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A woman’s body is like a violin.
— J.D. Salinger
1
‘I just feel guilty. Really guilty.’
Dominic and I had been speaking for over a month. He was a filmmaker, but he hadn’t made a film for nearly a year. The sad irony of his case was that films had been like therapy for him until a film had landed him in therapy. He had spent the Independence Day weekend the year before in Chicago, following a gang for a documentary. He had struggled to process what he’d seen. Three weeks after he got back to London, he hit a stranger in a pub. I nodded.
‘It’s just like… I keep telling myself it’s not my fault, but at the same time, it is my fault. Everything can be traced back to the dawn of time, can’t it? We’re all the product of our environment, our genes. So why am I not responsible for this?’
He sat back and put his hands over his face. I glanced at the clock.
‘Now we’ve reached the end of our time,’ I said. ‘How was today for you?’
Dominic sighed.
‘You know,’ he said. ‘Frustrating at times, but helpful. Same time next week?’
‘See you then.’
I stood up, smoothed the front of my skirt and opened the door to let him out. He took his coat from the back of the chair and left.
*
Winter was approaching, and though Tuesday was my least busy day and I had left my office at four, it was already dark by the time I got home. I closed the door behind me, kicked off my heels, and paused. I could hear the TV going downstairs and smell burned toast.
‘Hello?’ I called.
Lawrence must have heard me come in. But it was always me who spoke first.
‘Hi, Lots,’ I heard from downstairs.
‘Mummy!’
I heard footsteps on the stairs and the boys appeared. They ran over to me and hugged with such force that I was almost knocked backwards. I kissed them both on the head.
‘Hi, darlings! Have you had a good day? Have you eaten?’
‘No,’ they said.
I sighed.
‘Let me get changed and I’ll come down.’
Of course Lawrence hadn’t fed them, I thought. He was home early, too. Would it really have been so hard to rustle something up? I let the thought go and went upstairs to the bedroom. I zipped myself out of my skirt, pulled off my tights, unbuttoned and took off my blouse, and slipped on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a vest.
Downstairs I found Lawrence with his bare feet on the coffee table. Next to them was a can of beer and a plate of breadcrumbs. He was watching TV. He glanced over at me when I appeared. I resisted the urge to make a snarky comment, but I was a bit disappointed in him.
‘We had an away day,’ he said. ‘Got to come home early.’
‘Lucky you,’ I said.
‘I know, right?’
I waited for him to say something, but he stayed silent.
‘Did the boys not want supper?’
‘I told them to wait for you. You’re a much better chef than I am.’
Because I cook every night, I thought.
‘O.K.,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘Boys? Would you lay the table, please?’
Archie and James raced around getting cutlery and plates. I opened the fridge, found a bottle of Pinot Grigio and poured myself a glass. The boys were seeing who could lay the table fastest.
‘Careful, you two,’ I said.
After the boys had eaten had gone to bed, Lawrence and I sat down together and watched the news. I had a cup of tea and he had another beer. There was a report about rising sea levels and clams that had been baked in their shells. I waited for Lawrence to ask me about my day, and after a while he said:
‘Planet’s fucked, isn’t it?’
I was embarrassed by how excited I had been to see him open his mouth. That faded soon enough.
‘I’m going to bed.’
I make a point not to check my emails outside of work hours and encourage my clients to do the same. Psychologists have a greater than average appreciation of the importance of boundaries, given that certain clients have a tendency to try to blur them. So I don’t know why, that night, lying in bed, I decided to open the Mail app on my phone. (Was I really so deprived of adult conversation at home that I actually wanted to read an email?) I had received half a dozen or so new messages: there was a 50% sale on at Zara Home, my accountant wanted to speak about my tax return, the headmaster at the boys’ school had an update about a bug that was going round… And there, right at the top, was an email, from a Natasha Oliver. I opened it.
Hello Dr. Hale, or do you prefer Charlotte (?) My psychiatrist at The Rectory, Dr. Motte, recommended you. I wondered if I could book a session, or a consultation? I’m afraid I’m not quite sure how these things work! My number is 07975956493. Thanks. Natasha.
I looked at my calendar and saw that I had a free hour at eleven o’clock the next day. The client I normally speak to at that time had cancelled, and not the first time. I was considering telling me I no longer wanted to be his therapist. I emailed Natasha back and offered her the slot. I was about to close the app when I saw her email come through. Yes, she said, she would love to speak then. I gave her the address of my office, put my phone on charge on the bedside table, and urfa escort went to sleep.
