Just Like a Woman (7 page)
They’d all had a few drinks, he was aware of that, but he wanted to know what she thought. And he stupidly asked her what her first impression was as she entered the sitting room and saw the Dylan painting. Her answer floored him.
‘Well I’d just have thought someone with bad taste had decorated the room.’ She laughed as she said it. Then she tried to soften it by adding, ‘but we all have individual tastes, and yours is individual.’ She even managed to make that sound like an insult, laughing lightly and winking over at his wife as if it was the most wonderful joke. His wife laughed gently back, and reached across to ruffle the bitch’s hair. God he’d like to ruffle her fucking hair for her. Bitch, fucking opinionated bitch. And then she had turned her lovely smile on him, the smile she had won his wife with, so sweet and innocent, as if it was the most ordinary comment to make in someone else’s house about their décor.
Didn’t she know who he was? What he was?
Hell, people stood in the rain for him, just waiting for a smile or a wave, and if they were really lucky an autograph. And she came round to his house. His house! Full of herself. A nobody. Criticizing him! What had his wife seen in her? They had been good friends by all accounts. Certainly spent enough time together, too much for his liking. No, she needed to be taken down a peg or two, but he hadn’t had the chance. God, if he could have had an hour on his own with her. He’d have taught her a lesson in manners she wouldn’t have forgotten.
What was her fucking name? He drew on his cigarette, leant his head back into the cushion, and closed his eyes, picturing her. It began with C. He was sure it did. He thought of all the names he knew beginning with C, but knew it wouldn’t come from that because it wasn’t an ordinary name. She had a nickname, one he hadn’t heard before. That was it Cam, Cammy. Stupid fucking name. The lovely Camellia, who insisted on being called Cammy. Well that spoke for itself.
He wondered if his wife was still in contact with her, suspecting she would not let Cammy go without a struggle. She liked bright sharp people, they challenged her. Too much for him though, probably why he kept Terry around. God, all these fucking women! He needed a man around to talk to, someone who would understand how he felt. Andy! He’d understand. He grabbed the phone from between his legs and pressed auto dial, but before it could finish dialling the number for him, the phone beeped letting him know he had a new message.
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tephanie felt the phone vibrate in her pocket. Watching her client lying in the chair with his eyes closed, she carefully extracted the phone. The screen displayed she had a missed call and a voice message. Glancing back at the client she silently flipped the phone open; she didn’t recognise the displayed number and decided it must be a wrong number. Quietly she replaced the phone in her pocket and listened once more to her client, who with his eyes still shut began to speak in a whispered tone; his words nothing important. None of her clients seemed to do anything important any more, but of course they all thought every word they spoke was so vital, profound even. But it was all so bloody mundane; people enjoying being victims; wanting to be victims; wanting the kudos of being a victim; and they sure as hell didn’t want to give up being a victim. Life would be too difficult then. Nothing or no one to blame anymore. There was far too much mileage from being a victim.
It often seemed to Stephanie there was an epidemic of the ‘poor me’ syndrome. And on top of this they were all amateur psychologists these days as well. It was so infuriating. Just because this client once had his penis touched by a teacher! That was it. Nothing else happened and he now managed to convince himself he had been sexually abused and therefore this incident that had occurred more than twenty five years ago, entitled him to feel depressed, morose and oh so full of self pity; demanding sympathy and justification for his behaviour.
Not in this office. No sympathy was ever dished out here. But that didn’t stop them trying. It was all she could do not to yell at him, but he came regularly every week; never late, never cancelled, and she decided she was grateful to him for the regular income. He was just a little bit confused and needed straightening out. She sighed then looked at the clock. Thank god it was time to bring the session to a close. It had gone reasonably quickly with half an hour before the next one. God she was starving. With any luck Jane would have been to the bakers next door.
After showing him out the door she turned to her assistant sitting at the reception desk.
‘Any calls?’ she asked as she walked towards Jane.
‘Uh, yes, but he wouldn’t give his name, and Mr. Cannery has cancelled for this afternoon, so you’ve only got the one left.’ Jane replied.
