merrier.
‘Is it some kind of odd sexism, do you think?’
‘I’m terrified of him,’ Regan went on. ‘Have been for forty-two years. And if I don’t want him to know I’ve changed my name, I can’t tell Mum either. She’s his faithful lackey. They both want me to carry on being scared of Dad. It suits them fine. If I wasn’t scared, I might start telling the truth about my childhood.’
Charlie tried, subtly, to fill her lungs with plenty of oxygen for the ordeal ahead. This was potentially worse than anything she could have imagined, in that it threatened not to finish soon. Childhoods, typically, were eighteen years long.
‘I grew up in a totalitarian regime,’ said Regan. ‘There’s no other way to describe it. I don’t think I need to describe it, not to you two.’
Thank you, Lord.
‘I’m sure you can imagine what I went through. You know what my dad’s like.’ Regan took a sip of her coffee, winced, then tried to hide it. ‘The reason I’m here – and I’m sorry it’s so late on a weeknight, I’m sorry I didn’t write or ring first to ask if it was okay. For weeks I didn’t think I’d be brave enough to contact you at all, and then tonight, when I realised I was, I knew I just had to do it, before I woke up and found I’d turned into a coward again.’
‘The reason you’re here?’ Charlie prompted.
Regan rewarded her with a small smile, for saying something sensible, finally. ‘I’m trying to come out from under the shadow. You know? With the help of a good therapist, I’m trying to build myself a proper life, build myself into a proper person.’
‘That’s been on my to-do list for years,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s making the time, though, isn’t it?’
‘Can you give the mockery a rest?’ Simon muttered.
‘It’s okay,’ Regan told him. ‘I know I’m putting you both in an awkward position by sharing this with you. You have to say something, and what can you say?’
Charlie could think of lots of things. They all had the word ‘fuck’ in them.
‘Go on,’ said Simon.
Regan looked stunned by this encouragement to speak. It took her a few seconds to recover from it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Well . . . it’s still early days. I’m nowhere near ready to confront my dad, but I’m taking steps in that direction. Important steps, my therapist says. Choosing a name for myself that isn’t the name he gave me was the first one.’
‘Regan’s a baddy in
King Lear
,’ Charlie pointed out.
‘When you’re brought up by someone like my father, you feel like a baddy every time you have a thought or feeling about him that isn’t hero-worship. Like a traitor. Regan is who I am at the moment. When it no longer feels like me, I’ll change my name again.’
Charlie laughed. ‘And your shrink’s given this her stamp of approval? I’d get a new shrink.’
‘Will you shut up?’ said Simon. ‘You know nothing about it.’
Not quite true. Last year, thanks to one of Simon’s cases, Charlie had met a psychotherapist who’d talked a lot of sense: a woman named Ginny Saxon. Ginny had offered an interpretation of Simon: why he was as he was. Charlie had never told him. She didn’t know if she ever would. She couldn’t decide if it would be helpful or harmful to pass on Ginny’s theory about the psychological syndrome he might be suffering from. She’d have liked to ask someone’s advice, but if she couldn’t tell Simon, she certainly couldn’t tell a third party. For several months, she’d been wishing she didn’t know anything about it herself, as if wishing could make the knowledge go away.
‘Step two is this,’ Regan was saying. ‘Coming here, meeting you, Simon. I know it sounds mad, but . . . you matter to me. You’re my symbol of courage, in my head – the only person who’s ever stood up to my dad. Openly, I mean. Lots of people loathe him and do nothing about it – everyone he knows, apart from my mum – but no one’s ever told him
‘Is it some kind of odd sexism, do you think?’
‘I’m terrified of him,’ Regan went on. ‘Have been for forty-two years. And if I don’t want him to know I’ve changed my name, I can’t tell Mum either. She’s his faithful lackey. They both want me to carry on being scared of Dad. It suits them fine. If I wasn’t scared, I might start telling the truth about my childhood.’
Charlie tried, subtly, to fill her lungs with plenty of oxygen for the ordeal ahead. This was potentially worse than anything she could have imagined, in that it threatened not to finish soon. Childhoods, typically, were eighteen years long.
‘I grew up in a totalitarian regime,’ said Regan. ‘There’s no other way to describe it. I don’t think I need to describe it, not to you two.’
Thank you, Lord.
‘I’m sure you can imagine what I went through. You know what my dad’s like.’ Regan took a sip of her coffee, winced, then tried to hide it. ‘The reason I’m here – and I’m sorry it’s so late on a weeknight, I’m sorry I didn’t write or ring first to ask if it was okay. For weeks I didn’t think I’d be brave enough to contact you at all, and then tonight, when I realised I was, I knew I just had to do it, before I woke up and found I’d turned into a coward again.’
‘The reason you’re here?’ Charlie prompted.
Regan rewarded her with a small smile, for saying something sensible, finally. ‘I’m trying to come out from under the shadow. You know? With the help of a good therapist, I’m trying to build myself a proper life, build myself into a proper person.’
‘That’s been on my to-do list for years,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s making the time, though, isn’t it?’
‘Can you give the mockery a rest?’ Simon muttered.
‘It’s okay,’ Regan told him. ‘I know I’m putting you both in an awkward position by sharing this with you. You have to say something, and what can you say?’
Charlie could think of lots of things. They all had the word ‘fuck’ in them.
‘Go on,’ said Simon.
Regan looked stunned by this encouragement to speak. It took her a few seconds to recover from it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Well . . . it’s still early days. I’m nowhere near ready to confront my dad, but I’m taking steps in that direction. Important steps, my therapist says. Choosing a name for myself that isn’t the name he gave me was the first one.’
‘Regan’s a baddy in
King Lear
,’ Charlie pointed out.
‘When you’re brought up by someone like my father, you feel like a baddy every time you have a thought or feeling about him that isn’t hero-worship. Like a traitor. Regan is who I am at the moment. When it no longer feels like me, I’ll change my name again.’
Charlie laughed. ‘And your shrink’s given this her stamp of approval? I’d get a new shrink.’
‘Will you shut up?’ said Simon. ‘You know nothing about it.’
Not quite true. Last year, thanks to one of Simon’s cases, Charlie had met a psychotherapist who’d talked a lot of sense: a woman named Ginny Saxon. Ginny had offered an interpretation of Simon: why he was as he was. Charlie had never told him. She didn’t know if she ever would. She couldn’t decide if it would be helpful or harmful to pass on Ginny’s theory about the psychological syndrome he might be suffering from. She’d have liked to ask someone’s advice, but if she couldn’t tell Simon, she certainly couldn’t tell a third party. For several months, she’d been wishing she didn’t know anything about it herself, as if wishing could make the knowledge go away.
‘Step two is this,’ Regan was saying. ‘Coming here, meeting you, Simon. I know it sounds mad, but . . . you matter to me. You’re my symbol of courage, in my head – the only person who’s ever stood up to my dad. Openly, I mean. Lots of people loathe him and do nothing about it – everyone he knows, apart from my mum – but no one’s ever told him
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