Julie

I check the clock: two minutes to go, but Julie's never on time. I position myself in the comfortable chair by the window, so that I'm facing the clock, the door and my client's chair. The clock, purposely chosen for its silent mechanism, is deliberately positioned just to the right of where my client's head will be, so that I can time the session without them noticing. A quick glance through last week's notes and then I start to compose myself. I think of it as a neutralising regime. I leave my own problems outside the door, mentally packaging up the argument I had this morning with my husband, over the unpaid credit card bill; putting it away for later.

I ground myself, becoming aware of the contact between my feet and the floor, my hands on my knees and the texture of the fabric of my boring skirt. I chose all of my work clothes for their plainness: some clients will latch onto any detail, in an attempt to make our relationship more than it is. My hand goes automatically to my throat: I remember to remove my ethnic beaded necklace before Julie arrives. She will pick on any small personal detail to turn the attention away from herself and onto me. I slip the beads into the desk drawer.

Here she comes, only three minutes late. I can hear her heavy footfall ('fairy elephant' my mum would say, but I push that thought to the back of my mind). She pauses outside the door: that sounds like the crinkling of a crisp packet being hastily shoved into a coat pocket.

Julie enters, panting slightly from the effort of the stairs. She has ballooned since kicking her boyfriend out. Noticing the direction of my gaze, she brushes the crisp crumbs from her lapel in a deft movement.

"Hello Maggie."

"Hello Julie."

I smile and wait. I never start the conversation. The room is silent apart from Julie's breathing. She assesses my outfit for anything of interest, and finds nothing. I shift slightly in my chair: this usually has the desired effect of prompting the client to begin. If not, I wait some more.

Julie has got her breath back and launches into a droning and lengthy catalogue of the week's minor mishaps and (imagined?) slights. She seems to think that no one likes her, but I'm not sure this is true. I like her. I listen to her words, concentrating on her eyes, her movements, the tone of her voice. I wonder what it is she isn't saying? She's definitely hiding something. She starts to fiddle with the button on her cuff, in a nervous movement. I await the big reveal.

"I've let Carl move back in," she says quickly, as if she hopes I won't have noticed.

My heart sinks for her. We are back to where we started, only this time he will have more ammunition for his insidious assault on Julie's already battle weary self-esteem. He has already brainwashed her to a state of childlike helplessness with years of monitoring her every movement.

"How do you feel about this, Julie?" I ask.

"Well, he's so good with the kids... and he's never laid a finger on me... and it's hard you know, Maggie, being on your own... and as Carl said - who'd look at me now?"

He's started already.

"But how do you feel Julie?"

I won't let this go.

She pauses, confused, as if it has never even occurred to her to consider such a thing. She allows herself to think about it and dissolves in a tsunami of wailing, snot streaked, body-wrenching sobs.

I check the clock. It's five-to. The counselling hour is fifty-five minutes and I can't be flexible. I hand her the box of tissues, in what I hope is a comforting gesture. She is my client and it is as much as I am allowed to give her.

"I'm afraid we're out of time, Julie. I'll see you at the same time next week."