Peter Robinson by Aftermath (com v4.0)

Author:Aftermath (com v4.0) [Aftermath (com v4.0)]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-03-24T01:11:40+00:00

“But how could she possibly know I’m seeing you?” Maggie asked Dr. Susan Simms at the start of her session that afternoon.

“I’ve no idea, but you can be certain I didn’t tell anyone. And I told her nothing.”

“I know,” said Maggie. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, dear. It’s a matter of professional ethics. This implied support of yours for Lucy Payne, is it true?”

Maggie felt her anger bristle again as she remembered her argument with Banks that morning. She still felt upset by it. “I think Lucy’s been a victim of abuse, yes.”

Dr. Simms remained silent for a while, gazing our of the window, then she shifted in her chair and said, “Just be careful, Margaret. Just be careful. You seem to be under a lot of stress. Now, shall we begin? I believe last time we were talking about your family.”

Maggie remembered. It was their fourth session, and the first time they’d touched on Maggie’s own family background. Which surprised her. She’d been expecting Freudian questions about her relationship with her father right from the start, even though Dr. Simms had insisted she wasn’t a Freudian analyst.

They were sitting in a small office overlooking Park Square, a peaceful, elegant bit of eighteenth-century Leeds. Birds sang in the trees among the pink and white blossoms, and students sat on the grass reading or simply enjoying the sun again after yesterday’s rain. Most of the humidity seemed to have cleared away and the air was crisp and warm. Dr. Simms had her window open, and Maggie could smell flowers from the window box; she didn’t know what kind, but they were flowers, all right, red and white and purple. She could just see the top of the town hall dome over the trees and elegant facades of the houses on the opposite side of the square.

The place was just like a doctor’s office, Maggie thought, or at least an old-style doctor’s office, with a solid desk, diplomas on the wall, fluorescent lights, filing cabinets and bookcases full of psychological journals and textbooks. There was no couch; Maggie and Dr. Simms sat in armchairs, not facing each other, but at a slight angle so that eye contact was easy but not mandatory, cooperative rather than confrontational. Dr. Simms had been recommended by Ruth, and so far she was turning out to be a real find. In her mid-fifties, solidly built, matronly, even, and with a severe look about her, she always wore old-fashioned Laura Ashley–style clothes, and her blue-gray hair was lacquered into whorls and waves that looked razor-sharp. Appearances to the contrary, Dr. Simms had the kindest, most compassionate manner Maggie could wish for, without being soft. For she certainly wasn’t soft; sometimes she was downright prickly, especially if Maggie — whom she always called Margaret for some reason — got her defenses up or started whimpering.

“There was never any violence in the home when we were growing up. My father was strict, but he never used his fists or his belt to discipline us.

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