![]() I hadn’t smoked in over a week-I’d promised myself that this time I meant it, I’d quit for good. I stood outside the entrance and reached for my cigarettes in my pocket. “i wanted to help people, I suppose.” i shrugged. i remained conscious of maintaining eye contact as i trotted out a rehearsed response, a sympathetic tale about working part-time in a care home as a teenager, and how this inspired an interest in psychology, which led to a postgraduate study of psychotherapy, and so on. I could feel the other members of the panel looking at me. ![]() She gave me a small smile-as if to reassure me this was an easy question, a warm-up volley, a precursor to trickier shots to follow. She was in her late fifties with an attractive round face and long jet-black hair streaked with gray. Indira was consultant psychotherapist at the Grove. ![]() “What drew you to psychotherapy, do you think?” asked Indira Sharma, peering at me over the rims of her owlish glasses. That’s the truth-though it’s not what I said during the job interview, when the question was put to me. ![]() And I became a psychotherapist because I was fucked-up. The Silent Patient is a shocking psychological thriller of a woman’s act of violence against her husband―and of the therapist obsessed with uncovering her motive. ![]()
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