His therapist. Their love affair. Her Little Secret.
Cristina knows all about boundaries. As a therapist, it is vital that she keeps her clients at a professional distance.
Enter new client Leon: educated, charming, affluent -- and newly bereaved, following the death of his married lover, Michelle. Cristina soon learns that Leon has an ulterior motive for approaching her: Michelle was one of her clients, and Leon is desperate for her insights into the woman he loved.
Moved by the depth of his feelings, Cristina is drawn to help him through his grief. But as she struggles to ignore her own growing attraction to sophisticated, attentive Leon, her boundaries start to blur and then collapse, and the two embark on their own clandestine love affair.
But why does Leon switch so quickly from charm to criticism, attentiveness to distance? Can anyone truly be as perfect as he paints his beloved Michelle to have been, and what is hidden inside of her off-limits therapy file? Torn between her conscience and curiosity, Cristina is about to discover the truth is far beyond anything she could have imagined...
For fans of You, Before I Go to Sleep and Obsession, Her Little Secret is an utterly chilling new psychological thriller about obsessive love and the danger of crossing lines.
Chapter One
Downstairs the phone rings and I curse. I’m having a lie-in with Davy – my on/off ex – and it’s snug here. Davy cuddles closer, flings his arm across my waist, a “don’t go” gesture.
‘I’ve got to get it. Could be Clare,’ I say, throwing back the duvet and wriggling loose. He tugs the covers back around him, capturing the escaping warmth as I grab my dressing gown then rush for the stairs.
The answerphone clicks on as I reach the bottom step, buying me a second or so to catch my breath. His voice echoes around my small hallway. A deep dark-brown, educated timbre. Gravitas, but ill at ease.
‘Hallo? I . . . I wanted to speak to Cristina Hughes . . .’
The flattened tone suggests depression. My bathrobe flaps about me as I hurry to grab the receiver before he rings off, concerned he’ll disappear without leaving contact details. I know how hard it is to psych yourself up to contact a therapist ‒ preparing what to say, picking a time when you feel ready to make the commitment to talk about your problems. It’s not easy; if you don’t actually get to speak to them in person the emotional crash can be too much.
‘Hallo, Cristina Hughes speaking.’ The hall clock says ten. We’d had a late night. ‘Good morning.’
There’s a pause as the man registers he’s no longer talking to a machine.
‘Hi. How can I help you?’ I prompt.
‘My name is Leon. Leon Jacobs. I wondered if I might make an appointment to see you?’ He speaks slowly as if each word requires careful thought.
‘Of course. Can I just take some details?’
‘I lost my partner . . . It’s been very difficult . . . I feel I’ve lost everything.’
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. Bereavement.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s been hard since she died,’ Leon Jacobs continues. ‘I keep thinking about her . . . can’t concentrate on anything else . . . And there’s no one I can talk to . . .’
It’s often like this: like a valve opens in these initial calls, the relief of being able to speak to someone they believe will understand leads to everything pouring out. The trust moves me every time, drawing me into their life from the start.
Behind me, I hear Davy coming downstairs. He pauses beside me mouthing, ‘Tea?’ and I shoo him away, trying to focus on Leon Jacobs, all the while aware of the soft pad of Davy’s bare feet on the tiles as he heads to the kitchen.
‘It must be hard for you, especially if you have no one to talk to. How long were you married?’
‘We weren’t married. At least not to each other.’
Illicit lovers then. An affair.
‘Sorry, of course, you said “partner”.’
*
Five minutes later, contact details exchanged and appointment booked, I hang up. It seems he got my number from a find-a-therapist website, had seen that I’d just started taking on clients again. He’s read my blog ‒ my first posting, at the end of my year-long sabbatical, after Dad died.
Dealing with Grief.
Even after all these years as a therapist, it can still take conscious effort for me to push my own emotions and memories to one side; to stay in the room, listening, rather than off in my own head. It’s a skill, Epoché. It means suspension of judgment, not reacting automatically to things the client says.
Bereavement.
An affair.
He’s triggered a lot in that first phone call.
*
The smell of burnt toast wafts from the kitchen. Davy hasn’t got the hang of my new toaster yet. He’s scraping the singed bits over the bin, a light dusting of black crumbs cover the surrounding floorboards and his trainers.
‘Work,’ I say.
‘Yeah, you was doing The Voice.’ He claims I adopt a “posh voice” when I speak with clients. ‘Tea’s there.’ He gesticulates with his elbow, intent on the task of salvaging his breakfast. Two mugs stand on the draining board, the teabags no doubt stewing in the depths of the tepid milky brew.
‘You got any jam?’ he asks, plonking the toast on a side plate, satisfied with his efforts.
‘Marmalade. But it’s the chunky-cut stuff with peel.’
He turns up his nose, gives a resigned shrug. ‘It’ll do. I’ll dig the bits out.’
