She blinked in the strong light and licked her lower lip. ‘I think it didn’t work. I think I dozed off,’ she said slowly. When her eyes had become accustomed to the light she looked at me with a quizzical, puzzled expression.
I knew instantly what was troubling her. Women clients were always falling for me. It was natural for a patient to confuse their feelings of gratitude for feeling good with feelings of love. The thing that kept them at bay was my total detachment. But I had looked into her eyes just now and allowed her to see that she affected me. That something had passed between us. I had to put that distance back. If I was going to help her I had to draw the lines quickly, or I could totally mess her up.
‘What is important after the first session is how you feel. How do you feel?’ My voice was purely professional. A solicitous care for my client.
‘I feel great. Better than I’ve done for a long time actually,’ she admitted, a trace of confusion and sexual awakening in her eyes.
‘Good,’ I said decisively, and started to walk toward the door. ‘When you feel able to, please join me in my office.’
I sat at my desk and pretended to make notes in her file. In fact, I was writing nonsense. I never made notes while the client was around. Especially when I had the recording of the entire session.
She came out and sat opposite me. ‘Tell me the truth. That was a failure, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
I looked up at her. ‘Not at all. It was exactly what I expected. I was laying the groundwork. We didn’t do any regression yet. We will be doing that during your next appointment. The important thing is how you feel.’
‘I feel great,’ she said slowly.
‘Then the session was a success,’ I said and smiled politely. Awkwardness quickly stretched between us. ‘This will be the end of our first session,’ I said and standing up, started walking toward the door. It must have looked strange, but I just wanted it to be over.
She followed me out.
‘Let me get your coat,’ Beryl said, jumping up from behind her station. She came back holding up a long dark coat, its discreet silk and cashmere tag showing.
‘Thank you,’ Lady Olivia said, and slid her arms into it.
‘Well, I’ll say goodnight,’ I said.
‘Goodnight and thank you, Dr. Kane,’ she replied softly.
I nodded and, turning away, went back to my office.
I closed the door and for a moment stood leaning against it. Damn it. What the hell was the matter with me? Why was I so affected by her? I walked over to my desk drawer and, taking my bottle out, poured myself a large drink. I brought it to my lips. The liquid hit my roiling stomach like petrol taking fire.
Fuck! I needed that.
5
Beryl knocked on the door and opened it. Her eyes were shining brightly. Obviously she was hoping I’d throw her some little gossipy tit-bit.
‘Forget it,’ I told her before she could even come in.
‘She is beautiful, though, isn’t she?’ she said, coming in and perching on one corner of my desk.
I sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you have any success at all?’ she tried again.
‘Beryl,’ I said warningly.
She clasped her hands to her chest. ‘It’s me. Beryl. I’m not about to run off and sell the story to one of the tabloids.’
‘No,’ I said firmly.
‘You don’t have to say anything. Just nod or shake your head.’
I looked at her blankly.
‘All right. Be like that then,’ she said sulkily and flounced out of the room. She popped her head around the door again wearing her apologetic face. ‘Oops, it appears in all the excitement I forgot to mention that your cleaning lady called. She couldn’t make it today. An emergency of some kind. She has to go up and see her sister in Brighton. She’ll be around tomorrow.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
‘Well, I’m off then. See you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, see you tomorrow.’
I heard the front door shut and the place took on the waiting silence of abandoned houses. I poured myself three fingers of whiskey, and took a large swallow. Soon everything would become mellow. I leaned back in my chair and swiveled it around to face the window. People were hunched into their coats and hurrying home. Sitting here alone, I had watched this scene so many times. Until the streets emptied¸ and then I would pack up and go out for a solitary meal. Usually the Italian around the corner. They knew me there. Il Americano—the American—they called me.
I always had the same. Penne arrabiata to start and then Franco would bring out the day’s special, whatever it was, fish, rabbit, pig’s trotters, sweetbreads.
After a few meals Franco had said, ‘Always you eat alone. Big, beautiful man like you. Why?’