Going Up and Going Down (5 page)

My other
appointment came first – one that Mum and Dad didn’t know about - and didn’t
need to know about. I was roughly eleven weeks pregnant and for the last six
weeks I had been throwing up each morning. I had been on the pill since I was
sixteen and I couldn’t understand what the matter was when I had missed my first
period. I
never
missed a pill – I made sure of that, they were always on
the top of my bedside cabinet and I never failed to take one each night before
going to sleep (even when I was drunk).  Thinking back, the only possible
explanation I could came up with was that I had been taking antibiotics for ten
days, for a particularly bad chest infection, and they had counteracted the
effects of the pill. Still, there was no time to be wasted, wondering how and
why – the matter needed my urgent attention. I was too young, not too fond of
children anyway, and I needed a career. A part of me wondered what it would be
like to gaze down into a cot and see a little boy or girl with Gavin’s eyes and
nose. But I didn’t let myself dwell on the thought for too long. For the most
part I could only see the negative side - it would probably turn out to be a
cheating, conniving, little bastard, - like its father. I wouldn’t be
responsible for bringing another of those into the world – there was more than
enough already.

I told Mum and
Dad I was going into the city for the day; a bit of shopping, some mooching
around an art gallery, and maybe even a museum. Mum offered to come with me but
I rapidly quashed that idea telling her I needed some time to think and plan
for my future. I was so scared, I was actually tempted to tell her what I was
about to do, to have her come along, hold my hand and let me cry on her
shoulder after it was over. I got a shiver within the depths of my body. I
hated having to lie to them but I was only doing it to protect them from the
hurt and disappointment they would inevitably feel. “I’ll be fine, Mum. Stop
worrying. I’m having a day alone, that’s all. I need to think.”

Whether it was
still the morning sickness or just pure nerves I didn’t know but the nauseous feeling
never left me during my journey on the tube. My appointment was for 10am in a
private clinic not far from Harley Street. I had a ten minute wait after I’d
checked in with the receptionist. I suppose like every other young woman who’d
done this before me, I seriously considered walking out of there. I knew what I
was about to do was morally wrong, but to have a child was not right for me. It
was my fear that was making me want to run. Somebody came to take me into a
little side office where I had some form filling to do and a quick
consultation. By 5pm I was out of there - it was over and done with. It had
been a strange feeling when I woke up - to know that the last little bit of
Gavin which had been growing inside me, had gone. I felt a sense of relief. I
had got rid of his foetus and I felt by having done so it would also help get
him out of my mind – permanently. Like a type of exorcism. I caught a cab home
just in case I started feeling queasy after my surgery. I had no desire to be
passing out on the underground.

“So, darling,
did you get any thinking done whilst you were out?” Dad asked as we settled
down after our evening meal.

My guilt gnawed
at my insides again and I hoped they wouldn’t see the red flush on my face that
must have appeared.

“Yes. I’m going
to have my appointments with the clinical psychologist. After that I’m going to
get a job - if I can,” I told them, “in accountancy. That’s always what my
intention was. I’m just taking a different route.”

“I may be able
to help with that sweetheart” said Dad, “leave it with me for a few days.”

My heart melted
at his protectiveness of me and his offer of assistance, but it also made me
feel small. I didn’t want his help, I’d just robbed them of a grandchild I
didn’t deserve his help. I suppressed an urge to scream out about my shame. I
needed to do something for myself for once. My parents had already done so much
for me. They had given me a very privileged start in life. Now was the time for
me to go it alone, without any strings being pulled by them on my behalf. Determined
that I would sort out my own career, but wanting to show my appreciation for
his support, I muttered,

“Thanks Dad.”

My appointment
with Mr Gillespie soon came around, and that first initial visit involved me
telling him all about my life from my earliest memories and right through my
school years, bullying included. It was hard work - there was no prompting from
him whatsoever. He hardly said a word, he just nodded occasionally to
acknowledge that he understood what was being said, his elbows on his desk, the
fingers of each hand interlocked together. The half hour appointment dragged
whilst I was in there and he told me to see the receptionist on my way out to
book my appointment - he had suggested two weeks as an ideal gap.

The next two
weeks passed by quickly but uneventfully. I continued with my daily cleaning
routines to the house and unconsciously trying to remove the top layer of skin
from my hands and arms through my constant scrubbing at them. Mum and Dad continued
to watch over me whenever they were able. I really wished they would stop
fretting. I wasn’t about to do any serious harm to myself. I didn’t have my
finger poised over some self-destruct button. It was getting me through each
day in the way I knew best. I didn’t once have any guilty feelings about
getting rid of Gavin’s baby – I knew it had been the right thing to do – for
me, at least. I think I would have resented the child – looking at his or her
little face, seeing Gavin in every expression and every little mannerism. (Not
once did I ever consider that it may have looked like
me
, and have
my
facial expressions,
my
temperament, maybe all
my
genes. I
wouldn’t let those thoughts even enter my head – I couldn’t.) Any guilt I felt
was for the loss my parents were unaware of.

At our next
appointment Mr Gillespie got me started by asking about my life at University.
He asked how I had coped with the coursework, what my plans had been for the
future at that time – both before I had quit and after. I told him about the
Uni social life, the constant partying, meeting Gavin, and the events leading
up to his betrayal – with my best friend. Whilst I was talking he sat, fingers
yet again entwined, sometimes watching me, sometimes gazing out of the window –
but listening intently, always. I hadn’t failed to notice that there was very
little note-taking involved. (Perhaps he wrote up his notes afterwards so as
not to suddenly lose his patient’s train of thought by hurriedly picking up his
pen to start furiously writing lest he forget some minor detail, and leaving
the patient wondering what he’s writing about them, and does it involve the
words total nutcase, loser, raving lunatic or recommend mental institution for
the rest of his/her natural?) The appointment ended promptly when my thirty
minutes were up. On leaving his room I called by the receptionist’s desk to
make my next appointment.

