Where There's Smoke

Kate knew Lucy and Jack well enough to gather that they had been arguing. She had felt anxious enough before she arrived, and the tension between them didn’t make her feel any better. She had a sudden presentiment that the night was going to be awful.

“I’ll have a Bud, please,” Alex said. Jack gave Lucy a triumphant glance, clearly taking the nickname as proof of a kindred spirit. He went through into the kitchen.

“I’ll have white wine, since you’ve asked,” Lucy shouted after him, sweetly. She smiled back at Kate and Alex. “You might as well sit down.”

They went to the sofa and chairs set around the unlit fire. As she passed Kate, Lucy lowered her voice. “New dress?”

Kate nodded. It was plain white, sleeveless and ended well above her knee. Lucy raised an eyebrow at her, but made no further comment as she settled into one of the armchairs. After hesitating by its twin, Kate sat on the sofa with Alex, though at the other side. She was conscious of her dress riding up over her thighs. It was shorter than she was used to.

Lucy gave him a hostess’s smile. “Kate tells me you’re a clinical psychologist?”

Alex nodded. “Er, yes, that’s right.”

“You’ll have to forgive my ignorance, but I’m not sure what one is. I mean, I know what a psychologist is, but I’m not sure about the clinical bit.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, it, er, it basically means I work with patients rather than on the, uh, theoretical or research side.”

He sat with his legs crossed and one arm thrown casually over the arm of the sofa, but Kate sensed the same rigidity in him she had noticed in the restaurant. He seemed to be holding himself in the relaxed posture by an effort of will.

“So you treat schizophrenics and people like that, instead of getting rats to run round mazes?” Lucy persisted.

“Ah, no, I wouldn’t treat anyone for schizophrenia. That’s more a psychiatric condition, really.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference?”

Alex looked discomforted at being quizzed. Kate wished Lucy would change the subject.

“Psychiatry deals with, er, with mental illness. It, uh, it tends to use a lot of drug treatment. Psychology — c-clinical psychology — is more concerned with behavioural problems.”

The faint catch was back in his voice, an almost imperceptible stumble over his consonants. Kate wondered if Lucy could tell how nervous he was. She was beginning to regret the enthusiasm that had led her to take him there. It hadn’t been her intention to put him on display, but that was how it must seem.

“What made you choose it? The clinical thing, I mean?”

Kate wondered if she had sounded as inane when she’d first met him. She waited for Alex to tell Lucy about the “super psychologists”.

“Oh, no particular reason,” he said, dismissively. “It was just something I liked the sound of.”

He didn’t look at her, but Kate was suddenly sure that Alex knew she was conscious of the omission. And, for some reason, she was glad he hadn’t told Lucy.

“What sort of—” Lucy began, but Kate never knew what her next question would have been. She broke off as a small figure came into the room. Dressed in a pale yellow nightgown, Emily hung back at the edge of the circle formed by the sofa and chairs. She had a shy smile on her face as she looked up coyly at Alex from under her hair. “And what are you doing out of bed, young lady?“ Lucy asked, affecting sternness.

Emily twirled back and forth on her toes, not taking her eyes from Alex. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“And I don’t suppose that’s because you wanted to see who was here, is it?”

Emily smiled but said nothing. Lucy sighed and turned to Alex. “I don’t suppose you know anything about child psychology, do you? Like what to do with nosy children?”

He gave an uncertain grin. “No, sorry.”

As if Emily had been waiting for him to speak, she edged closer. “Are you Kate’s boyfriend?”

“Time for bed, I think,” Lucy said, coming out of her chair and swooping her up so quickly that they were half-way down the hallway before the little girl’s objections sounded. As the noises of protest receded Kate forced herself to smile at Alex. Separated by the width of a cushion and mutual embarrassment, they waited for Jack to return with the drinks.

Lucy had cooked roast chicken, rubbed with lemon and garlic and served with green beans and minted new potatoes from their garden. When she put her mind to it, she was a good cook, but she had obviously lost interest by the time it came to preparing a dessert. The chocolate gâteau she produced was mainly synthetic cream and additives, and misshapen on one side where it had been squashed in the shopping bag. But by that time the drinks had relaxed them enough so they could laugh about it.