We'll Have a Wonderful Cornish Christmas

3. Therapy

3

Therapy

It was a casual invitation. Melanie, forty-five and divorced but still attractive in that carefree-but-drinks-a-little-too-much way, would no doubt have the vodka on tap to celebrate her first night of the Christmas holidays, be looking to get laid and ideally get Lucy laid too. She had invited the staff of every retailer on the Clifton Triangle to her townhouse on Clifton Avenue, a three-storey divorce-settlement monstrosity set in its own grounds which she shared only with a geriatric Labrador now that her two adult children were off at university. She had even taken Lucy with her to invite the staff of the new sports shoe store two doors down from the Starbucks, because ‘they’re all young guys, and once you get some Kahlua punch in them they’ll be anybody’s.’

Lucy, who had last made the mistake of drinking too much six months ago at an old university friend’s party, wasn’t keen. She didn’t have a specific excuse, so after Melanie had closed the travel agent for the Christmas holidays at lunchtime and gone off to do some last-minute shopping, Lucy wandered up and down Park Street, idly looking through the trendy townie and student shops, half hoping that some chancer would cast her an evening cinema invite on a whim.

While it didn’t happen, a three o’clock appointment with her therapist (and aunt) at least gave her a little more thinking time. As Aunt Agatha let her into her second floor flat off Whiteladies Road, Lucy considered just turning off her phone to avoid Melanie’s certain hassling in the event of a no-show, and later playing ignorant or blaming a toilet-related accident.

‘So, how are we today?’ Aunt Agatha—or as patients knew her, Dr. Woakes—asked, settling into the creaking leather swivel chair that looked far more comfortable than the sofa on which Lucy always had to sit.

‘Life is a complete nightmare,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m single, which isn’t the problem, but because I’m thirty, everyone I meet thinks it is. I’m supposed to go to a party tonight where I can guarantee someone will try to match-make me, probably with someone inappropriate. I’ll get drunk to try to get out of it then humiliate myself. Alternatively, if I’m match-made with someone nice, I’ll get drunk to try to relax, and then humiliate myself. Either way, the result is the same.’

‘And you can’t get out of it because why?’

‘Because I don’t have an acceptable excuse.’

Aunt Agatha gave a sage nod. ‘Melanie’s party?’

Lucy nodded.

‘It sounds like a right laugh from what you’ve told me. Didn’t you say last year she had a horse?’

‘Someone showed up with one, yeah. They just left it chained up in the back garden with Reginald.’

‘Who?’

‘The dog.’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, it was a gimmick, and it sounded cool, but she was scared it would kick someone so no one was allowed near it. People spent most of the evening taking selfies with it out of the living room window. Apart from one guy who tried to serenade it.’

‘Did it kick him?’

‘Bit his shoulder. He wasn’t invited this year, apparently. Although, to be fair, neither was the horse.’

‘Why don’t you just go?’

‘You know why.’

Aunt Agatha sighed. ‘You can’t spend your whole life being so serious,’ she said. ‘For better or worse, a good laugh is always worth it.’

‘No, it’s really not. Even alone it’s not.’

For a therapist, Aunt Agatha didn’t seem particularly patient, but then Lucy was getting a friends and family rate of precisely zero, on the condition that Lucy recommend her aunt to anyone she knew who had issues.

‘Well, I suppose at least you won’t get wrinkles. People look at me and think I’m fifty years older than I am. I tell them I just enjoy a good laugh. So, what’s your plan for your Christmas holidays this year?’

Lucy remembered the flyer she had picked up earlier that morning. ‘I’m going to walk around Sicily,’ Lucy said. ‘Just me, a tent, and a backpack.’

‘Have you booked your flight yet?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘Not yet. There are always last-minute cancellations, and Melanie’s always cool with us using the staff card to get a discount.’ She looked up as Aunt Agatha smiled. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just that I heard your parents were going on holiday this Christmas,’ she said.

‘Really? They didn’t tell me.’

‘Have you asked them?’

Lucy shrugged. ‘I haven’t spoken to them in two weeks. I keep meaning to call, but at this time of year Mum always makes me her project case.’

‘Lucy, I love you as my niece and my sister’s only-born, but sometimes you’re infuriating.’

‘As my therapist, aren’t you supposed to support me?’

‘Of course, but as your aunt, I’m allowed to tell you when to pull your socks up. Look, you’d better get on the phone quick. They’re leaving tomorrow morning.’ Aunt Agatha leaned forward and winked. ‘And wouldn’t that give you a good excuse not to go to Melanie’s party?’

Lucy sighed. Part of her felt hurt that her parents had thought of themselves rather than honouring their yearly Christmas dinner when Lucy would reluctantly stop by for a couple of hours during the middle of the day, usually between bouts of solitude. On the other hand, Aunt Agatha was right. She was a rubbish daughter, and had been for as long as she’d been old enough to make her own choices.

‘Where are they going?’ she asked.

‘Cornwall.’ Aunt Agatha smiled. ‘I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be at Christmas. In a cozy beachside cottage, with my family … fantastic. Well, except for a cold cliff path in Sicily, getting stared at by goats and weird yokels. Come on, Lucy. You should go with them.’

‘They’ll still be there next year. Plus, I’ve always wanted to go to Sicily,’ she added, even though it hadn’t even occurred to her until a couple of hours ago.

‘Have you checked the Italian weather? It’ll probably just rain the whole time.’ Aunt Agatha gave a handful of papers a professional shuffle and lifted an eyebrow. ‘And will your parents still be there next year? Have you asked Melanie for her thoughts on that?’

Lucy looked down. It was hard to defeat the logic when it was presented, but the wall she had built around her fragile confidence often dominated her thoughts. Letting in emotions from outside posed a threat to her personal security.

‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘I should go with them. It’s just … you don’t understand how it feels when something bad happens. No one does.’