Thursday's Children Read Free Page A

direction. You can do that, can’t you? Get to the bottom of her moods and put her back on track.’
    ‘It’s important to keep clear boundaries. She needs to see a therapist, not someone who – in her eyes – is connected to her mother.’
    ‘You’re a therapist, aren’t you? As for being connected …’ Her tone changed, grew chillier. ‘We never really hung about with the same crowd, did we? So we needn’t worry about that.’
    ‘I’ll see Becky for a proper consultation,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ll make an assessment, and I’ll tell you what I think she needs, and I can recommend someone for her to see, although she would need to be involved in that decision.’
    Maddie’s tone became warm again. ‘That’s lovely. But what do you mean by a proper consultation? It sounds a bit intimidating.’
    ‘It will be in my room in Bloomsbury. I’ll give you the address. It will last exactly fifty minutes. I’ll charge you seventy-five pounds.’
    ‘You’ll charge me?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That seems a bit cold-blooded, I must say.’
    ‘I saw Becky today because I know you,’ said Frieda. ‘Next time I’ll see her as a patient. That means you must pay me, as if I were an electrician or a plumber.’
    ‘You’re being very stern. Is that how much you charge everyone?’
    ‘It’s an average fee. If you’re not in the position to pay that much, I’ll make a concession.’
    ‘I’ve got plenty of money, thank you, Frieda. That’s one thing Stephen did leave me with. It just seems rather odd, paying for a little favour.’
    ‘It’s not a favour any more. This is what Becky needs and this is what I do.’



3
     
    Frieda took the tube up to Finsbury Park. She needed to clear her head. She walked along the edge of the park, then turned off on the old cutting that was like a secret green tunnel through Hornsey to the foot of Highgate Hill. Once it had been a railway line but now it had been abandoned to the trees and the dog walkers and the foxes. The yellow autumn leaves were everywhere, soggy under her shoes, blown around her face. There was a dank smell of decay, of mushrooms somewhere, though Frieda couldn’t see any. It felt like a time for change, for endings and beginnings. She was composing a sort of speech in her head when she was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. She looked at the screen. It was her old pupil, Jack Dargan. She answered.
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Jack. ‘I’m always a bit shocked when you answer your phone.’
    ‘I’ve discovered that not answering the phone is even more complicated than answering it.’
    ‘I’ll need to get my head around that one.’
    ‘Is this about something?’
    ‘Can we meet?’
    ‘Has something happened?’
    ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
    Frieda felt a twinge of alarm. Jack usually rang her when he was in distress and he had periodic episodes of doubt about the whole idea of being an analyst.
    ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
    ‘No, no. And don’t start trying to guess.’
    Frieda suggested he come round to her house later in the day but he insisted that he wanted to meet on neutral ground and named a pub, the Lord Nelson, that was just around the corner from her house. They would meet there in two hours.
    Half an hour later she was sitting in a now-familiar upper back room of a Highgate terraced house, looking into the wrinkled, kind, shrewd face of her own therapist, Thelma Scott. Frieda took a deep breath and began the speech she had rehearsed on the walk over.
    ‘I’ve always found two difficulties with therapy, and they’re entirely different. One of them is starting, because you don’t want it or don’t think you need it, and the second is ending, because you’re addicted to it or you just don’t know how to bring it to a finish. It’s difficult to say, “Enough, that’s it.”’
    ‘And that’s what you want to say today, is it?’ asked Thelma, smiling but still grave. ‘Enough?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What