THE MODEL PATIENT by Lucy Ashe: Excerpt

We are delighted to feature an excerpt from THE MODEL PATIENT by Lucy Ashe!

THE MODEL PATIENT

A psychological tour-de-force about obsession, control, and the dangerous relationship between a therapist and patient in 1960s London.

Evelyn Westbrook has given up her career as a model and wants to find fulfilment in married life. But when her husband suggests they start trying for a baby, everything begins to unravel. Struggling to cope with crippling nightmares, Evelyn takes the advice of a friend and goes to see a psychotherapist. She is apprehensive about exposing her intimate issues: what she absolutely does not want to do is unearth the secrets of her past. The enigmatic Dr. Daley, however, is determined to take her back there, and she soon finds herself drawn to him. Evelyn’s interest in her therapist turns to obsession, and she becomes locked in a powerful relationship where the question of whether he is caring for her or manipulating her becomes impossible to untangle.

“Ashe draws readers in with this seductive story…Evocative, empathetic, and ultimately empowering, this coiled psychological thriller will be catnip for fans of Alex Michaelides.”―Publishers Weekly, STARRED

CHAPTER 2

A receptionist let her in, guiding her around the corner to a sleek wooden bench that lined one wall of the waiting area. It was the stillness that Evelyn noticed most, the doors to consulting rooms closed and not a sound slipping beneath them. The building felt empty, asleep, and it seemed to Evelyn as though she had left behind the reality of the outside world, entering instead that strange vacancy before the beginning of a dream.

It was only when the neat clip of the receptionist’s heels broke the silence that Evelyn found something real to grasp on to, and she was able to take in her surroundings. Miss Simmons’s desk was next to the front door, around the corner from the waiting area, and it was disorientating to Evelyn not to be able to see her. She had barely looked at the woman when she’d arrived. Too nervous to do her usual thorough assessment, what she did notice was that the receptionist was young and pretty, and that she smiled brightly with a strong red lipstick that reminded Evelyn of the Max Factor makeup she used to wear in the fifties when she was preparing for a day at a catalogue shoot.

Extricating a magazine from a wooden rack to the side of the bench, Evelyn tried to distract herself. It was a recent edition of Vogue and she felt a faint tug of disappointment that it was far too new for her to be featured in any of the advertisements.

Today, when she looked up, she did see an image of herself, but this time it was a reflection in the mirrored door of a wooden cabinet, her body carved into the neat squares of the glass. Wearing her coat and a large woollen scarf, she had not warmed up from the bitterness of this January day, and there was a red mottling on her cheeks as though she was slowly and unevenly starting to thaw. She had walked the entire way, an excuse to get out of the house as early as possible. By the time she arrived at Upper Wimpole Street and rang the bell of the attractive Georgian town house where the psychologist held his clinic, she was frozen, the soles of her feet stiff and numb.

Lionel had called her the day after the party with the details of his friend’s psychologist, and Evelyn had set up the appointment immediately, before she changed her mind. She was to be a private patient, paying in cash, she told the receptionist on the call. The thought of explaining to Henry what she was doing was a step too far, so cash payments, drawn from her career savings, were essential. But she was willing to try anything to sleep calmly. And maybe, too, for Henry to turn to her again.

And now, less than a week later, she was here in his waiting room. The telephone call with Dr. Daley, once the receptionist had put her through, was brief and formal and she had been relieved that he did not try to ask her any of the details of her problems over the phone. She did not know if she would have found the words to speak them, not from her living room with all the smiling photographs from her wedding day surrounding her, the cushions she had chosen with Henry, the soft trappings of domesticity.

Unbuttoning her coat and removing her scarf, she tried to arrange herself more attractively. Her hair was tied loosely in her usual half ponytail, backcombed a little on the crown to emulate her idol Brigitte Bardot, and the ends were curled under. She looked untidier than she would like, the blonde layers around her face falling in her eyes. A smudge of black eyeliner had broken its bounds, and she dabbed at it anxiously, leaning forward to see the mirror more clearly.

