The Duke's Affair

IX

Henry parked his car and stared up at the white, gothic style building before him, the pointed arches staring skyward at a divinity he had stopped believing in when he was only a child.

He'd been here far too many times, always for Aurelia, ever since she was a teenager. By rights, he should have given up on the place a long time ago. From what he could tell, nothing could help his sister, no amount of money, therapy, consultants. But it was easier to put her here, than to have her out in South Africa again.

He grabbed his coat from the back of the car and slammed the door, relieved to be alone for once, without Andrew. He didn't often drive himself anymore, but sometimes it was necessary. He took a deep breath and marched towards the entrance.

"I'm here to see Dr. Merryweather," he said, when he reached the main desk.

The receptionist ran her finger down a column of names. "Henry Banville?" she said, and looked up at him. It only took her a second to register how good-looking he was, and her features softened. She smiled. Normally, recognising the effect he had on women filled Henry with a self-satisfaction that served only to increase his ego. But not today.

"Yes," he said.

"Take a seat. Someone will show you to the room in a moment," she said, fluttering her eyelids and giving him the once over. He turned his back and wandered through to the seating area.

On the table before him were the most recent copies of Vogue, Tatler, Marie Claire, Hello and OK!. He wondered if it was advisable to litter an eating disorder clinic with magazines that featured flawless images of celebrities and women who weighed less than an average twelve year old.

He sighed; there was nothing he wanted to read, so he sat back and looked around. Opposite him, a woman had picked up the latest Country Life, on the front of which was a picture of Marbedon Manor, the sun setting over its crenellated façade. He had approved the shoot and chosen the photograph; it showed the house to best effect. It looked like something from a fairytale. Inside there was an article about the architecture of the house, which he had meant to buy and put in the reception area back at the office, but had never got round to it. He took out his phone and sent an email to Mrs. Balfour telling her to buy it.

"Henry Banville?" He looked up to see a small young woman, dressed casually. "Will you follow me please?"

He nodded and rose from his seat, thankful not to have had to wait too long. At some point the woman opposite him was bound to find the image of him with his dogs, standing by the stables at Marbedon, look up, and recognise him. Surely.

"I'm one of your sister's therapists, Margaret," she said, glancing over her shoulder and offering him an awkwardly placed hand to shake as she led him down a narrow corridor. Henry smiled, but he knew there was no warmth in it; he took no pleasure in the meeting.

"How is she?"

"Oh we think she's making progress."

Henry rolled his eyes when the girl's back was turned. He had heard that line a million times before.

The young woman stopped before a door and knocked three times. When there was no response she gently pressed it open and looked inside, her back to Henry so he could see nothing at all. She was conversing with someone; Henry noticed the way her hair shook when she was either nodding or shaking her head. Finally, she pushed open the door.

"They're ready for you," she said, allowing him to enter before her.

Inside, chairs were arranged in a circle and, conspicuously, a box of tissues sat in the middle, on the floor: the camp fire of family therapy. Henry wondered how many people had had to reach out for it in these sessions. Other chairs were pushed to the walls; evidently some family sessions had more participants than this one.