![]() ![]() ![]() 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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