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She didn't know that telephone counsellingcould be this dangerous.

9 7 8 0 9 8 0 5 0 5 5 5 9

ISBN 978-0-9805055-5-9

Twenty-Four Seven psychologist andtelephone counsellor Cherie Dexter ison call; not only to clients in distressbut also to her aging father Tom, whois rapidly slipping into dementia. Ontop of the daily chaos, she must fightto keep her business afloat and herhare-brained partners under control.Just when she thinks nothing else canpossibly go wrong, it does, andCherie finds herself embroiled in a lifeand death situation that puts all herskills and training to the test.

Could telephone counsellingreally be this dangerous?

“ really moves. The novel is full ofpace, action and realistic characters who are living,scheming and trying to survive in a world few of usknow that of telephone counselling. It’s a great,unputdownable read.

Twenty-four Seven

—”

— John Harman, author, ghostwriter, scriptwriter.

“Fascinating…an excellent read which I am surereaders will find compelling.”

— Dawn O’Neil, CEO Lifeline Australia.

About the author

With a background in psychology, Shirley Eldridge has workedextensively in the welfare sector across Australia. For sevenyears she delivered suicide intervention programs across WA onbehalf of Lifeline as well as trained telephone counsellors andvolunteered as one herself.

Fiction/Adult/Relationships

Part proceeds from sales of this book go to support the work of Lifeline.

TWENTY-FOUR SEVEN

SHIRLEY ELDRIDGE

SHORT STOP PRESSAn Imprint of A&A BOOK PUBLISHINGwww.shortstoppress.comadmin@aampersanda.comwww.aampersanda.com

ISBN 978-0-9805055-5-9

First published 2010Text © Shirley Eldridge 2010

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons livingor dead is purely coincidental.

This book is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 andsubsequent amendments, no part may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system ortransmitted by any means or process whatsoever without the prior written permission ofthe publishers.

Cover photography and author photos by Abigail Harman PhotographyCover and text: Wave Source Design — www.wavesource.com.au

A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry for this title can be found in the National Library ofAustralia

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Twenty-Four Seven was inspired by my time withLifeline in both the mid eighties in Sydney and the latenineties, through to 2005, in Perth, where I worked ina variety of roles. Telephone counselling is Lifeline’s core business,and the services it provides to anyone, anytime,anywhere in Australia, would not exist withoutthousands of well-trained, volunteer telephonecounsellors. Lifeline has over ten thousand volunteers, morethan three thousand five hundred of whom areinvolved in telephone counselling. Of the one thousandtwo hundred calls it receives daily, more than fortycalls are from people at high risk of suicide. We often see and hear about Volunteer Fire Fighters,Surf Lifesavers and SES workers who all performfantastic work and save lives. But, because of theconfidential nature of telephone counsellors’ work, wenever get to see or hear about the thousands of livesthey save, nor the peace of mind they bring to many oftheir callers. This book honours all telephone counsellors, pastand present, and acknowledges the contribution theymake to humanity.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my sister, Dorothy Frei, warmest thanks for sharingyour extensive knowledge and being such a caringcritic. To my writing guru, John Harman, big mobs ofthanks for your support and encouragement. To my good friend, Margo O’Byrne, as we travelparallel paths, thank you for your generosity. To my husband, Barry, thank you for tolerating,without complaint, my prolonged absences when Ihave my head buried in the computer for days andmonths at a time. To my kind friends, including my daughter Emily,who read the manuscript at various stages of itsdevelopment and offered advice, thank you, too.Twenty-Four Seven is truly a joint effort.