2
It’s always tempting to look a new client up before they come to their first session, but it’s hard not to form an impression of a person if you do this, and that can corrupt the therapy process. So at five to eleven, I waited for Natasha to arrive, wondering what she might be like. Soon the buzzer went and I went over to the intercom.
‘Hi, this is Natasha,’ came the voice.
‘Come on up.’
I waited for Natasha by the door to my office, opposite the staircase. I share my building with an estate agent, which occupies the bottom floor. I heard the second of the two doors leading from the street open and then shut, and then a woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing a brown cable knit jumper over a clean white shirt; cropped jeans, and white trainers. She had short blonde hair. A single drop earring hung from her left lobe. When she saw me, she smiled a smile that exuded warmth and, I remember thinking, sincerity.
‘Hi,’ she said.
l smiled more widely than I meant to.
‘Hi.’
As she reached the top of the stairs I backed away to the door of my office.
‘Come in. Take a seat.’
She came in and sat down on the armchair opposite mine. Close up, I was struck by how soft and perfect her skin was, by the unusual greenish shade of her eyes. She had very full, very pink lips. She spoke before I had a chance to say anything.
‘Gosh, I so love your skirt. So beautiful.’
I was taken aback.
‘Oh. Thank you.’
Natasha put her hand over her mouth.
‘Sorry! I realise I’m probably not supposed to say things like that.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, smiling. ‘So – would you like to tell me how I can help you?’
*
I don’t know why Natasha left such an impression on me. Perhaps it was just her beauty; beautiful people always make an impression. But she had charm, too, that power to persuade before she’d even opened her mouth. Or was it that, once our hour together was over, once I’d opened the door to let her out, she’d paused as she passed me and turned to look at me, so that she was inches from my face, so close that I could smell her perfume, and then touched my wrist, and said thank you with such candour that I blushed…?
I bit my lip. The Tube rumbled through West London. I looked out of the window; I was trying to distract myself. My thoughts kept turning to her, to Natasha, and not just to that moment when she was leaving: but to her whole way of being, her presence, her mannerisms: the way she folded her legs; her hand gestures, which so strengthened the impression of sincerity she gave off; her laugh, which was so effacing, so artless. I sighed. This was so unprofessional of me. I was excited to get home, if only because there would be things to do and they would take my mind off Natasha. For once, I was glad that Lawrence could be so useless.
*
She pushed me towards the wall and pressed me against it. Her gorgeous mouth silenced the sigh of surprise that escaped my lips, and I felt a jolt of pleasure through my body. Then she had her hands on my wrists; our lips and breasts were pressed together so closely that I felt as though I were about to melt into her. I was hot, damp: my body was submitting to her before I had. Then she began to slide down my body, kissing my neck and breasts and stomach, and I was moaning, moaning, my hips bucking, and then she was hitching up my skirt and–
I woke up. Sun was pouring through the crack between the curtains. I looked to my right. Lawrence had already got out of bed. In fact I could just hear the sound of the kettle boiling two floors below. For several moments I stared at the ceiling, my heart pounding. And then, with some hesitation, I let my hand travel down my body and under the duvet, and my fingers slipped into my knickers and touched the warm, wet, soft mound of my sex.
‘Mummy, mummy, mummy!’ I heard footsteps and withdrew my hand. A moment later Archie appeared. ‘Mummy, get up, lazy bones!’
I sighed.
‘Hi, darling. I’m up. Are you all ready for school?’
3
The time between that Wednesday and the next one was torture. I could not stop thinking of Natasha. Even during my sessions I had to wrestle my attention back from thoughts of her. I loved my work and took it seriously. I was good at it. The thought of being unprofessional in front of a client was unthinkable. But it was as if my mind had plans of its own.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Sorry?’ I was brought back sharply to the present. ‘Yes, of course, Mark. Go on.’
Lawrence was busy preparing a client for COP 26 and was working long hours. He was usually adamant about working nine to five. The therapist in me praised him for having a good work-life balance. But the rest of me found his lack of ambition unappealing. When he got home he often moaned about work, but never asked me how I was. And what would I have told him if he had?
