by Boyd Brent
“It fits in very nicely … lifts the children’s spirits. No mean feat. We really appreciate your coming down here too…any publicity that raises awareness for our centre is a Godsend. We’re not far from Hollywood …but these kids have been preyed upon by real monsters, Mr. Tyler.”
“Please. Call me Mitch. I can’t begin to imagine what you have to deal with here …what kind of success rate do you have with rehabilitating these kids?”
She shrugged. “If left unchecked, their experiences will affect their ability to form relationships, intimate or otherwise, for the rest of their lives. It’s our job to limit these effects as much as we can …make sure they understand that what’s happened to them is not their fault – that there really are relationships based on love, trust and mutual affection.” I’m scribbling down her words. I feel guilty that my interest levels have gone through the roof because of my interest in her.
The young woman in Mitch’s bed glanced up from the page. Mitch Tyler was leaning on the balcony rail, lighting his second cigarette.
***
A week later at The Bar of The Seasons Hotel, Harley stared into her glass …
Mother and I arrive home after our initial meeting with Richard Carter. Dad opens the front door. “How did it go?” he asks, rubbing his palms.
“As well as can be expected,” replies mother, barging past him. Dad ruffles my hair, “Come into the kitchen and tell me all about it, Daisy. I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“It’s good to know you’re still good for something,” mother observes. Dad flinches like he’s been stabbed with a pin. Mother has an endless supply.
I sit down at the kitchen table. Dad sets about making the tea. Mother comes in. “I’ve got a splitting headache. Not that anybody cares.” She yanks open the medicine drawer; assorted bottles and packets crash about. She squeezes two tablets from their foil packaging and throws them into her mouth. “Tell your father what you thought of Dr. Carter, Harley. Go on … tell him what an ungrateful little so-and-so you are.”
“Didn’t you like him, Daisy?”
Mother shunts the medicine drawer shut. “The man was perfectly charming. He took such an interest. What did you say to me in the car? ‘There’s something a bit weird about him?’”
“I did like him though, Mummy.”
“You are such a little madam! Why must you always make me out to be the liar?”
“I liked him … I just thought …”
Mother approaches the table. “Now you listen to me … that man is an expert … you don’t know how lucky you are that he’s decided to take you on.” She lowers her chin, fixes dad with her most concerned expression. “We’re to keep the bathroom door locked. Harley is only allowed in when accompanied by me.”
Dad’s mouth drops open.
“It’s to make sure your daughter doesn’t induce vomiting. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already without having to escort a twelve-year-old to the toilet. Never mind, it’s just one more thing you don’t have to bother about,” says mother, sticking in another pin.
A little later, dad suggests that I invite my best friend Janet Ross to spend the night. Through no fault of our own, we had barely spoken since I’d started boarding at The Ballet Academy.
“Isn’t that a backwards step?” says mother, sitting down and stirring her tea.
“That girl has always struck me as such a shrew. What about inviting your friend Patricia? Real passion and focus that girl.”
“Trish has gone away for the weekend, Mum … to their country house.”
Mother removes a shoe and starts massaging her foot. “I could do with a country house retreat. Life seems so unfair sometimes.”
Dad leans his elbows on the table. “Why don’t you give Janet a call? I always liked her.”
“You would,” says mother.
Dad clears his throat. “I don’t recall Harley having any of these problems with food before she went away. It wouldn’t surprise me if Patricia hasn’t been the best of influences, Marion.”
Dad looks at me for confirmation.
“Trish is okay, Dad.”
Mother removes her other shoe and winces as she begins to massage the ball of her foot. “Well, the day you lay any blame at the door of your precious daughter will be the day Hell freezes over.”
Dad reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small red box. Mother shakes her head. "This is for you, Daisy."
“A present?” I beam. "What for?"
“Just a little something to cheer you up.” Inside is a necklace with two silver daisies attached. Daisy was dad's nickname for me, taken from his favourite painting – Ophelia, by Sir John Everett Millais. In the painting, two daisies float on the water close to Ophelia; they signify her innocence. When I was 7, dad took me to see the original at the Tate Gallery. I found the image of Ophelia, floating on her back down the stream, beautiful and enchanting. I pull back from the strongroom's keyhole and conjure this harmless recollection. I’m standing next to dad in the Tate Gallery, staring at Ophelia’s red hair and toying with my own.
“You have beautiful hair, Daisy,” he says. “Just like the princess in the painting.”
“There are lots of flowers, Daddy ...” I stand on tiptoes to get a better view of the riverbank at the top of the painting. “Where’s the daisy I’m named after …?”
“It’s there …in the water close to Ophelia,” he says, his voice quietened by sadness. “... if you look closely, you’ll see two daisies.”
“Oh, yes. Why are there two?”
