The Hypnotist's Love Story (55 page)

“Knit, don’t stalk,” murmured Kate. “Repeat after me: Knit, don’t stalk.”

The Festival of the Olive was unexpectedly delightful.

Of course it was; Ellen couldn’t think why it was unexpected. She’d always enjoyed this sort of thing: school fetes, craft shows, outdoor markets. She loved the little stalls and the gentle, earnest people who presented their organic, homegrown wares on white tablecloths: honey, jam, chutney, wine, or in this case olives and olive oil. She loved the sound of wind chimes and the smells of essential oils. These were her people; this was her thing. (“Hippies with money,” Julia would say.)

She and her father walked through rows of white tents, the white canvas flapping gently in the breeze, breathing in the Mediterranean fragrances of garlic, fresh bread and wisteria while the spring sunshine gently caressed their shoulders. Ellen was filled with a deep, sleepy feeling of contentment.

Partly it was because it had gradually dawned on her that this wasn’t in fact a date, and there was no danger at all (presumably) of her father suddenly trying to kiss her. Partly it was because her nausea had seemingly
gone for good, and the relief was as glorious as waving good-bye to an annoying houseguest.

And perhaps it was really because before they left this morning, Patrick had shown her father the ultrasound photos and he’d got tears in his eyes and then he’d been embarrassed, and at that moment he’d become a real person, not the punch line of a joke about Ellen’s life. All the way here in the car, as she sat in the passenger seat and watched her father drive (capably, casually—like Patrick), she’d felt something softening in the very core of her body. Why
not
be sentimental about this, she thought. He’s your father. It’s allowed. You can like him if you want. You can let yourself feel fond of him.

They stopped in front of a stall and a small, intense woman immediately launched into a passionate explanation of the Australian Olive Association’s criteria for extra virgin olive oil status. She spoke in such meticulous detail, it was as if she believed they were about to apply for extra virgin olive oil status and probably wouldn’t get it.

“Right!” said David, when she finally finished. “Well, that’s … Ellen, why don’t we try some?”

Ellen dipped a piece of bread into a small square of golden olive oil.

“Fantastic.” She rolled her eyes heavenward with exaggerated pleasure. And it was fantastic, although she knew from past experience that everything always seemed to taste particularly delicious at these sorts of things, and then once she got back home it would probably taste much the same as the mass-produced stuff she got from the supermarket. It was the fresh air and the power of suggestion at work. She was being gently hypnotized.

“Let me buy you a bottle.” David pulled a fifty-dollar note out of his wallet.

“What a nice dad,” said the woman.

David coughed into his fist, and Ellen smiled sympathetically at him.

The woman frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not father and daughter?”

“No, you’re right, we are,” said Ellen.

“Well, I knew it,” said the woman, in a tone of mild rebuke, as if they’d
tried to put one over on her. She handed back David his change and the olive oil in a white paper bag. “You’ve got identical chins.”

Ellen and her father simultaneously touched their chins with the tips of their fingers and then dropped their hands.

They ate spaghetti sitting at a white plastic table under a big marquee. The conversation was pleasant but a bit of an effort, as if they were two strangers who had struck up a conversation at a bus stop, and now the bus was taking too long to arrive and they felt obliged to keep talking.

“I’m sorry about you and Mum breaking up,” said Ellen, after a long discussion about spring in Australia as compared to spring in the UK.

“So am I,” said David. “It was probably my fault. I shouldn’t have rushed into a relationship when I was still a bit battered and bruised.”

“Battered and bruised,” repeated Ellen, confused.

“Well, my wife left me after thirty years of marriage,” said David. “It threw me for a loop. There wasn’t even another man. She said she’d ‘forgotten how to be herself.’ I said, ‘
Be
yourself. I’m not stopping you!’ But apparently I was.” He looped his spaghetti expertly around his fork and contemplated it sadly.

“I’m sorry,” said Ellen. She was struggling to readjust her perceptions. “I think I was under the impression that you’d left your wife, or that it was mutual.”

“It certainly wasn’t mutual.”

“Mum didn’t say,” began Ellen.

“I sort of played down the ‘I’m so heartbroken about my wife’ side of things,” said David.

“She said you’d been thinking about
her
throughout your marriage.” She hoped he didn’t notice the sound of accusation in her voice.

Her father gave her a rueful look. “She told you that.” He pushed his plate away from him and settled his arms on the sides of his chair. “I wasn’t lying. Over the years I did think about your mother occasionally, and even dreamed about her, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love Jane.”

Ellen pushed her own plate away.

“Although, of course, you did cheat on her when you were engaged,” she said briskly but jokily to show she wasn’t judging. She gestured at herself to indicate the results of his infidelity. “More than once, I hear.”

“Yes,” said David. “I was young and stupid and your mother was gorgeous. Those
eyes
of hers!” He gave a boyish, “Awww, shucks” shrug. “Lucky I did, hey?”

Ellen couldn’t decide whether to be charmed or not.

These were the muddled, imprecise facts of her conception: not quite a great love story, not quite a seedy indiscretion, not quite a brave feminist act.

“Anyway,” said David. “Your mother and I are still friends, and just between you and me, I’m not giving up hope yet.”