CHAPTER ONE

Monday

She heard the phone ringing. ‘Damn,’ she muttered,hurling herself through the front door. She’dabandoned her Mercedes sports in the rain on thecircular driveway and sprinted up the stone steps.Sprinting hadn’t helped, she was drenched. Shedropped her boutique bags in the foyer and raced toher office. Flopping into the leather chair, she panted into themouth piece, ‘Hello, this is Cherie from Twenty-FourSeven Counselling, how can I help you?’ She kicked offher sodden shoes, rueful she couldn’t take the time toswitch off the outside world and settle down with dryclothes before focussing on the first client of her shift. ‘That stinking bitch of a wife of mine has gone toofar this time. I ought to put her and her connivinglawyer up against a wall and shoot them both!’ Charming, she thought, but immediately identified

the topic. Over sixty percent of the calls the businessreceived were about relationship problems. Without much encouragement from Cherie, theman poured out his situation. ‘Juanita Suarez — that’sher lawyer — advised Ella not to move out. I knowwhat they’re up to. They’re trying to force me outinstead. My own fucking property! Like hell I’ll move.I’ll make her regret this. She’s only doing this toaggravate me! I’ll show her.’ Cherie shuddered at the man’s unrestrained anger.As he drew breath, she calmly acknowledged his angerand frustration, not so much with empathy, becauseshe couldn’t find any, but with a rote response from herclinical training. Then she added, ‘It sounds as thoughyou’re feeling threatened by her lawyer’srecommendations?’ His tone mellowed a little. ‘Of course I am.’ ‘So you’ve just found out about this?’ ‘Yes. No. Well, you know, you won’t believe what thebitch has just done. She’s taken a pair of scissors andchopped up all my clothes: pants, shirts, even my Armanijacket.’ He raised his voice again. ‘And my fuckinguniforms too! Unbelievable! Bitch! Where does she getoff doing this? I’ll cut up more than her fucking clothes…mmm.’ His voice trailed off. Cherie guessed he wasconsidering his act of revenge. He went on, ‘Yeah…maybe…ah, but the stinking cow’s got a lock on herbedroom door now.’ Disappointment echoed in his voice. ‘Seems like you’re feeling seriously agitated at themoment.’ A little off balance herself, Cherie stroked herarm, hoping the soothing sensation she felt would

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transfer down the line. ‘What do you reckon promptedher to massacre your clothes?’ She knew her gentle tone, together with her validationof his emotions, impacted on him because he respondedby reducing the volume and speed of his voice.Concentrating on his tone, Cherie stared across theexpanse of the desk at the blank, timber-panelled wall.When she’d moved in with her father, an early Pro Hartpainting hung on that wall. Although she thought thestick figures were clever, she’d removed the paintingbecause it took her attention away from the callers’ tones,where most of the clues to their emotional state werefound. More calmly the guy said, ‘She was raving on andon about what she was planning to do. I got reallypissed off and started yelling back at her. Well, whowouldn’t? She provoked me, the stupid bitch. I finallylost it.’ Cherie heard the agitation skyrocketing again.‘Ella would drive anyone to it. I chucked a vase; not ather — it hit the wall and smashed — huh, big fat deal.’ Detecting the sarcasm, Cherie pictured him on theother end of the phone shrugging off his behaviour. Sheguessed from his confession he had a propensity forviolence. She let him continue. ‘Work rang and asked if I’d fill in for someonetomorrow. Well, it’s only a one hour flight and backagain, so I said I would. She threw a hissy fit justbecause it was my rostered time off. The bitch thoughtI was going to stay home and mind the kids for her fora couple of days. Stiff.’ ‘So, you would rather be doing extra work than be

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home with the children?’ When Cherie heard differentstrands of a story, she relied on her intuition to decidewhat strand to follow through first. She decided to leavethis guy’s physical and verbal violence threats till later. He laughed nastily. ‘Nah, I like being with the kids.I just wanted to stuff up her three days at the healthfarm with her girlfriends.’ Cherie laboured to find a skerrick of empathy.During her formal studies, she’d learned of a basiccounselling concept called Unconditional PositiveRegard. Defining it was easy. Practising it was anothermatter. In most instances, she managed to feel positiveregard for her clients by separating and rejecting, whencompelled, their negative behaviours so she couldrespect them unconditionally. Occasions such as thisone, though, challenged her ability to isolate thegoodness of the person from their behaviour, and so,this time, she failed on all counts. Checking out the obvious, she said, ‘What’sstopping you from moving out if the situation is sobad?’ ‘I was advised not to leave. And besides, why shouldI? It’s my house. She can bugger off.’ ‘You were advised?’ ‘Yeah, Phil, my mate. He’s my lawyer too.’ ‘What did Phil actually say?’ ‘Something like, “Joshua, you need to hang in there,mate, or you might lose the house to her.” That, I’ll tellyou, was a wake-up call.’ ‘Uh-huh, and does Phil have any idea of theanimosity and aggression in the house?’