I woke up on Wednesday with Natasha’s name on my lips and fussed over what to wear. She said she’d liked the skirt–but wearing it again would sivas escort seem boring, wouldn’t it? Worse: she might think I’d worn it for her… I would wear something different. I showered, slipped into black underwear and studied my reflection in the mirror. All I could see were imperfections. It was hopelessly irrational: if I thought about my body objectively, I could only conclude that, really, I was lucky. I looked younger than my forty-five years, and my hair (the only thing I really like about how I look) fell in soft waves to below my shoulders. It had lost none of its gloss.
Still, when I looked at myself, I could only see flaws. I felt a twinge of resentment towards Lawrence. I couldn’t remember the last time he managed something more than ‘You look nice.’ I went through to the bedroom and changed into a short-sleeved black dress and black heeled pumps. Then I slipped on some jewellery: a thin gold necklace with a pearl pendant, drop earrings, a gold bracelet and ring. It was professional, not distracting for my clients, but elegant, I felt. I put on some light makeup, and gave my lips just a touch of plum-red lipstick. Oddly, I felt the same trepidation–half-excited, half-nervous–that I used to feel before a school dance, or a university formal.
I had one client before Natasha. He was a lonely man whose life hadn’t quite worked out for him, as he saw it. He had missed out on having a long-term partner and children, and had chronic anxious thoughts about his place in the world, his purpose, his legacy. Really, he just needed someone who would listen to him. I let him talk and once the hour was over, he was visibly happier.
I made a cup of tea while I waited for Natasha. Then I sat in the office and tried not to look at the clock. Soon the tea was finished, and looking up I saw it was already five past. I considered texting her to check if she was alright, but decided to wait. The finger of the clock swept the seconds away. Five past became ten past. And then the buzzer went and a wave of relief washed over me. I went over to the intercom.
‘Charlotte, I’m so sorry! There was an accident in Richmond and it took me ages. I had to walk.’
‘That’s fine, Natasha,’ I said. ‘Come on up.’
I heard her come through the doors and start to climb the staircase. She was dressed for summer, in striped shorts and a white tee shirt. Her legs were long, slim, deep brown, and firm. I wondered if she took spin classes. She had pushed her sunglasses up.
‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘Summery right? I’m heading to the park after this with a guy I’m seeing.’
I tried not to look disappointed.
‘Whatever feels comfortable.’
I felt embarassed, in my conservative outfit, but tried to put the thought out of my head. Natasha came past me, and I drank in that familiar orange blossom perfume. She put down her bag and sat down in the chair opposite mine. I closed the door.
‘So,’ I said, smiling. ‘How have you been?’
The conversation unfolded in a way that made it feel more like a girly chat over wine than a therapy session. I realised how much I missed those long, tispy conversations, which always run late into the night. But it would have been inappropriate to socialise with Natasha outside of therapy. Perhaps I just needed a close girl friend. But (I thought, my eyes drifting from her face to her lips, to her slim firm limbs, to her cute, girly socks, just peeking out above her trainers) I badly wanted to spend time with her when I didn’t have to be in therapist mode. She had a boyfriend; I had a husband. We could be friends. In some ways, it was a relief to know she was seeing someone. It closed the door on something that had been obsessing me.
When she got up to leave, the sun that was now pouring through the window turned her top see-through for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of a lace, floral-patterned bra covering perky breasts. I smiled and said goodbye, and as soon as she left the building I felt as if everything was dingier and darker. It was as if a light had been turned off.
4
On the Friday evening, Lawrence and I were due to go to a quiz night at the boys’ school. We had arranged for a babysitter to come and agreed to meet at the pub down the road from King’s House. I was early, and had a glass of wine at the bar. Fifteen minutes before the quiz was due to start, Lawrence texted me. He said he would be working late. There was no way he could have realised this only a moment ago, I thought, closing my eyes and massaging my temples as if to tease out my resentment. He must have known hours ago that he was likely to have to work late. At least he could have told me there was a possibility, so that I could plan around it. The suggestion was always that his time was more valuable than mine. I was about to send him a message when the door of the pub opened – and Natasha came in. She saw me right away.
‘Charlotte, oh my God!’ she said.
She greeted me like an old friend, throwing her arms around me and kissing me on the cheek.
‘Oh, God, did I just violate the client-therapist relationship again?’
I was thrilled to see tekirdağ escort her.
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
She pressed her hand to her chest.
‘Phew.’
She looked divine. She was in a polka-dot print summer dress and heels, and beautifully fully made up. I was pleased – relieved, more like – that I had made an effort that evening: I was wearing a dress and low heels. I still felt inadequate in her presence.