Had the previous night been planned I would’ve made sure I stocked up on Davy’s breakfast requirements: white bread, salted butter, strawberry jam, builder’s tea. But it had been a bit of an impromptu evening. Hard to believe it’s been over twenty years since we divorced but some things don’t change. We’re still great friends and ‒ as long as neither of us is in a relationship with someone else ‒ we fall back on each other for affectionate, uncomplicated sex now and then. It’s cosy rather than passionate; neither of us having to hold in our stomachs or worry about our stretch marks.
Davy plasters his toast with butter while I eat my yogurt staring out the window at the back garden. For months I’ve been planning to requisition the summerhouse from its role of shed/dumping ground and turn it into a garden office where I can meet my clients. Of course, I’ve never got round to doing it, blaming the cold weather, the price of paint, my morose winter lethargy. Until my sabbatical I always used the front room to see clients, which meant keeping the décor bland and having to tidy up before each person comes. It would be nice to spoil myself with a designated professional space. With Leon Jacobs’ appointment in the diary for the following week, a new office could be the thing I need to gear me up for a fresh start.
‘You busy today?’ I ask Davy. ‘If not, I could do with a hand.’
*
By lunchtime we’re well under way with project refurb. Davy is like one of those wind-up toys: once the key is turned and he’s set in the right direction, he’s off. We’ve always made a good team on practical projects: Davy’s good humour balancing my indecisive faffing; both of us willing to turn our hand to hard work, neither of us too perfectionist in the execution.
I step back from the oblongs of colour I’ve painted on the wall. It’s taken a while but I’ve got it down to three: Tranquil Garden (the traditional shade of green found in ’70s schools and old lunatic asylums); Pink Clouds (psychologically calming according to research experiments in prisons, but a bit teenage bedroom); and Fresh Cream (the bland neutral of magnolia).
‘Well, which do you think?’
Davy’s been puffing his cheeks beside me as I vacillate. Home décor’s not his thing.
‘One wall of each.’ He scratches his head like Stan Laurel, although his build has become more Oliver Hardy over the years. ‘What’s it meant to look like? You’re the shrink.’
‘I’ve told you ‒ I’m a therapist, not a psychiatrist.’ I thump the lid down on the paint pot, hard enough that it hurts my hand. ‘You have to do a degree and years of training to be a psychiatrist.’ I rub the heel of my hand, circling my wrist to ease the throbbing.
‘It don’t really matter what it’s called ‒ you still help people sort themselves out. That’s why they come to see you. ’Cause you understand how to fix them, not ’cause of some fancy title.’ He stretches his arms above his head arching his back, his T-shirt pulling up showing his hairy belly. ‘I’m starved,’ he says, patting the exposed flesh.
‘I’ve got some cake in the bread bin. Madeira. The one with icing.’ I’m keen to make amends for snapping at him.
‘You know the way to a man’s heart. I’ll get the kettle on while you make up your mind.’
By the time he returns from the house with the mugs of tea I’ve painted the first coat of magnolia over all the samples. Better safe than sorry.
*
The night before Leon Jacobs’ appointment my stomach’s dancing. It’s a familiar feeling with a direct line back to the first time I ever performed on stage: only “Third Shepherd” in the school nativity, but I thought I’d physically burst with the combined excitement of having Dad and Mum in the audience and the anxiety of wanting to do my best.
Tonight I’m not approaching bursting point, but I still can’t resist a final inspection of my new office, even though I know it’s ready and there’s no more to do.
There’s a tingle of pleasure as I unlock the door and take stock. I run my finger along the spines of the textbooks on the shelf above the two-drawer filing cabinet in the corner. ACT, CBT, NLP, TA: so many acronyms but their familiarity is reassuring ‒ I know these things. I straighten the coasters on the coffee table, ready for the jug of water and glasses I’ll bring from the kitchen first thing in the morning. Make sure the obligatory box of tissues is discreet but within reach.
It’s perfect. It says Professional.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Working on review
Update 9/19/2021:
This started out a little slow for me as the author set up the beginning of Cristina and Leon's relationship. But once we get into their romantic relationship the pacing does pick up. I also wondered why she put up with his questionable behavior. Every time he did something I found questionable I'd say RED FLAGgirl run! Lol...
And I did not expect that twist. So good.
Cristina is a therapist who recently lost a parent and is getting back into seeing clients. Part of her job is to keep a professional distance. New client Leon is handsome, charming, and he's there to work through his grief. His lover Michelle recently passed away and what he doesn't tell Cristina right away is that Michelle was also her client at some point.
Despite her growing attraction to him, she commits to helping him work through his grief. But Leon is slowly breaking down her professional boundaries and charming her into a relationship. But there are things she notices that bother her. A subtle criticism here, showering with lots of attention to then turn cold.
And when she learns that he's lied to her about a few things to begins to put a little distance between them. And she's left to wondering what else he might be hiding.
View all my reviews
Julia Stone is a psychologist, trainer, coach, and psychotherapist. She attended Faber Academy in 2017 and in 2018 won The Blue Pencil First Novel award. #
Julia has a background in psychology and psychotherapy and has a passion for writing and the arts.
She was born in London and has lived east, north and west but never made it south of the river. Several years ago she moved to the countryside and now lives in rural Suffolk with her partner and varying numbers of ducks, muntjac, and moorhens.
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