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‘It’s only just getting bad.’ ‘And you mentioned children?’ He had two: Simon and Michelle. ‘I told the bitch I’d do whatever it took to make sureshe doesn’t get custody. That worried her. You shouldhave heard her threaten me…Threaten me!’ He soundedindignant. ‘She actually told me I’d better reconsider.’He took a deep breath before adding, ‘I know whoneeds to fucking think again, and it’s not me.’ Cherie was tiring of listening to his swearing andname-calling. He spoke more like a truckie than anairline pilot. No, that wasn’t fair to the truckies sheknew at her father’s transport business. They couldteach this bloke a thing or two about self-restraint andmanners. She’d been taking notes, and now had Joshua’sfamily mapped. ‘So, you want to fight for custody ofSimon and Michelle? How do you think they’re copingwith what they’re witnessing?’ He told her the children hadn’t witnessed Ellachopping up his clothes, nor their yelling match,although they had seen the discarded clothes in thefront yard when they came in from school. ‘I told themtheir crazy mother had gone berserk before she tookoff. I took photos of what she did, so I’ve got proofshe’s a nut case and a lousy mother,’ he snarled. ‘What can you do to keep the children protected?’Cherie knew this man and his needs should be the centreof her attention, but she couldn’t help visualising theconfusion and fear little Simon and Michelle must haveexperienced when they encountered the ugly aftermath

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of the altercation. Cherie felt obliged to force Joshua toconsider their wellbeing. She wondered what his wifemust be like since he judged himself the better parent. She shivered. The air conditioning was drying herout. Her assistant had brought in a towel and draped itacross her shoulders that were not only damp butknotted up with tension. She longed for dry clothes,along with a massage to release the stress. Standing up,she stretched, rotated her shoulders, and walkedaround the coffee table and chairs, noting the wind wasabating, the rain easing to drizzle. When she opened thewindow, she was overcome by the pungent perfume ofthe wet gardenias growing against the ivy coveredbricks. Her jaw unclenched momentarily when sheclosed her eyes and breathed in nature’s gentleness. ‘Ella’s just too smart,’ Joshua continued. Cherie snapped back to attention. ‘She’s trying to set me up. I can see it. I’m going tohave to think of a way to get even without affectingthe kids.’ This was not the direction Cherie intended him totake in protecting his children. Although she’ddeflected his attention from himself and towards hischildren, he brought it right back to his feud. Sheunderstood his need not to be dispossessed of them,but she couldn’t comprehend his non-negotiableattachment to his house. Surely it was their house? While she stood by the open window, mindlesslywatching the rain droplets run together on the angularleaves of the liquid amber tree, slip off the edge, andplop heavily onto the ground, she asked for clarification.

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She heard the malice in his voice being replaced bypride. ‘You’ve gotta see this place to believe it:sandstone, with gables and turrets; the works. A realpiece of architecture.’ He went on to explain how he’dacquired it. ‘My uncle died a couple of years ago, andI was the closest rellie. He had a son, but he died ofleukaemia. That was my good fortune.’ His voicechanged. ‘But I should never have let Ella move in herein the first place. A big mistake.’ ‘Surely the next generation will be your twochildren?’ Cherie reasoned. ‘In the meantime, that bitch isn’t going to get herhands on it. Can you imagine me seeing her with somebloke living in my house here with my kids? Notfucking likely. I’d kill her first.’ He soundedconvincing. Cherie wanted to test the depth of this couple’srelationship, although she doubted there was even amorsel of respect between them to be retrieved. ‘Whatbegan the fighting between you and Ella?’ After several seconds passed, he recounted, ‘She did.Just after Simon — he’s the youngest — was born, Ineeded a break from things. That was about ten yearsback. I went off for a bit…Just for a couple of months,’he explained, as though his actions were perfectlynormal for a new father, ‘but when I came back, it wasnever the same. She’d changed. She never made aneffort after that. I kept telling the stupid bitch I simplyneeded time out to clear my head. It made me realisejust how much I missed them and loved them all. Butshe turned nasty.’

