Georgia was nothing if not honest. I looked up questioningly at Jim. “We haven’t booked any clients for today,” he said. “Thought we’d give you a chance to settle, get the feel of things, ease yourself back to normal.” Normal? For a consultant psychiatrist, it seemed a singularly inept description. “I’ll come straightaway,” I told Georgia. “Give it an hour. The critical care team are all over the shop at the moment.” “Okay, but what about the parents?” There was bound to be a bedside vigil. “Leave that to me. They mustn’t know.” “What? But …” “Mimi insisted on it.” One thing I’d learnt about anorexics during my career as a clinical psychologist, even when tapping at death’s door they were stubborn and determined. To take the slow and agonising road to starvation demanded tenacity of epic proportions. If Mimi insisted, she meant it. No compromise. No negotiation. I glanced at my watch and swallowed. Mending minds should be classed as a dark art. “About eleven then—would that be all right?” “Perfect. And Kim …” “Yeah?” “Welcome back.”
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