At eleven o’clock exactly, a door opened nearby, and the sound of footsteps travelled down a corridor towards her. She glanced up at the man walking into the waiting area, uncertain whether this was her doctor, or a patient leaving an appointment. Dr. Daley had explained to her on the telephone that this clinic was used by several psychologists, and that she might encounter other doctors and patients in the waiting room. It was reassuring how careful he was to put her at ease, to explain what to expect from the appointment, how to get there, who would let her in, where she would wait. He told her he was a clinical psychologist with a doctorate from University College London, and while it was true that he was conducting research on symbolism in dreams, their appointments would be confidential. On the call she had thought it was unnecessary how many details he was giving her, but now she was grateful.

The man smiled as he reached her.

“Mrs. Westbrook,” he said. So this was Dr. Daley. She stood and smiled too, offering her hand in greeting.

To her surprise, he did not lift his hand in return. Instead, he clasped his hands lightly in front of him, his eyes fixed on hers.

“Shall we?” His smile was kind and if he had noticed her awkward attempt at a handshake, he did not reveal it.

He led the way, and she walked behind him, terribly conscious of the squeak of her Oxford flats on the wooden floorboards. She tried to focus on him instead, a trick she had learnt to ease the nerves of a new job, concentrating on the tics and eccentricities of the photographer when her poses became tense. Dr. Daley’s shoes were also squeaking, she noticed with a disproportionate sense of relief. They were black ankle boots, one of his trouser legs partially tucked in at the back. He was wearing cream trousers and a collarless jacket, chequered red and brown.

Evelyn found herself staring at his hair as they walked along the corridor, trying to work out its colour: a deep dark brown, nearly black, that tinted auburn when he passed underneath the ceiling lamp. With thick and tight curls that fell untidily towards his shoulders, as well as the dark shadow of a beard, there was something just a little animal about him, she thought. Long hair on a man had always interested her, how deliberate it was, a refusal to conform to the unspoken rules of society. It was rare for the male models she had worked with to have long hair, most of them sticking to the safe choices of side-partings, a quiff or pompadours or even a bowl cut if they wanted to be a little more daring. And then there was Henry with his regular trips to the barber, the neat trim of his hairline a product of his boarding school days of cadet corps drill practice.

“You take the sofa,” he said as they entered the consulting room.

Evelyn’s gaze flicked over the room: all neutral tones, wooden furniture, a leather sofa with a matching armchair opposite, cream curtains hanging either side of the window, a light net curtain covering the glass. Evelyn could just make out a small garden at the back, a patch of frozen grass that surely never saw any sun. A desk was tucked into the corner, a row of books across the back. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. A girl she used to work with, Bethany Graham, had seen a psychologist, “to be analysed,” she’d called it, rolling her eyes in self-mockery. It was her father

who’d made her go, though Evelyn had never found out the reason why. Bethany had described how four times a week she’d lie on a couch while a psychoanalyst sat on a chair just behind her head, so she couldn’t see him. She could hear him making notes every time she stopped talking.

Dr. Daley was standing in front of the armchair, waiting for her to be seated. She sat down gingerly, perched far forward on the cushion. Surely, she thought, he would tell her if she was supposed to lie down. After the embarrassment of her greeting, she did not want to get anything else wrong. She placed her handbag and coat next to her, still clutching her scarf. In the silence that followed, while Dr. Daley waited for her to settle, she realised she was grasping it tightly, twisting the fabric into an untidy mess. She relaxed her grip and moved her scarf onto the pile with her coat and bag. The room smelt good, a mixture of mint and eucalyptus, and she let the scent soothe her. It made her think of her mother, those steaming bowls of water and mint essence when Evelyn had a cold.

“Shall we start with you telling me a little about why you are here today?”

—

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Lucy Ashe is the author of THE DANCE OF THE DOLLS and CLARA & OLIVIA (shortlisted for the CWA Historical Dagger 2024), and THE SLEEPING BEAUTIES. Her latest novel, THE MODEL PATIENT, will be published in April 2026. She trained at the Royal Ballet School, before changing career plans and going to St Hugh’s College, Oxford University, to study English Literature. She is an English and Drama teacher.

Find out more about Lucy on her website https://lucyashe.com/

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Category: On Writing