids heavy, eyes half closed. Now she was emitting not words but a tone, a sound that was somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Her face was turned upwards, towards what – a god that only she could see? I looked away as the noise she made filled the room: it was too intimate, like I’d caught her with a hand surr eptitiously stuffed down her knickers. Then her eyes sprung open, her hands moving to prayer position at her heart. Her eyes were shining, her laser focus back on me. I checked myself. Was joy really that hard for me to contemplate? Was it somehow dirty to me? ‘The light in me honours the light in you,’ she said, bowing de eply towards me. ‘Namaste.’ ‘Namaste,’ I said, copying the gesture, familiar from the yoga classes I’d occasionally manage when my hangovers allowed. ‘Until we meet again...’ she said. I booked to come back the following Monday before I’d even left the room. It was five days away – I couldn’t even wait a week.