‘Going out?’
‘Ugh, I was meant to be meeting Chris, but he stood me up. What about you?’
I took a big swig of my wine.
‘I was stood up, too, actually.’
‘Who would ever stand you up?’ Natasha said, touching my arm. ‘God, men are useless. Just for the record, I would never stand you up. But hey! At least we can be rejects together.’
I smiled. I thought about telling her about the quiz. It would begin soon. But I said nothing.
We must have drunk at least two bottles of wine between us. I had completely forgotten about the time. She was so effortlessly charming, making fun of herself, asking question after question, lightly touching my hand. Somehow we had been moving closer together while we were talking, and from time to time her thigh brushed mine and sent sparks of electricity through my body. I was desperate to stay longer, but the babysitter would be finishing soon. I told Natasha.
‘Oh, no!’ she said, grabbing my arm with both hands. ‘I’m having such a good time!’
I smiled sympathetically.
‘Can we do this again?’ she said.
‘We shouldn’t…’ I said. ‘It’s OK if it’s an accident, but if we arranged an actual date–‘ It slipped out. I don’t know why I said date. I panicked. More than anything I was afraid of scaring her off. But then, I thought, people did use the word date for social meetings, too, didn’t they? I was worrying about nothing.
Natasha put her hand on my thigh, and I felt a small twinge of pleasure. If her hand was any higher on my leg she would almost be brushing my sex.
‘I’d love to go on a date with you.’
Was she being facetious? She said it with that wide-eyed sincerity that I found so appealing about her. I opened my mouth and closed it. All my professionalism abandoned me. I spoke without thinking:
‘There’s a wine bar in Chiswick. Vinoteca. It’s nice. Maybe… maybe we could go for a drink there on Monday?’
‘I’d like that.’
5
Had I just asked Natasha out? Had I just asked a woman out, a client out…? No, I told myself. I’d suggested we go for a drink. We were friends now, and yes, I was breaching the client-therapist relationship. But I would tell her that she could no longer see me as a patient if she wanted us to meet again. I would tell her that on Monday.
But then… Oh, who was I kidding? I found Natasha achingly attractive. I had never felt so drawn to someone. On Saturday afternoon, for the first time in months, I ran a bath and lit some candles and touched myself to the thought of Natasha, and when I came – back arching, hips bucking, toes pointing like a ballerina’s, my whole body shuddering in ecstasy – I had to bite my lip to stop the whole the neighbourhood from hearing.
On Monday evening, I took a long shower, shaved my legs and, with Lawrence out and the boys at judo, took my time getting ready. I had told Lawrence I was going to a British Psychological Society meeting, but if I had said Serial Killing Society he would have reacted with equal indifference. And that suited me. I poured myself a glass of wine and put on Julie London. Then I slipped on red lingerie, a sleeveless red dress that made the most of my boobs and bum, and gold heels. I had started going to yoga again. Looking at my bum in the mirror, I felt like it was showing. I pulled on a pair of nude tights, did my hair and makeup, and got a cab over to Chiswick.
Natasha was there when I arrived. She was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, wearing a tight emerald green dress that ended well above the knee. She got up when she saw me approach and we hugged. She smelled heavenly.
‘That dress!’ Natasha said. ‘So elegant. I feel totally inadequate.’
‘Are you joking?’ I said, laughing. ‘You look incredible!’
‘Aw! You’re so sweet! Really, though, I’m going to have fight people off if I want you all to myself.’
The thought of being all Natasha’s… I was flattered. Lawrence hadn’t noticed me, let alone paid me a real compliment, for years. I felt self-confident when I was with Natasha. That was bleeding into other areas of my life as well.
‘Shall we get wine?’ she said.
I gave a little shrug.
‘Cocktails?’ I said hopefully.
‘Oh my God, yes!’
Natasha had a way of making everything but that moment feel not just irrelevant but non-existent which, in a way, it was. What had happened yesterday, what tomorrow had in store, past mistakes, future worries – none of it mattered. With Natasha – Tasha, as I thought fondly of her – I was nowhere else but there. And despite what I did for a living I had plenty of hopes and fears, worries, bouts of sadness. Being around Natasha was, ironically enough, like therapy. There was something about her presence, her lack of guile, her honesty, her warmth. She was intoxicating. Most of my time is spent showing an interest in other people. I ask questions, and provide signposts for people trying to understand themselves and the things they’re struggling with so they can find their own solutions.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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