The Skeleton Cupboard by Tanya Byron Page B

to relax; you want to run at her and pull her into your arms, hold her and then shake her until she tells you why. You long to say, “Why do you want to die? You’re twelve years old.”
    My other problem was that I couldn’t shift my focus from the angry red welt around her neck—that welt rendered us both mute. And while I knew silence could be a therapeutic tool, it was clear to me that this time it reflected the powerlessness that both Imogen and I felt. I wasn’t good enough for her. She wasn’t good enough for life.
    I could feel my anxiety rising—my frontal cortex was shutting down. Soon I would be limbic, running only on raw emotion, and this was not a good place to be. I had to think, be rational, reconnect with the practitioner in me.
    I ought to have felt more prepared for Imogen. I had tried to plan my psychological therapy session with her earlier in the day, but my meetings with Chris had become increasingly shambolic. That morning I’d rushed into Central London, but she had arrived at her office at the university late, stinking of cigarettes and cursing the people who’d been at the meeting she just left. Throwing her bag onto a chair, she began to make a Pot Noodle.
    â€œOK, speak. I’m listening.”
    â€œWell, to be honest, I’m not sure where to begin. I had prepared an agenda, but I’m not sure we can fit it all in. I mean, I was expecting an hour.”
    â€œHow’s it going with the silent, self-starving one?”
    I wasn’t sure what disgusted me most—the smell of synthetic chicken, the accompanying sounds of slurping, the neglected dribble down her chin or the lack of an apology for being so bloody late.
    â€œI’m not sure there’s time.”
    Chris continued to eat, pausing only to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. I drew a deep breath.
    â€œImogen Trent-Evans, twelve-year-old daughter of Mary Trent and Jim Evans. Mary, magazine editor, lives in London; James is now in Los Angeles with his partner, Angus. Mary has remarried—Jake Robins, a male fashion model—and they have, sorry, had Maisie, who was five when she drowned in the family pool last August. Imogen, an obsessive skipper and self-harmer, has—”
    An abrupt slurp. “Stop! For Christ’s sake, you’re not presenting at a sodding ward round.”
    â€œSorry, not sure what you mean.”
    â€œTell me Imogen’s story. About the child. I want to see her and hear her.”
    Blushing had always pissed me off—a sign of weakness, unintended vulnerability. That day I could do nothing except glow a rosy pink, and, to my horror, feel tearful. Chris wasn’t sympathetic.
    â€œOK, you feel uncomfortable here. Get over it. You have talent, but you are way too self-consciously righteous for my taste. If I am late, I am late. If I want you to present to me in a different way, then present to me in a different way. If this all feels too much, there’s the door.”
    Chris lit a cigarette. “So, how does this child make you feel?”
    â€œShe makes me feel protective. She makes me want to look after her.”
    â€œAnd behind these obvious rescue fantasies?”
    â€œWould you mind not smoking?”
    Chris walked to the window, opened it and, with her backside pushed toward me, leaned out and blew smoke at Tottenham Court Road.
    She looked over her shoulder. “I think this girl frightens you.”
    â€œI am not frightened of her. I just feel so sad for her. She’s only just twelve. She lost her sister eight months ago. Bloody hell, the poor kid found her baby sister floating facedown. She never sees her mum, never, because the woman runs her magazine with more care than she gives her kid. And her gay dad is … well, he’s on the other side of the world. To add to the bleakness, there’s the housekeeper, Miriam, who speaks very little English but was the girl’s constant