What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller Read Online Free

alcoholic or a sex addict. You don’t do my job and get hysterical about a minuscule dose of nicotine and a pinch of tar. Everyone is entitled to kindness. I say that to my clients often enough and it’s true. A life of strict denial is no life at all.
    So be kind to yourself – smoke the hell out of a cigarette if that’s what you want to do and fuck the naysayers.
    I roll two cigarettes expertly between thumb and forefinger, then light the end and inhale.
    Bliss.
    I smoke one after the other and spend a prolonged minute relishing the rush of nicotine before I refocus my mind for the day ahead.
    Clients first. The appointments are scheduled on the hour and are fifty minutes long; the ten minutes in between I spend writing notes on the previous client and then reminding myself of the needs of the client who is about to arrive. I enjoy my job. I’d even go so far as to say I love my job because I’m able to make a difference. If that sounds trite then I make no apologies for that. The fact of the matter is that I am skilled in my work. I’m able to guide my clients from a point of distress to a point of resolution. How can that not be special?
    I stroll back through the garden, running my fingers over bushes and flowers, and think about Tom’s wife Ellen, a woman I’ve never met and don’t care to. I lack curiosity where she is concerned. I’m clear in my own mind that Ellen is part of Tom’s past and not part of our future. Tom has told me very little about her and I haven’t asked because the details aren’t for me to know.
    That said, occasionally I can’t help but consider Ellen, because it was Ellen who designed and maintained the garden. Chloe and Ben told me this on Sunday when they noticed the changes their father and I are making. Ben seemed disappointed, but Chloe was visibly angry, even when I assured her that we are simply tidying the garden up, pruning back some of the wildness to introduce more light. Chloe’s mood remained surly throughout the meal and she left early – Ben went with her, saying he needed to ‘be somewhere’ – and Tom asked me to ‘just leave them be’.
    I didn’t want to leave them be. I would have preferred to talk it over. Chloe and Ben are adults, and they need to understand that their dad has moved on and that perhaps they should move on too. I held my tongue though, because Tom has been careful where Alex is concerned, not often interfering in my relationship with my son even though Alex is frequently rude to him. Alex hasn’t taken to Tom, just as Tom’s children haven’t taken to me. We are becoming a blended family and there will be teething problems. It’s only to be expected.
    I clear the breakfast dishes off the table just as Katarina comes into the kitchen wearing her garish dressing gown and an expression of benign self-pity.
    ‘Good morning, Katarina,’ I say.
    ‘Good morning, Leila.’ She gives me a weak smile.
    ‘I need you to do something for me today.’
    ‘I am cleaning the bathrooms today,’ she says, dropping bread into the toaster. ‘I am washing the floors.’
    ‘That’s great. Thank you.’ I smile. ‘But I’d also like you to walk to the dry-cleaners in the high street and collect Tom’s suit.’
    A suspicious frown brings her prominent eyebrows into collision. ‘I don’t know this.’
    ‘Yes, you do!’ I encourage. ‘You came with me last week. We stopped at the bank and then we went into the baker – the one with the green lettering across the glass.’ I pause to make space for her to reply. She fills it with a weighty silence. ‘Do you know where I mean?’ I say.
    Her face is completely blank. She isn’t even trying to remember. I don’t have time to walk to the dry-cleaners myself and it’s impossible to park in the high street. Double yellow lines stretch along its length and further, into the side streets where traffic wardens swoop out of nowhere like pigeons to a picnic. What’s more, the walk would do