‘Great. An early finish.’ Stephanie pulled the diary towards her and flipped the pages. ‘What did the other caller want?’
‘He didn’t say. Just asked to speak to Steph.’
Stephanie stood up straight and looked at her.
‘Steph? Not Stephanie, or Ms. Powell? Did you manage to get sandwiches?’
‘No and yes. I assumed you’d know who he was because he said he’d try your mobile. Tuna or steak?’
Jane placed two packets of sandwiches on the desk. Stephanie picked each packet up in turn, inspecting them,
‘Ok if I have the steak? Don’t want to be smelling of fish.’
Jane nodded and took both packets away to the bathroom, which they also used as their kitchen. Stephanie pulled her mobile from her pocket and walked back into her office while studying the number. Who on earth would call her Steph? And how would he get her mobile number? She nearly dropped it as it started to vibrate again, but she recognised the number immediately this time. It was Robert and flipped the phone open.
‘So?’ She sat in her chair, placing her ankles on the desk so her shoes would not soil the papers she had not yet put away. She listened while Robert informed her he had arranged a dinner with Sarah for the following Thursday.
‘And where are you going to pick her up? You are going to pick her up?’ Stephanie asked before he could answer the first question.
‘Of course! I suggested I pick her up at her place, as you told me to. But she insisted we meet at the car park. It’s in Ferndown somewhere. She gave me instructions. And then I’ll drive us both to the restaurant.’
‘Good man. It’ll be worth it. And don’t start drinking. Sarah’s not the same as the others. You’ll see, and this is too good an opportunity to mess up.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Stephanie laughed and replied,
‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ She hung up, not waiting for his response, and then looked at the unknown number again before listening to her message.
‘Hi Steph, I’ll call you later, when you’ve finished work.’ Whose voice was that?
She pressed redial. An answer machine.
‘Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’ She vaguely recognised it, but was that because she had just heard it on her own phone? Or was it someone she knew? And how the hell had he got hold of her mobile number? Her work number was public knowledge, but her mobile was known to very few people.
She had learnt the hard way about phone numbers and clients. In her naiveté as a new therapist, she had advertised her mobile number alongside her home number when she started her business from home. It wasn’t long before she invested in a very good answer machine and a second telephone line as well as changing her mobile number. She recalled being woken on a bank holiday at a quarter to seven in the morning by a client in crisis. They thought she was theirs to call at any time of day or night; their emergencies were her emergencies as far as they were concerned.
And no one called her Steph—not even Robert. Her friends knew she despised being called that. She pushed away the slight feeling of nausea convincing herself it was just the hunger. But he knew her name. He must have got the number from someone she knew. She kept pushing all the doubts she felt firmly away, but in the back of her mind she knew that no one, who she had given her mobile number to, would give it out willingly.
There was a quiet knock before Jane entered with the sandwich on a plate and a cup of fresh coffee.
‘If that caller calls again, tell him I’m still busy, and try and get a name or some sort of information; his number, 1471 or something, OK?’ She smiled at Jane as she put the plate in front of her and she reached for the cup.
After Jane had left the room it dawned on her; he hadn’t tried to hide his number; he wanted her to call him back. And stupid cow that she was had done so. And now her number would be registered on his phone and he’d know she had phoned. Then she breathed a sigh of relief; no he wouldn’t, her number was withheld; his phone would register a call, but would not inform him of who had called.
The last session was hard. All thoughts about selfish, indulgent clients doing no work had to be re-evaluated. Her last client came in looking pale and shaky. She had had a flashback, gone straight into the recall of a very unpleasant incident. An incident involving a trusty uncle which had taken place when she was six years old. The poor woman had wiped it clean from her memory, although she remembered always having an unreasonable dislike of being alone with this uncle. Stephanie forgave all her other clients for their mundane lives; they were far easier in the end to work with because she didn’t have to think about them or find ways of getting their stories out of her head later.