“Really?” said Ellen. She wondered if she should tell him that she didn’t think he had a chance at all, but then what did she know? Over the last few months she’d learned that anything she thought she knew to be true could shift and change in an instant. Nothing was permanent: The Buddhists knew what they were talking about.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the preparations for some sort of performance that was obviously about to take place in the center of the marquee.

“Patrick seems like a good man,” said David. “He’s got a son too, hasn’t he? From a previous marriage?”

“Jack,” said Ellen. “He’s at a party today. His mother died when Jack was little.”

“Testing,” said someone over a microphone. “Testing, two, three, four.”

“So obviously the relationship is a bit complicated,” Ellen heard herself say. This was what happened when you talked for too long to a stranger at a bus stop. The conversation suddenly took an inappropriately intimate turn.

“Why?” said David. Ellen was a bit thrown by the question. Wasn’t it self-evident?
Most women she knew would have said something like, “Oh, well,
yes
, of
course
, I can just
imagine
, my sister’s friend dated a widower and it was a disaster…”

“I just mean, I guess, that his first wife passed away, and that—”

She was interrupted by a high-pitched shrieking sound from the sound system. Everyone winced and stuck their fingers in their ears.

It finally stopped and someone said, “Apologies!” over the microphone

David said, “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.”

“Why?”

He turned to look at her. “Ellen,” he said. (She thought it might have been the first time he’d used her name, whereas she’d been “David” this and “David,” because she always overused people’s names when she didn’t know them that well.)

“The man was
hanging curtains
for you this morning.”

“Yes, I know—”

“That’s a mongrel of a job. As my dad would have said.”

“Is it?”

“And he was pretty keen to show me the ultrasound pictures. Doesn’t look like a complicated relationship to me.”

The marquee filled with the sound of a thrumming guitar. Three flamenco dancers stalked onto the stage flicking their gorgeous dresses and tossing their heads, their beautiful young faces fierce and regal.

“Olé!” said Ellen’s father. He lifted his hands above his head and pretended to click imaginary castanets. It was a profoundly dorky dad-like move that would have caused any self-respecting teenage son or daughter to die with shame.

“Olé,” said Ellen agreeably.

She settled back in her chair to watch the dancing, and as she did she felt one last, lingering doubt about Patrick’s love—a doubt she didn’t know she’d had—quietly drift away.

So this was what it was like to have a father.

“Knock, knock?”

It was Tammy’s voice outside my hospital room.

“Don’t mention—” I said to Kate. It wasn’t so much that I thought Tammy would judge me, although of course she would, but that I knew she’d be far too interested, too intrigued and fascinated. She’d gasp and shriek and ask question after question. She’d want to explore my motivations and Patrick’s reactions for hours at a time. She’d never let the topic die.

“Of course not.” Kate put down her knitting. “I won’t even tell Lance.”

She would tell Lance. She would tell him as soon as they got home tonight. There was no way you could keep that sort of secret from your partner.

But I had a feeling that although Lance would think I was one crazy bitch for a while, and he’d be glad he never dated me, and he’d feel sorry for Patrick, in a few years’ time, if Kate happened to bring it up, he’d say vaguely, “Oh, that’s right, what was that story again?” He wasn’t the type to hoard personal information, and I also felt that some sort of innate integrity or morality or dislike of gossip would prevent him from telling people at the office. Anyway, I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be going back to work there. Things were going to change.

“What up, bitches,” said Tammy.

Kate and I rolled our eyes at each other: Tammy and Lance still insisted on trying to talk like Baltimore drug dealers.

Tammy reverted to her normal voice. “Look at you two grandmas with your knitting.”

She tossed a pile of mail on the bed in front of me. “By the way, Janet and Peter said hi.”

“Janet and Peter?” I said blankly.

“Your
neighbors
,” said Tammy. Ah, the Labrador family from next door. I
tried to visualize their faces and couldn’t. Perhaps I’d never really looked at them.

“I went over there for dinner last night,” said Tammy.

It was interesting, watching someone else living in my home and living my life, showing me how easy and natural it could be. She wouldn’t have hesitated when they asked her over. “Sure! What will I bring?” she would have said.

“They’re fun,” she continued. “We played Monopoly with the kids.”

“I hate Monopoly,” commented Kate, picking up her needles again.

“Anyway, we’re planning a welcome home party for you,” said Tammy.

“A party?” I said. “I don’t really do parties.”

“What are you talking about?” said Tammy. “I was telling Janet and Peter about that Halloween party you had years ago. Remember? It was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to.”

I did remember. It was when Patrick and I had just started dating but before we’d moved in together. I’d gone all out and decorated my flat with pumpkin lights and cobwebs. I even put dry ice in tubs for a creepy, smoky effect. Everyone dressed up. Patrick came as Dracula and kept bending me over so he could sink his fangs into my neck. I was Morticia, with a long black wig and a spider choker around my neck. I remember the photos: You’d never seen a happier Morticia.

But the girl who hosted that party doesn’t exist anymore, I thought.

“You made pumpkin pie,” said Tammy. “It was divine.”

“I’ve never eaten pumpkin pie,” said Kate.

“I’ll make it for you,” I said, and suddenly I was listing the ingredients in my head: cream cheese, cinnamon, ginger. And then I was struck by how very much I wanted to make pumpkin pie for Kate and Lance and Tammy and maybe even the family next door, to see people enjoying my food and asking for second helpings. How long had it been since I’d been the hostess, since I’d cooked for someone?