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‘Then what?’ ‘We just sort of hung together for the sake of thekids. But no more. No more. She blames me all the timefor everything. She never really tried to understand me.’ Cherie sat down, leaned back in the chair andstretched again, before hooking her feet under thecarved legs holding the castors. She pivoted from theblank wall in front of her so she faced the window. Shewas astounded by Joshua’s lack of insight into thecause of their marriage collapse. More than astounded.How could he be so dense? She found herself slippinginto a dangerous judgemental mode. Sitting boltupright, she tried to shake off those thoughts. Regardless of what the text books said aboutUnconditional Positive Regard, she realised her personalexperiences overrode all else. She’d known a few deceitfulmales who lacked a conscience before this one on the endof the phone, and it was confounding her judgement. Sure, Joshua had the right to be aggrieved about hisslaughtered clothes, but as for the way he abandonedhis family and expected to simply resume family lifewhen he returned, well, how could she possibly explainits unacceptability to him if he didn’t get it? Grimacing,she clenched her jaw, chastising herself for againbecoming critical. At this point, her role was to identifythe main issue among the many he’d raised. Glancingdown at her notes with circles around names, lines andarrows denoting connections, and with events havingunderscores and more lines, she summarised whatshe’d heard to date, using all the names he’d given. She finished off her summary by confirming what

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she deemed to be the primary need. ‘It sounds asthough you’d like to find a way to keep the familyhome and claim custody of Michelle and Simon, whileyou move towards your separation with no moreviolence?’ she posited. ‘Yes, that’s it. So, how can I do that?’ After she successfully verbalised the issue, clientsoften assumed she held the solutions for them. Shecould understand why, although that wasn’t howcounselling worked. In her view, calling what she didcounselling was a bit of a misnomer because if there’sone thing she didn’t do, it was hand out solutions. After she completed step one with Joshua, whichwas collecting his story, she accomplished step two,where she defined the issue. She preferred to use theword issue because she hated the negative connotationsof the word problem. It was now time to guide him,with questions, to his own solutions. From a practical perspective, advancing the currentsituation seemed to depend on the recommendationsof the two lawyers, coupled with the time taken tobring about action. She saw the dilemma. Each lawyerworked to optimise the outcome for their individualclient, yet the needs clashed. From an emotional perspective, which was the areaof Cherie’s speciality, this client needed help to find anappropriate outlet for his anger, even though he’d beenwell provoked. The most worrying part was that hewas still angry and wanted revenge. ‘What do you do for exercise?’ ‘I work out at a gym. Why?’

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She knew physical exercise helped work offaggression, so they developed a short-term strategytogether. First he would organise something to wear towork tomorrow. Following that, he’d go to the gymbefore meeting a friend for dinner and talk aboutanything but the home situation. ‘Do you think you can avoid alcohol tonight?’ Shewas concerned its effect would change the emotionaldynamics for him where the outcome could result inan escalation of his aggression. ‘I don’t drink.’ Her relief was tainted by a touch of scepticism. Washe lying? But, until her clients proved otherwise, shebelieved them, even this one. They further agreed that, before he left the house,he’d make time to sit with the children, and tomorrow,after work, he would get a lock for his door. ‘And will you promise if you feel provoked in anyway, and have an urge to act on it, you’ll ring us back?Whoever answers will find me if you ask for Cherie.’She set an appointment for a follow up call the nextevening on the non-emergency counselling number.She planned to help him manage one day at a time. As soon as she hung up, Lillian, her assistant,appeared in the doorway dressed in her plain grey suitadorned only with a strand of pearls. From her gnarledfingers dangled the results of Cherie’s shopping trip. ‘Well, what have you bought?’ ‘I’m dying to show you, Lill. A stunning suit and apair of shoes. I’d better enter this data and find somedry clothes first.

