Page 7 of The Therapist

FOUR

Sandy

I didn’t do well at school. Truthfully, I had so many other experiences that I wanted to enjoy.

I didn’t need to bury myself in repetitive rubbish, foisted on us by bureaucrats.

I spent a lot of time in the bathroom, preening in the mirror, reapplying my delicate pink lip gloss, making sure my hair was perfect and waiting for the lunch break, which was when I was the most important person in the place.

Girls watched me wherever I went and boys simply stopped talking when I walked past, their mouths gaping open with desire.

The fact that I failed to get into university doesn’t mean I’m stupid.

I like to consider myself a student of the human condition.

Mostly, I’m fascinated with myself, with the reaction others have to me.

But I do like to watch other people, to get to know them, to find out what makes them tick and then maybe figure out what it would take to destroy them.

If I hadn’t been stupid enough to fall into infatuation with ‘the husband’ and then end up pregnant and trapped, I would have destroyed him as well.

I hate that I was weak, that I let him get to me, and that now, sometimes, I am afraid of him.

Needless to say, my parents never understood me. They didn’t have the capacity and were delighted when I got married and became someone else’s problem.

I stopped working when I got pregnant, and I did enjoy the months of growing the first child inside me. I liked the attention, the smiles and benevolent looks I received from strangers. I liked that people stood up when I was near, offered me their chairs.

I was a beautiful pregnant woman, my hair thick and glowing, my skin perfect, my bump neat. I was envied. I could see that.

But then the baby arrived and it was all so…so boring.

I should never have tried again to capture the feeling. The second one is never as good.

But at least I never had to return to work.

Instead, my work became trying to survive as I waded through the mud of everyday life.

Until I can figure a way out of this, I am doing my best to survive. Once I settled on the idea of therapy for entertainment and for my other needs, I went to my first therapy session bubbling with excitement, a feeling I had sorely missed.

I chose his name, the name of my therapist, from a website and I imagined him overweight with bushy eyebrows and wearing a brown waistcoat.

I saw the way he would respond to me, how easy it would be to turn him inside out with a little flirting.

I wanted other things from him, needed him to listen to my story, to agree with it.

But I was going to start with a little light flirting.

I chose my outfit carefully, making sure that the pants moulded to my form, that I left my white shirt open one button too many so that he would be able to glimpse the pink lace bra I was wearing.

It was expensive, but ‘the husband’ – that’s what I call him in my head, ‘the husband’ – was willing to pay for it.

I had to push him a little, goad him into an argument and wait for him to get nasty and vicious, which doesn’t take much. And then I had to cry so that he would be sorry.

He doesn’t like me to talk about our arguments and he hates the idea that I will be discussing them with a therapist, which is exactly what I want. The therapist is as important as what’s in the cookie jar for my future.

I chose a familiar argument to push him on, something I complain about a lot, which is the nasty state of the kitchen. I want to redo it and he says we can’t afford it.

‘You could figure out how to get the money if you weren’t so useless,’ I spat at him.

‘You’re a bitch,’ he drunkenly threw back at me. A shocking, horrible word and one that he pretended he hadn’t said the next morning.

‘I would never use that language. Why are you lying?’ Beer goes to his head very quickly. He drinks a lot when we’re together, perhaps hoping to capture the feelings of our first years with each other when the infatuation was so strong, he would turn me on with a look.

I cried then, talked about how my father used that word on my mother and how devastated I was to hear it from my own husband.

He felt guilty and apologised, even as he still denied using the word. ‘If I said it, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I did say it.’

It meant he was primed and ready when I brought up therapy. ‘Maybe it will stop you making all this shit up,’ he said.

Run away , I tell myself every morning but you cannot run away with nothing. I will not run away with nothing. I am biding my time, waiting for an opportunity. I will know it when it comes.

But for now, I have therapy.

I walked into my first session ready for the old man I assumed would be waiting. But I got someone very different. I got someone unexpected and I was a little thrown, a little disconcerted. But I righted myself soon enough.

And after one hour with me, I could see that he would be easy. They all are, aren’t they?

It was so good for a while but then he told me it wasn’t working, told me that it wasn’t right for us to be talking.

And now I have to adjust because I am talking to someone else, to a woman who I can see envies me even as she feels sorry for me and my poor, messed-up life. I think she believes I’m stupid but I’m not.

I don’t like the way he switched things on me but I understand why it had to happen. I’m biding my time and making my plans.

They think they’re so clever but they’re not as clever as I am.

I dress as carefully for my first full therapy session with her as I did with him, choosing a tight black skirt and thigh-high boots.

I like the way she looks me up and down.

I can see her comparing us, see her judging her own looks.

And there is always the possibility that I will see him, that he will walk into that waiting room to call in a patient he has deemed to be someone he can keep talking to.

I want him to know what he’s missing. I want him to think about me when he’s talking to someone else, to be distracted.

I make sure to smudge the make-up perfectly under my eye. I have a time lapse on my computer so I know exactly what it should look like today.

I have been collecting stories to take to her.

When we talked for the first time, I told her about meeting ‘the husband’ at a sales conference.

I explained how he sat down next to me and didn’t look at me until we were told to introduce ourselves.

I remember that moment clearly. It was the moment I slipped into infatuation and ruined my life.

His eyes were so blue and he had taken off his jacket so I could see the movement of his muscles under the crisp white business shirt.

He asked me if he could buy me a drink and I told him he could. I chose a glass of expensive champagne and he happily paid.

It wasn’t like I had never dated a good-looking man before.

I’d been through plenty of them but this one caught me.

Perhaps it was the way he looked at me, as though he were drinking me in.

Perhaps it was the stories he told of his ambition.

He wanted the biggest house, the nicest car, the most expensive vacations, and he wanted to have someone at home that he could give all of it to.

I knew that would be the perfect role for me. I was born for it.

The company he worked for at the time was growing and it seemed that the sky was the limit. ‘We’ll be turning over millions soon,’ he told me, ‘millions.’ I didn’t even struggle as he lured me into the net, and then I was filled with his baby and stuck.

I finish my make-up, dismissing my past mistakes. Perhaps if she asks about the eye today, I will give a different excuse. I need her to know ‘the husband’ is dangerous. I need her to understand that my safety is my concern. My safety and the safety of the children I adore.

That’s the plan now, the one that has come together in my head perfectly.

I am in danger from ‘the husband’, and whatever happens now, I had no choice.

I glance in the mirror as I leave the house, watch the way my eyes fill up with tears that I have to blink away.

I am far away from sixteen with my whole life ahead of me.

But I can’t let that upset me. I have to keep moving forward with my plan.

One day I will have everything I want if I keep moving forward like a shark.

In the mirror I smile, baring my teeth that are not sharp and dangerous.

I close my mouth, practise a pout, lick my lips so they shine.

Actually, I think I might be dangerous – just dangerous enough.