Stephanie gave Jane the rest of the afternoon off, drove home, grabbed the dogs and went for a long walk to cleanse herself of the words her client had repeated to her. Words which touched a part of herself she had no wish to investigate or revisit. Although the cold wind bit into her cheeks, her jacket hung at her waist because the pace she forced from her legs generated a gentle dampness beneath her sweatshirt. Whilst tramping over the moss and dead leaves she planned a quiet night in with absolute precision; a small glass of wine, some escapist television and a plate of those delicious marinated olives from the local twenty-four seven. She tried to ignore the message alert interrupting her fantasy, and carried on walking for a few more moments before succumbing to inquisitiveness. Flipping the phone open and she read,
‘hi steph its good to finish work early xxx’
Standing still to focus, she studied the number. It looked like the same number as before. Her heart fluttered for a moment, she stood still, turning her head from side to side slowly, looking about her. The dogs continued to play, oblivious to the rest of the world, indicating to her no one else could be in close proximity; the dogs were ever vigilant on her behalf. Looking at the number registered to the text message again, she memorized it before looking through her other registered received calls. Yes, it was the same as the call she received earlier. If Jane had dialled 1471 to find out who her unknown caller was on the office phone this morning, she would have been able to check it against this number on her mobile. She laughed to herself, releasing some of the tension building up, and continued her walk. Someone was playing a joke on her. Of course it had to be. Who did she know with a sense of humour? Cammy. Yes it must be Cammy. She must have phoned the office and received no reply. She dialled Cammy’s number but it went straight to her answer machine. Then the phone beeped again. She stopped again to read it.
‘ps next time you call leave me a message I like to hear the sound of your voice:)’
Stephanie felt anger rising from her feet. How dare he? But who was he? She searched her mind for old clients, any who she may have offended, or any who indicated an unhealthy attachment to her. She recalled a couple of male clients who would phone just to hear her voice, but they had moved on to greener pastures.
Looking at the message she pressed the reply button, but stopped herself in time. What was she doing? All her training, all her common sense told her; to respond would indicate she was interested. No matter what she said. He would twist it in his mind as an act of love or an act of desire for her to connect with him. Ignore it, he would go away. She began walking. But her curiosity was brimming over. She could handle this. She knew the psychology of a mind like his. Besides, she justified to herself, she needed to know how he got her number, to prevent it happening again! She stopped and pressed the buttons.
‘ok, who are you?’
The thrill of fear tingled through her fingers as she pressed the send button. The walk was now ruined. The sensation of relaxation evaporated as she held the phone in her hand, staring at it, anticipating an immediate reply. Nothing. Silence. She walked on; the phone remained silent.
Her pace increased, she shouted at the dogs who looked up in surprise. Why would he reply?
Too late she realized he would be sated. He had what he wanted. She had not only phoned his landline, but had now responded to his texts. The frustration and anger became intense. Her teeth clenched and hands fisted tight in her pockets. She was so weak. Why had she argued with herself? She knew the deal. If you argued with yourself, you always lost. Any client behaving in this manner would have earned her disdain. Calling the dogs to heel she turned back towards the car.
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oaking in the bath tub, Sarah’s thoughts were distracted by the television volume her mother insisted on keeping. Offensive to the ears it disallowed any individual thoughts or conversation as it reverberated round the house. She wanted to enjoy the bubbles and let the oils do the work they claimed they would do for her; deep muscle relaxant, it said on the bottle. Closing her eyes she tried to shut the noise out and think about the next day. It was a delicious sensation; fear combined with excitement at the prospect of not only going out with a man, but lying to her mother as well. She had settled on the lie of an extra session.
Taking a deep breath she ducked her head under the water to enjoy the silence of her blood rushing through her ears for a moment; she imagined being in one of those floatation tanks she had read about in one of her magazines. She drifted away to an exclusive health farm and relaxed her body. She had an hour before her mother would start yelling and banging on the door for attention; her two favourite programs were now showing back to back episodes absorbing all her energy. She tasted metal in her mouth and the voice began to fill her head.