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Lillian shook her head, casting her eyes downwardover Cherie’s dampness. ‘You need to take better careof yourself, Cherie, dear.’ Cherie paused for a moment to recall how goodshe’d looked in the new suit, before she returned to thekeyboard. Reducing the last client’s vicious outburststo a set of numbers in boxes with brief notes attachedfelt cold and impersonal after sharing such emotionalturmoil. Lillian would collate the data, as well asperform some statistical analyses, for the next monthlymeeting from all of the twenty-three telephonecounsellors. Knowing there were at least two other counsellorson shift in their own homes, Cherie busied the phoneline before carrying the damp towel and soggy shoesthrough the entry foyer and down the hallway towardthe back of the house. She opened the security doorleading into the open-plan family, dining and sittingarea where a glass roofed atrium adjoined. The burntcaramel aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted fromthe kitchen on her right. She opened her mouth to greet her father, who wasstanding facing the far wall, but was surprised intosilence when she saw the paint brush in his hand. Heturned to acknowledge her. ‘Hello, Cherie. It’s a good colour,’ he exclaimed,turning back to admire his work. ‘Yes, Dad, but the wallpaper doesn’t really needpainting.’ She spoke calmly, but her tone belied herinternal state. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Mrs Johnson, where are you?’ she called upward

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into the stairwell. ‘Coming, Cherie.’ Turning to her father, who, unaware anything wasamiss, had resumed his painting, Cherie tripped onChloe, their old blind poodle, sniffing around herankles. Why was everything and everyone in this houseso damn old? Struck by a wave of guilt, she bent andstroked Chloe slowly and repetitively from head to tail,ignoring her father’s handiwork, while she waited forMrs Johnson to take control. ‘Oh my goodness, Mr Dexter, look what you’redoing.’ Mrs Johnson approached him with her handextended. She wouldn’t call him Tom, even though shebelonged to his generation. Her eyes were wide inamazement. ‘And a great job too, Mr Dexter,’ she said,adapting to the situation. Her movements were gentleas she dislodged the paint brush from his fingers beforepicking up the paint tin from the tiled floor. ‘Now willyou come with me?’ she invited. ‘I need help to clean upout in the garage.’ As he followed, grumbling andprotesting, he cast a disapproving look at Cherie. On her way through the laundry door, leadingdirectly to the garage, Mrs Johnson turned. ‘I’m sorry,Cherie. I was sorting some of his old work clothes.He’s so quick.’ Cherie smiled her forgiveness. Mrs Johnson spentforty hours a week, including weekends, with him.With patience and respect, she understood and cateredfor his needs better than Cherie. In return, Cherie’sfather was usually compliant with Mrs Johnson, whichwas not always the case with Cherie.

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‘I’ll remove all the paint from the garage when I putmy car away, Mrs Johnson.’ Cherie moved her Mercduring the day so her father could tinker with his toolsand garden equipment in his workshop at the back ofthe garage. For his safety, she’d already removed theelectrical tools. Cherie followed them into the garage and soaked arag with the mineral turps her father was using to cleanthe brush under Mrs Johnson’s guidance. Returning tothe scene of the vandalism, she scrubbed the yellowsplotch on the cream embossed wallpaper till it paledto lemon. Maybe she could conceal it with a painting.She heard the sound of hammering coming from thegarage. Good. He was occupied safely once more. After Cherie threw the rag in the bin, she washed herhands, but they still reeked, and her nails were wrecked.She was proud of her hands and her long elegant fingers.Her friends constantly complimented her on them. How,she wondered, was she going to find time to have thenails repaired? And where had that yellow paintoriginated? Nothing in this house had ever seen anythingso bright, even during the new office renovations. Her own apartment, now being rented out to helppay off her mortgage, flew into her mind. That was it.After she’d highlighted a feature wall in the kitchenwith her favourite colour, she’d stored her paint andbrushes in her father’s garage. Glancing at her watch, she decided to abandon thequest for dry clothes. She’d been away from the phonetoo long. Punching in the numbers on the security padon the door leading back to the office, she thought about

