“Yes, but it might actually work,” said Deborah, and the surprise and respect in her eyes reminded Ellen of the look on her grandmother’s face all those years ago.
Ellen smiled now, remembering that moment. That was job satisfaction.
She opened her diary and her smile faded when she saw her last appointment for the day: Mary-Kate McGovern. Oh, well. No more surprised, respectful looks today.
She glanced at her watch. There was still time for Mary-Kate to cancel. On three previous occasions she had called at the last minute to say that she couldn’t get away from work. She was a legal secretary and always sounded full of breathless self-importance when she called to cancel, as though the law firm she worked for couldn’t operate without her.
Ellen chided herself for that uncharitable thought. Maybe Mary-Kate was indispensable. And she always insisted on paying the fifty percent cancellation fee that Ellen specified on her price list (for cancellations with less than twenty-four hours’ notice), even though Ellen never tried to enforce her own policy. She hated the idea of accepting money for doing nothing.
The doorbell rang and Ellen swore, as if she’d stubbed her toe.
So she was annoyed when Mary-Kate canceled and she was annoyed when she turned up. For some reason she was feeling a strong antipathy toward this poor, sad woman. What was that about? She’d had annoying clients before, and clients she liked more than others, but she’d never experienced such a visceral feeling of displeasure when a client turned up for an appointment.
If she wasn’t careful, her dislike would seep its way into Mary-Kate’s therapy and that would be unconscionable.
She reminded herself of the Buddhist doctrine: We are all one. She was Mary-Kate and Mary-Kate was her.
Mmmm.
She opened the door with a warm, welcoming smile. “Mary-Kate! Wonderful to see you!”
“I’m sure it’s just glorious to see me,” said Mary-Kate with a bright, sarcastic smile.
She couldn’t have heard Ellen swear, could she?
As usual, Mary-Kate was dressed entirely in black. She was a dumpy, lumpy woman with long, lank hair parted in the middle like a 1970s flower child, except that she didn’t have the fresh baby face to carry it off. Her face had a resentful, hangdog look.
Oh, you’re a depressing sight, thought Ellen. She longed to give her a makeover, to cut her hair off, give it some volume and color, to dress her in some color other than black. Her face was quite pretty really. Even a touch of lipstick would brighten her up!
Good Lord, she was turning into someone’s awful mother.
“Would you like to use the bathroom?” she asked Mary-Kate.
She always asked clients if they wanted to use the toilet first; a full bladder was the worst thing for a good hypnosis session.
“No thank you,” said Mary-Kate. “Let’s just get on with it.”
When Mary-Kate was sitting in the green recliner, somehow managing to make it look like the most uncomfortable chair ever, Ellen opened Mary-Kate’s file on her lap.
“How have you been since we last met?” she asked.
“Same as ever. Fat as a whale. How have you been?”
Ellen glanced up at her. “You’re worried about your weight?”
“No, well, yes of course, obviously, but whatever.” Mary-Kate sighed and yawned. “So, Friday today. Got anything interesting planned for the weekend, Ellen? Seeing friends? Family?”
“No particular plans,” said Ellen. “So, tell me, is weight loss something you’d like us to work on?”
At Mary-Kate’s first appointment she’d said she wanted hypnosis because she’d started becoming panicky whenever she drove through the Sydney Harbour Tunnel, and she wanted to put a stop to it before she became one of those “nutty, fragile” types. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her weight, but that was often the case with clients. The real reason they were there didn’t emerge until after a few visits.
“Perhaps I went through the potato famine in a past life,” said Mary-Kate. “And now I’m trying to make up for it. That’s why I crave potatoes.”
“Well, hypnotherapy can be very useful—”
“I don’t believe in past lives,” said Mary-Kate truculently. “That’s such crap.”
“I think we talked about this at our last session,” said Ellen mildly. She was not fond of the word “crap.” Also, they had talked at some length about Mary-Kate’s lack of belief in past lives.
“So you don’t take people back to their past lives.”
“I don’t specifically offer past-life regression,” began Ellen. “But I certainly have had clients who believe they have re-experienced past lives under hypnosis. I have an open mind about it.”
Mary-Kate snorted and gave a little sneer.
“Have you had to drive through the tunnel since I saw you last?” asked Ellen.
Mary-Kate shrugged. “Yeah, I did. I was fine, actually. I must have got over it.”
Ellen studied her. “So, then, what are you hoping to gain from today’s session, Mary-Kate?”
Mary-Kate sighed again. She looked disdainfully around the room as if it was a cheap hotel room, leaned over, took a chocolate, then changed her mind and dropped it back in the bowl again.
Finally she spoke. “Actually, I think I do need to use your bathroom.”
It felt like relief to see her again.
I don’t know how she feels about me, but I sort of like her. I mean, I’m sickened by her existence obviously, but I find her strangely compelling.
It’s almost a perverse crush. Like when you meet a man and you find him repulsive, but you still want to go to bed with him, and when you do, it’s great, but afterward you feel ill with regret. Like that apelike guy I met at one of the client Christmas parties last year. He wore too much aftershave and more jewelry than me. The sex was fine, but afterward I was like a rape victim scrubbing myself in the shower and sobbing for Patrick. I guess it’s like that self-loathing you feel after eating bad greasy junk food.
Ellen wouldn’t eat junk food. Tofu and lentils, I imagine. I wonder if she is lovingly appalled by Patrick’s pizza habit yet.
It’s not like I want to go to bed with her. I just want to know everything about her. I want to watch her, in every imaginable situation. I want to get inside her head and inside her body. I want to be her, just for a day.