Curtis The Psychiatrist

The BRAND NEW chillingly gripping thriller for 2025 from Emma Curtis the bestselling author of The Babysitter and The Commuter
Main
ISBN: 978-1-80546-358-0
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 416 Seiten

'EMMA CURTIS IS A GENIUS!' Andrea Mara, No. 1 bestselling author of No One Saw a Thing 'GRIPPING, ADDICTIVE' Claire Douglas, No. 1 bestselling author of The New Neighbours Prepare to be gripped by the brand-new chilling thriller from the author of THE BABYSITTER and THE COMMUTER. TWO FAMILIES. ONE LIE. NO FORGIVENESS. In the leafy suburbs, status is paramount and reputation is everything... Recently qualified psychiatrist Dr Geddes is building her career at a prestigious practice when an unexpected encounter with a young male patient threatens to expose her darkest secret. Lorna Chilcott is delighted to befriend the glamorous Elise, wife of the ex-boyband star she had a crush on as a teenager. But when her daughter goes missing after leaving Elise's house, friendship turns to discord and accusations fly. A single lie connects these two traumatic events - and its impact will be deadly... READERS LOVE THE PSYCHIATRIST 'I LOVED THIS BOOK! I literally had NO WAY of working out what was going to happen!' ****** 'I didn't want it to end, a book I really couldn't put down' ***** 'My favourite read so far this year, I can't wait to recommend it to everyone' ***** 'If you're into twisty, character-driven reads, definitely give this one a go!' ***** 'An addictive thriller' *****

Emma Curtis spent many years as a primary school secretary, becoming fascinated by the dynamics of family life and the fault lines hidden behind seemingly perfect facades. After the success of her debut, One Little Mistake, Emma started writing full-time. The Psychiatrist is her eighth psychological suspense novel. She lives in West London with her husband.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Curtis, Emma

Leseproben

Chapter 1

THE PSYCHIATRIST

I’m looking at Ben Clarkson’s lowered head and I have the unpleasant sensation that I’ve failed, and that he knows it as well as I do. He sits with his hands clasped between his thighs, his dirty-blonde hair hiding his expression.

‘You’ve come a long way, Ben. I have confidence in your ability to maintain your progress.’ I feel the weakness in my words as he lifts his blue eyes to my face. There’s an element of disdain there.

‘Yeah.’

As is sometimes the way with people with bipolar presentation, Ben is volatile and hard to predict. He has the arrogance of a young man who thinks he’s cleverer than his psychiatrist. All my patients are challenging or they wouldn’t be here, but there is an unsettling quality to Ben, something I can’t put my finger on. Only that he knows it and uses it. Even when he’s being charming, I’ve sensed a latent hostility, a desire to dominate. People living with the disorder can experience periods of overconfidence or impulsivity during manic episodes, which can present as trying to have the upper hand, but I’m not convinced that is the case with Ben. After all, he hasn’t had a manic episode in the weeks I’ve been treating him.

‘Are you worried that you aren’t ready to manage your treatment plan on your own?’ I ask.

‘What do you think?’ he says, arching an eyebrow.

He often does this, throws my questions back at me. I don’t think he realises how much I can read from that. A shield batting off the arrows.

‘You’ve worked hard to develop strategies that can help stabilise your mood and prevent episodes.’ I smile at him. ‘You’ve got this.’

‘Thank you for believing in me.’

I detect a note of insincerity. It mirrors my own. What has happened here? Why haven’t I been able to get through to this man?

‘It doesn’t matter what I believe. You have to believe in yourself.’ I struggle on, itching to be rid of him. He makes me nervous. He has from the off. ‘You have the tools to manage your symptoms and you can recognise the early signs of a relapse in time to put your strategies in place. You know this is true.’

We’ve discussed his safety plan. If he’s troubled, he will talk to his parents, who for all their faults have always made sure he has professional help, and if that proves insufficient, he’ll come back to see me. I doubt he will. Fleetingly, I realise I’ll miss the flashes of savage humour that have enlivened our sessions.

‘Okay, Ben?’ I say when he doesn’t answer.

There’s the glimmer of a smile as he nods.

Ben seemed lost when I met him. Coming here has given him a routine and stability he lacked, so of course there will be a sense of abandonment. Diagnosed a year ago, his condition has dominated his life since his early teens. His family situation – he’s the only child of a diplomat – hasn’t helped. His father is two years into a three-year stint in Nigeria, and before that they lived in Dubai and Cairo. Sent to boarding school in England at the age of eight, moving to a London day school for sixth form and then university while his parents lived abroad, Ben gives the impression of being self-sufficient but somehow is not. There’s a vulnerability that his combative personality masks until you get close enough to see the chinks. He is a man of contradictions.