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how much both the house and her own life had changedto cater for her father’s needs. She’d moved home fourmonths ago to supervise his care, after converting theformal lounge and dining areas to office space. Hisstudy, on the opposite side of the entrance foyer to theoriginal formal living areas, became her office. Back in that office, she reinstated the phone line,attaching the earpiece ready for the next call, beforewalking, barefooted and dishevelled, into Lillian’soffice, which she shared with a part-timer, Vanessa,another antique employee. The state-of-the-artequipment was about the only concession tomodernity, although it was concealed behind timberpanelled facades so the room remained as conservativeas the rest of the period house. When Cherie entered, Lillian turned slowly, and,with her hand pressed into the arch of her back,straightened up from her search for a file in a lowercabinet drawer. ‘How’s the arthritis, Lill?’ Lillian smiled. ‘I knew it would rain long before theclouds gathered.’ She pointed to her swollen knuckles.‘A better predictor than the weather forecast.’ ‘It must be painful.’ Lillian shrugged. ‘How’s Mr Dexter?’ She’d been TomDexter’s right hand for years before his forced retirement. Cherie was grateful Lillian and Vanessa agreed towork for her within the home environment afterexperiencing the luxury of the high rise city office withall the trappings. She trusted them. They were more atease with the counselling software programs,communications systems and rosters than she was.

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‘Dad’s out in the workshop building something,’Cherie replied, keeping to the basics. After an episodea few weeks ago when her father dug a hole in themiddle of the lawn and filled it with screws, Lillianalmost cried. Cherie shrugged it off, along with othermishaps. But she knew Lillian liked to remember heroriginal employer as a powerful business man with apositive public image. When Cherie told Lillian onemorning last week, ‘You should have heard the noiseDad made last night crunching the shells along withthe pistachio nuts when he forgot to remove them,’ sheexpected a smile from Lillian, or at least a comment onthe strength of his teeth. Instead, Lillian patted the tears from her eyes, shookher head and said, ‘Oh, Cherie, that’s so sad.’ It dawnedon Cherie that Lillian simply couldn’t reconcile herfather’s current actions, depicting him as a manprogressively and rapidly losing his abilities, with themining and transport magnate Lill so admired. After the nut incident, Cherie decided to limit thereports on her father to save Lillian from becomingupset. Besides, she needed Lillian to concentrate on the details of Twenty-Four Seven Counselling and not family dramas. ‘You really need to change your clothes, Cherie, dear.’ Cherie smiled. ‘Yes, Aunty Lill. Can you divert the lineto my mobile and I’ll take it upstairs with me.’ But thecounselling line rang before Lillian had a chance to act. Cherie grimaced on her way to her office to answerthe call. Lifting the phone she heard distress andconfusion. Agonisingly, and with effort, she was able

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to extract the story, piece by piece. The task was akinto constructing a jigsaw puzzle without knowing thesubject or where the random pieces, thrown in one ata time, fitted. She jotted notes on her pad, which, when shenumbered them chronologically, read: “female, forty-ish?, in phone box, can’t return to her apartment, rapedtwo years ago at another apartment, tried to enterlatest apartment five minutes ago, hallway blacked-out,suffering a flash-back”. The woman recounted the rape at Cherie’sinvitation. Cherie felt the hairs on the back of her neckstand up when the woman said, ‘I knew he wasplanning to slit my throat with the knife. I could feelthe blood trickling down my neck where he held it. Ithad an old wooden handle, like a fishing knife myfather use to have.’ Her terror pulsed down the linewhile she relived this fully-refreshed two-year old fear. Cherie wanted to reach down the phone line andwrap her arms around the woman. At times such asthis, she missed the face-to-face counselling sessionsshe’d facilitated in the clinic she ran prior toestablishing the phone counselling business. It wasextremely unlikely, though, that this woman wouldever have walked in off the street, even if there’d beenan available appointment. Sitting opposite the clientshad permitted Cherie access to all the visual cues fromwhich she could deduce, through expressions and bodylanguage, more of what was actually happening. Thewords a client used were such a miniscule componentof the interaction. Now, apart from the words she

