Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers (21 page)

‘
What
did you just say?'

The therapist repeated, ‘The
chuck fuck
.' She leant forward in her chair. ‘Aren't you ashamed of yourself?'

John felt the colour rise in his cheeks but he looked straight at her, holding her gaze.

‘No.'

‘So?' Angie Bliss's voice was soft, inviting confidence.

‘How do you know about …?' John hesitated for a moment and the therapist filled in.

‘The chuck fuck?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's in your notes,' Angie Bliss said.

‘It can't be.'

‘Don't avoid the subject just because it's painful.'

‘It's not painful. It's just not something I would talk about. I'm sure I never mentioned it to Dr Daly. Anyway, what's it got to do …?'

‘Will you stop questioning everything I say?'

John rolled his eyes.

‘You look like my son,' Angie Bliss said. ‘He's a boy. You are a grown man.'

Despite himself John had to smile.

‘OK,' he said finally. ‘It's when you …'

‘Yes?'

‘It's when you sleep with someone one last time just to make sure you really do want to break up.'

‘Well!' Angie Bliss threw herself back in the chair and spun right round. When she faced him again her eyes were dark and her lips set tight. ‘That's the kind of behaviour that spoils it for everyone. How can you bed a woman, make love to her, allow her to give her body to you, knowing you're most probably going to break her heart once you're done?'

John winced.

‘I'm not that calculating.
It's
not that calculating. Nor is it something I make a habit of. As I said, I don't know how Rupert could have mentioned it in my notes because I'm pretty damn sure I never told him about it.'

‘So you are ashamed, at least?'

‘Yes. Yes, I am.'

‘At last we're getting somewhere. Now, tell me why you cheated on your wife.'

‘I cheated once. We worked through it.'

‘You mean
she
worked through it, don't you?'

‘It wasn't the reason why our marriage ended.'

‘That's what you say.'

‘That's what she'd say too.'

‘Once a woman has lost her trust, once the innocence has been plucked from her heart and trampled on, she's never the same again. All kinds of behaviour you might think have nothing to do with your infidelity: nagging, complaining, sharpness, all these things will manifest themselves over unrelated issues and you men, because you know little and care even less, do not notice the connection.'

John put his head in his hands.

When he looked up he said, ‘You're right, of course.'

‘So will you be able to remain faithful in the future?'

He felt as if he were at a job interview.

‘I was entirely faithful to Melanie. I still am. We're considering getting back together.'

The therapist shook her head.

‘I wouldn't do that if I were you.'

‘We're certainly going to stay in touch.'

The therapist tut-tutted.

‘Not a good idea.'

‘Why not? I don't like losing touch with people.'

‘That's because you lost your father so early on. You have to get over it. Hanging on to spent relationships is no better than hoarding possessions. It zaps your energy and wastes time and space.'

John's eyes narrowed but he retained his smile.

‘I'm sorry, but I don't agree with that. Anyway, I'm not entirely sure that it is over.'

‘Oh yes, it is. It would never have worked between you.'

‘I can't see how you could possibly know that. You haven't even met Melanie.'

‘Oh haven't I? I mean I haven't, you're right. But, I … oh well, if you want to waste further time and energy on a doomed relationship that's fine with me.' She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.

‘Good.' John too leant back in his chair.

‘And the fact that not only I but everyone else is telling you the same thing only makes you more determined to persevere, yes?'

John tried, unsuccessfully, not to smile.

‘Possibly.'

‘Well, that's just childish.'

‘I haven't said that we are resuming the relationship, only that we are still in touch and have not written off the possibility of resuming it. God, I'm sounding like a
Hello!
interview.'

‘No, you're not. In
Hello!
they are together at the time of the interview. It's only following it that they break up. Anyway, to change the subject: I've got a small favour to ask you. I have a client, a writer, whose new book features a divorce lawyer. Although she is herself divorced, unattached therefore, she has no experience or real knowledge of the work you do, so I told her I could help. I was sure you wouldn't mind meeting up and telling her all about your fascinating life. May I pass on your email address then?'

In his mind John went over his diary for the next couple of weeks. There was not a lot of slack time.

‘If she doesn't mind it would have to be in the evening.'

‘Evening? No, I'm sure that will suit her perfectly.'

‘I assume you haven't told her I'm a patient of yours?' John was frowning now.

The therapist looked uncertain for a moment then she said, a little too quickly, ‘Of course not.'

‘Good.' John stood up to leave. ‘But you've told me about her.'

‘Oh well … she said I could. She's very open, very real, very genuine.'

John rolled his eyes.

‘I told you not to do that,' the therapist snapped.

‘Right,' John said. ‘I'll see you next week.'

I FELT I HAD been bulldozed into the meeting with John Sterling and I told Angie Bliss as much.

‘Of course I appreciate you getting so involved and if I were to go ahead with the storyline you suggested then I would indeed need to research the lawyer angle, but as I said at the time, interesting as your suggestion is, I don't think it's right for me.'

Angie Bliss looked up with a slight start as if I had interrupted her in some reverie.

‘What's not right for you?' she asked.

I sighed inaudibly.

‘Your storyline suggestion. And of course it was very kind of John Sterling to offer to help, but I feel that, at the moment, all I would do is waste his time.'

‘You never know what might get the creative juices flowing,' Angie Bliss said, using an expression I did not like. She leant towards me, fixing me with an azure-blue gaze. ‘Humour me,' she said. She lowered her voice. ‘Between you and me, I think he could do with the diversion.' She sat back again. ‘And that's all I'm going to say on the matter. Patient confidentiality, you know.'

I did know and I thought she was already in danger of having breached it.