I’d already
decided I wasn’t going to waste that next fortnight waiting for session three
with my shrink, as I now referred to him when speaking with Mum and Dad. Making
a valiant effort not to clean and scrub as much, I sat in front of the computer
composing an introduction/’enquiring if you have any vacancies’ letter, that I
planned to send out to all chartered accountant practices throughout the London
region. I thought it through with the utmost care - the wording had to be spot
on. I had to create an instant good impression and sell myself. My aim was to
make them want to know more about me. I wanted interviews. It took me four hours
in total. I edited, re-edited, made some additions, deleted a couple of words,
and finally I was happy with it. One thing that worried me was the fact that I
had quit Uni - would they consider me? I had stated in my letter, without going
into detail, that my reasons for leaving University were personal. Would they
just disregard me anyway, label me as a quitter to save themselves
disappointment later in the day? Or would they give me a chance to explain
those personal reasons in interview? I couldn’t somehow see myself explaining
to them ‘well, I quit Uni because I caught my boyfriend fucking my best friend
in my flat.’

I was in a rush
to get all the letters sent out – I wanted to get something sorted before Dad
could start speaking to some of his contacts and pull some strings. I wanted
both him and Mum to be proud of me. My second reason for rushing to get a job
was the shrink appointments – I wanted them over with. My way of thinking was
if you get a job, something to occupy your mind, the O.C.D. will just
automatically disappear. So the day after I’d done my letter I printed off
fifty copies and used Google to search accountancy practices in London and the suburbs. I hoped fifty would be sufficient, but if I wasn’t successful with
those, there was plenty more I could try.

I had a pretty
good feeling about the exercise and was quietly confident that I could land
myself a position. I still had the quitting Uni thing niggling at the back of
my mind, but I was sure that there was someone, somewhere, who would be willing
to give me a chance by giving me the benefit of the doubt. I needed some
interviews desperately, at least that would help restore some faith in myself.

A few days
after I’d mailed all the letters, I paced around the lounge and hallway each morning
waiting for the postman. The frustration when I shuffled through any mail to
find they were all addressed to Mum or Dad was unbearable, but I am not the
most patient person at the best of times. (Why do people take so long to reply
to letters? I’ve never been able to understand that. To me, it’s simple. You
get a letter – you answer it. Just a straightforward ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ would do –
why take days, weeks even?)

Two days before
my next shrink appointment arrived, I opened my mail to find not one, but two
letters from accountancy practices willing to offer me interviews and they had
both given me a date and time. One was three weeks away, a Thursday at 4pm, and
one on Wednesday, just a week away at 10.30am. I was thrilled. I had already
received about ten rejection letters in the previous two or three days, some
stating ‘unfortunately, we do not have any vacancies at this current time’ and
the remainder saying ‘sorry to inform you that your application has been
unsuccessful.’ I was overjoyed. I smirked as I thrust the interview letters
into Dad’s hands later that night,

“See? I can do
it Dad.” He grinned back and hugged me tightly, delighted to see me looking
more positive.

“Well I always
knew were capable, darling. I really hope you interview well - you will be an
asset to any company, I’m sure.” I hoped so too. I was desperate to do
something that would make my parents proud of me. I needed to!

I went along to
the next appointment with Mr Gillespie two days after receiving my interview
letters. This time he wanted to know all about my obsessions. When exactly had
it started, how often did I indulge in my obsessions? Was it every day? What
did I feel I was achieving? How many times a day was I scrubbing my hands or
showering? Did I think that this had all been triggered by Gavin having sex
with Bobbie? (Of course I did.) Did I feel mentally contaminated because I
couldn’t rid myself of the vision of the two of them indulging in such a way?
(What sort of question was that to ask? Wouldn’t anybody feel the same way,
having witnessed those two shagging like a couple of dogs?) Why was I arranging
Dad’s books in perfect symmetry? Was I trying to get my life back in order?
(This is a total waste of my bloody time. I’ve come here to see this guy and he
sits there telling me what is patently obvious.) He ended the day’s session by
confirming that I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and that as things had
only recently started occurring, he was quite sure that with some additional
help, Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, quite soon, it was possible that I could get
past this stage in my life before it really took a hold. He would make the
referral and the therapist would write to me offering an appointment. On the
journey home I was feeling rather disgruntled and well – pissed off with
things. I badly needed not to have to go through with the therapy.

I parked my car
in the drive, ambled up the path and in through the door. Mum was in the
kitchen preparing the vegetables for the evening meal, and asked me,

“How was today’s
session, darling?” and without pausing for another breath, or waiting for an
answer “There’s some more mail for you - well, one letter – on the coffee
table. The post arrived just after you left.”

I left Mum
alone in kitchen, muttering as she continued to attack the swede with a touch
too much enthusiasm. As I ripped open the envelope and read the letter, I
started to smile and couldn’t stop myself from punching the air. I had been
offered an interview, 10am Monday morning the following week.

By eleven am
that following Monday morning I had been offered a position. No waiting whilst
hundreds of other hopefuls had interviews, no hanging about waiting for the
rejection (or in this case, acceptance) letter. He told me immediately that
there was a position and possibly a future for me within the practice. I had
liked the gentleman Mr Hopkins from my first impressions and it was all I could
do to keep myself from flinging my arms around him and kissing him. He told me
all the necessary information with regard to salary, holiday entitlement,
sickness, and training. He would get the employment contract drawn up
immediately and asked when it would be convenient for me to start. I left the
office on cloud nine and with an overwhelming desire to punch the air again as
I walked back to my car knowing I would be starting my new career the following
Monday.