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heard on the phone, Cherie could rely only on tone,pace and volume to guess emotions, although thiswoman, thankfully, was easy to read. After completing the jigsaw, Cherie helped the rapevictim find some coping methods. ‘I want you to thinkof a place you’ve been where you’ve felt completelysafe and relaxed,’ Cherie suggested. After a while, the caller recalled, ‘The beach in frontof our holiday house when I was a child. It was alwayswarm.’ ‘That’s great,’ Cherie said. ‘Now I want you to dosomething for me. Close your eyes. Go to that beach inyour mind. Feel the warmth, feel the familiarity. You’resafe there. Stay as long as you need. Soak it all in. Tellme when you’re ready to come back.’ Cherie waited. The woman’s voice was calm. ‘I’m feeling better. I feel such an idiot now.’ ‘You’ve had what’s called a flashback. You mighthave more. If it happens again, I hope you’ll be able touse the exercise.’ Cherie invited the woman to callagain for follow up. She declined. A movement at the front door caught Cherie’s eye.She smiled as she absent-mindedly signalled good-byeto the knobbly fingers waving like stunted octopustentacles when Lillian walked out. A flood of warm,sticky, post-rain air rushed in through the open door.The sudden change in temperature gave Cherie goosebumps. After terminating the call, she looked at herwatch. It was nearly six o’clock. She pulled thekeyboard towards her, intending to enter the latestcaller information, when the phone rang again.

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Picking up, she went through her usual spiel. Child-like nervousness spoke, ‘Can I talk tosomeone…about…you know…something?’ Cherie’s voice carried warmth. ‘Sure you can, butbefore we begin, I’m wondering if you listened to the pre-recorded message when you rang? You know, about thecost of this call?’ Cherie heard the child’s bewildered, ‘No?’ ‘Does anyone know you’re calling?’ ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Well, this call can cost lots of money, and it will showup on a phone bill. I don’t want you to get in anytrouble.’ ‘What can I do?’ The child was crying. ‘I found thisnumber on the fridge.’ ‘I’ll tell you what we can do: I’ll give you the numberof Kids’ Help Line. It’s free, and it won’t show up on thebill. You’ll be able to talk to someone closer to your age.That might be more comfortable for you.’ Cherie passedon the number and wished the girl well. Although she didn’t specialise in children, she wouldhave managed the call had a parent been present andapproved of it along with the cost. As it stood, she didn’twant the business to attract adverse publicity throughripping off the parents of innocent children. When she finished on the computer, she became awareof the world away from her work as she heard thefamiliar rattles and clatters of a meal being prepared inthe kitchen. She sighed, contemplating what the nextencounter with her father might bring.

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She didn't know that telephone counsellingcould be this dangerous.

9 7 8 0 9 8 0 5 0 5 5 5 9

ISBN 978-0-9805055-5-9

Twenty-Four Seven psychologist andtelephone counsellor Cherie Dexter ison call; not only to clients in distressbut also to her aging father Tom, whois rapidly slipping into dementia. Ontop of the daily chaos, she must fightto keep her business afloat and herhare-brained partners under control.Just when she thinks nothing else canpossibly go wrong, it does, andCherie finds herself embroiled in a lifeand death situation that puts all herskills and training to the test.

Could telephone counsellingreally be this dangerous?

“ really moves. The novel is full ofpace, action and realistic characters who are living,scheming and trying to survive in a world few of usknow that of telephone counselling. It’s a great,unputdownable read.

Twenty-four Seven

—”

— John Harman, author, ghostwriter, scriptwriter.

“Fascinating…an excellent read which I am surereaders will find compelling.”

— Dawn O’Neil, CEO Lifeline Australia.

About the author

With a background in psychology, Shirley Eldridge has workedextensively in the welfare sector across Australia. For sevenyears she delivered suicide intervention programs across WA onbehalf of Lifeline as well as trained telephone counsellors andvolunteered as one herself.

Fiction/Adult/Relationships

Part proceeds from sales of this book go to support the work of Lifeline.