‘You don't speak about me to your other clients, do you?' I gave a little laugh to make it sound less of an accusation.

‘Of course not. I only mentioned this about John Sterling because it isn't part of his treatment.'

I wanted to ask, what is? But our time was up.

I met up with John Sterling in a wine bar in Primrose Hill. I had insisted on coming to his part of town; it was the polite thing to do, I thought, seeing as he was giving up his evening to advise me.

I was already seated at a small table by the window when a tall, fair-haired man appeared. He looked round until his gaze fell on me.

‘Are you, by any chance, Rebecca Finch?'

There was something familiar about John Sterling and as we ordered drinks and he began to tell me about his work, it came to me where I had seen him.

‘Have you by any chance been in the papers recently? I mean it's probably not you, but you do look familiar. Something about record settlements for abandoned wives?'

‘We've had some very satisfactory outcomes, yes.'

I made a mental note of the rather formal, somewhat pedantic manner in which he expressed himself. His work required absolute precision in speech and thought and he carried that over with him into his private life.

‘I have to be honest and tell you that I don't know how much of this research I will actually use,' I explained to him. ‘I hope I won't end up having wasted your time.'

He was a friendly, helpful man, I thought, as he immediately protested that he was always happy for an excuse to talk about ‘life at the Bar.'

I made another mental note to make my barrister, if indeed I created one, use pompous little expressions like that. This together with the general earnestness of his conversation made an interesting contrast, I thought, to his looks and comparative youth. Angie Bliss had told me that I would recognise him because he would be easily ‘the best-looking creature in the room'.

He asked me about my work. I was hesitant at first; men in particular seemed to ask out of politeness rather than because they genuinely wanted to know, but John Sterling was so focused in his listening and looked at me with such warmth and interest as I spoke that I soon found myself telling him about the difficulties I was having, not just with the latest book, but with the whole concept of romantic love.

‘What frightens me, more than anything, is that I might never be able to write again.' I began to smile. ‘I'm not used to being listened to in that way,' I explained, ‘so intently. It's very seductive.' I looked sideways at him, amused in case he might think I was flirting. ‘I mean seductive in the sense of making me happy to carry on talking.'

He gave me a quick smile back.

‘I know exactly what you mean. But I really am interested in hearing about your world. I don't get much time to read – outside work, that is.'

Normally that statement annoyed me, being, I always suspected, a euphemism for, ‘I have better things to do with my time than waste it on stories.' As John Sterling immediately brought out a slim notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket and asked which of my novels he should start with, I decided he might be different.

‘I'm not sure they're really your thing,' I said. ‘They're love stories.'

‘And what makes you think they aren't my thing?'

‘You're right, I shouldn't assume that just because you're a man. Not even if you're a man who spends his life wading through the debris of other people's broken marriages. Actually, I don't know how you do it – the wading, I mean. I've had a couple of days of it and I found it very bad indeed for morale.' I told him about my idea of collecting happy marriages for Angel-face and how, so far, it had turned out to be a disaster. ‘Are you married?' I asked him. It would make sense if he were, and happily so. He would have seen all the unhappy marriages and learnt what not to do.

‘Divorced,' he said.

‘Oh. Me too.'

He had a way, just before he smiled, of opening his eyes wide, which was most appealing. Angie Bliss had been right, he was very attractive. And he was divorced and possibly unattached, with a sense of humour and a supple mind. Maybe we would see each other again and maybe we would fall in love. It was perfectly possible, or rather it might once have been perfectly possible, but not any more. I thought of a story I'd read about a man who could see right through people, not in the sense of recognising their character but right through to their bones, so that when he looked at his beloved he could no longer see her lovely fresh face, just a grinning death skull with empty sockets where her bright eyes should be.

I knew now what the poor man must have felt like, because when I looked at the perfect romantic hero seated opposite me at the wine-smeared table all I could see was what lay
behind: boredom, disappointment, betrayal, regret and pain, and my heart, which once had fluttered at the slightest excuse, stayed as still as a frozen pond.

John Sterling shot me a quizzical look.

I felt myself blush.

‘Mind wandering,' I said. ‘Not because our conversation wasn't interesting; well, yours was anyway.' I heard myself babbling and changed the subject. ‘So what do you think about our therapist?'

John Sterling sat back and crossed his legs.

‘I don't actually know,' he said. ‘There will be at least one occasion during each session when I think she's completely barking. I resolve not to waste any more time on her and then she'll say something that makes perfect sense and before I know it I've committed myself to another appointment. She's got a very persuasive personality.'

I laughed.

‘Is that man-speak for she's really fit?'

‘No, well, yes, she is attractive. Not my type, though.'

‘Did she tell you about my clown?'

‘No. All she said was that you were a writer and that you needed to talk to a barrister as part of your research. Did she tell you about my OCD?'

I shook my head.

‘How did you come to see her, I mean as opposed to some other therapist?'

‘Happenstance. I was actually seeing someone else, a guy called Rupert Daly. But he upped and left the practice rather suddenly and he recommended Angie Bliss.'

‘That's exactly what happened to me. My woman upped and left; she met a man, got married and moved to Australia
all in the space of about five minutes. Angie took over part of her client list.' I pulled a face. ‘Maybe she murdered them for the work.'

‘Possible,'John Sterling said, ‘but not very likely. Good plot for a book, though.'

‘I was thinking earlier that someone in your line of work might have the perfect marriage because you would have learnt all about the pitfalls, but I suppose it could be the opposite.'

‘I think perhaps the latter, yes,' John Sterling said. ‘You know sometimes when I listen to a client's story it's as if I can actually hear it: the sound of dreams shattering.'