I can’t help feeling that Mr and Mrs Clarkson have been selfish. It seems extraordinary to leave a vulnerable young person unanchored. He’s rattled around London on his own since he was sixteen, living in a studio flat in central London during school holidays, subsisting on takeaways and occasional visits to the homes of family friends. Plenty of money and zero attention.

No wonder he unravelled. While his mother clearly worries about her son enough to have got in touch with me, she’s happier to throw money at his problems than interrupt her glamorous life to fly over and offer emotional support. But who am I to judge? I’m not a parent.

‘Why did you go into psychiatry?’ Ben asks. ‘Why not general practice, or surgery?’

I don’t mind answering that. It’s a valid question. ‘Because I learnt a long time ago that bodies are often made unwell by minds. That’s where I wanted to be. Teaching people to manage their mental illness can have a profound effect on their physical health. And vice versa. It’s a very close link.’

‘Do you always succeed?’ He looks into my eyes, and I blink.

‘Not always, no. It’s an imperfect art. You can never really eradicate mental pain, but you can make it hurt less; you can make it manageable by putting the patient in charge of it.’ It feels good explaining it to him, like he’s a potential student of the discipline rather than a consumer of it. ‘Often when people come to me they’ve lost all sense of control. Their mental anguish has taken the reins and their life is no longer their own. I believe in dealing with the symptoms first by getting the medication right, then working on the causes. Essentially, I aim to stop patients like you spiralling out of reach before you can be helped.’

He nods slowly, eyes on my face, appearing impressed by my eloquence. In truth, I feel a bit of a fraud. I haven’t been qualified long and I’m still under supervision, still have to feign the confidence I lack, still sometimes wonder what gives me the right to diagnose patients’ mental and behavioural disorders, still feel like I’m getting away with it. So far I have, hopefully because I’m better than I think I am, but at times I’ve had the distinct feeling that Ben, in particular, sees through me.

‘Does helping people give you a sense of power?’

‘That’s an odd question.’ And a manipulative one, I silently add.

‘I’m curious.’

‘All right. Not power so much as achievement. I try not to be self-congratulatory, but sometimes when I see a patient turn their life around, then absolutely, it’s a powerful feeling. But that’s different from having a sense of power.’

‘Do you think you’ve succeeded with me?’

I roll the question over in my mind. ‘I hope so.’

‘But you’re not sure.’

‘No. But then a sense of certainty is something I want to give , not that I need you to give me.’ Certainty is a state of being I work towards my patients attaining, even though it’s a tough one to achieve. I want them to believe they have the ability to manage their condition, that their lives are worth something, that their medication works, that they have learnt the techniques that will help them function better, even thrive. ‘That would be a shameful state of affairs.’

I am breaching professional boundaries here and need to wrap this up before it gets any worse. I get to my feet to indicate that our session is over and Ben follows suit. He’s considerably taller than me.

‘Do you feel shame about me?’ he asks.

‘Does unsettling women give you a sense of power?’ Oh Christ. I should not have said that. This is more about me than him. I can feel a blush warming my cheeks.

‘You think I’m deliberately unsettling you?’

‘I do. You’re a young man, but not too young to know precisely what you’re doing.’

‘It isn’t deliberate, and I’m sorry if I’ve unsettled you. I didn’t mean to. And it doesn’t give me a sense of power to discover that I have.’

I attempt to claw back my dignity. ‘I didn’t say you’d succeeded, just that I believe it’s what you’re trying to do.’

Ben grins. ‘Touché. I get scared of things, scared of myself sometimes. Is that normal?’

‘It’s something we all do at one time or another.’

‘I thought you psychiatrists would be immune.’

I think of the heath at night, of the black depths of the river. ‘I’m not immune. I doubt anyone is, even psychiatrists.’ I move past him to the door and have an odd feeling that he was about to put his hand out to touch me. I’m over-aware of his physicality. Not attracted, more switched on to him. Fight or flight. ‘If you ever feel like stopping taking your medication, get in touch with the practice.’

He hesitates, evidently disappointed. ‘I will.’

‘Good luck, Mr Clarkson.’

‘Thank you, Dr Geddes.’

He offers his hand, and I take it automatically. It’s the first time we’ve touched, and I feel it in my chest, like a portent of danger. He starts towards the door, then turns back.

‘I’m not your patient any more, am I?’

‘No, Ben,’ I respond, half smiling. ‘You’re not. Go and get on with the rest of your life.’

He’s barely listening. ‘Then I just want to say . . . you’re beautiful.’

I keep my face blank as he leaves, my training kicking in. I expected a challenging final statement from Ben, but not this.

The receptionist says goodbye, the door to the street closes. I release my breath.

My face is set as I sit down to update my session notes. I put on my reading glasses, take the...