“You know about your big sister, Clara, don’t you? She’s up in heaven.”
“... you mean like Ophelia?”
“That’s right, like Ophelia. That’s why there are two daisies. One is for you and …”
“One’s for Clara?”
“That’s right … you and Clara were named after characters from mummy’s favourite ballet … ”
“I know. The Nutcracker. I wish we could take her home.” We went to the gift shop and dad bought me the poster for my room. From then on, I imagined that Ophelia was my sister – whenever I felt sad or scared, I would talk to her. Back through the strongroom’s keyhole …dad fastens the clasp at the back of my neck, turns me around by my shoulders. “Why don’t you go and give Janet a call? I know she'd really like to see you.”
Janet and I are sitting on my bed. Our backs are against the headboard. Ophelia is directly above us. Teen magazines are scattered about the duvet. “I can’t believe you have an eating disorder. Aren’t you supposed to be rich and famous first?” she digs me in my ribs and then grabs her elbow to fane agony. “They’re not that bony!” I say, whacking her playfully with a magazine. “You used to be such a pig, Harley.” She leans over the side of my bed and peers beneath it. “Where’s the goody box?” She pulls out an old hat-box of mothers and lifts the lid. “What the hell’s all this?” She grabs a packet of rice crackers, removes one and nibbles on it. “Yuck! You eat this?”
“…you should see them, Janet. There are so many beautiful girls at school. They’re better looking and have better bodies than most of the models in these magazines.”
“You’re better looking than most of the models in these magazines! I wish I was as ‘fat’ and ‘ugly’ as you. They’d take one look at me at that school and laugh.”
“That’s rubbish …”
“Promise me you’ll start getting your act together, Har,” she says, tossing the rice cracker back in the box. I mime being a great actor, throw my arms wide as though welcoming the crowd’s applause.
“Hilarious, Harley. I’m serious.”
“Sorry. Anyway, Dr. Carter thinks the pills he’s given me will help.”
“Help make you hungry?”
“What? No. I wouldn’t need pills for that. He said they’ll make me less scared of eating normal stuff.”
She regards me jealously. “You’re practically a stick-insect.”
“Only practically? I’d bette
r stick with plan ‘A’ then!” I cradle the packet of rice crackers and rock them adoringly.
“You are just so funny. Seriously, I know you can beat this thing. Your mum must have gone ape-shit when she found out.”
I take a cracker from the packet and hold it up in front of my eyes. “She hates me even more now.”
“Your mum … she is seriously weird but, there’s no way she hates you.”
“She does.”
“You got a scholarship to The Ballet Academy for God’s sake … she’s proud.” I change the subject. “You haven’t told me what happened after Kevin took you to the cinema on Saturday?” Janet’s round face is rendered ball-shaped by a smile. “I wouldn’t like to say what happened …”
“Well? Did you snog him? You did! You little scrubber! You snogged him!”
She nods. “He tasted minty … boy-like.”
We both scream and I practically shove her off the bed.
“Get off me, lunatic!” she cries. “Guess what … I’ve told his friend all about you.”
“This madman has a friend?”
“He’s so gorgeous Harley, there’s no way you won’t fancy him.”
“What’s his name? What did you tell him?”
“Simon Hart. He’s fourteen and so fit … every girl in our year fancies him.”
“There’s no way he’ll be interested in me then.”
“That’s where you’re wrong …”
“Spill.”
“I showed him that picture of us at Samantha’s Halloween party.”
“Really? I went dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“I know. His exact words were, ‘That’s a seriously fit witch.’”
“You are joking. Is he all there?”
“He’s definitely all there. Fab buns, really great bod ...”
I grab my pillow and whack her with it.
My first few sessions with Richard Carter passed ‘innocently’ enough. We discussed my feelings about food, appearance, parents, friends, school, teachers, dancing, dreams, fears, ambitions, etc. In short, the reptile was doing a crash course on what made me tick. While I was on that couch, he was perfectly placed to coax and cajole anything from me. My eyes were always closed and his voice loomed over me, measured and assured, like a hypnotist’s. The alarm bells first start to ring when he asks about my new boyfriend, Simon … “How many times have you seen this boy?”
“We had our third date on Saturday.” I open my eyes and wriggle my toes in embarrassment.
“Close your eyes please, Harley.”
“Sorry.”
“He’s older than you, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s fourteen.”
“Where has he taken you?”
“We’ve been bowling … that was a double-date with Janet and Kevin. We saw a film together …and he took me to his friend’s birthday party.”
“Do you like this boy?”
“... Yes.”
“What is it you like about him?”
“I don’t know … he’s really nice.”
“Have you had intercourse with him?”
“What? No!” My eyes snap open.
“Eyes …” says the reptile.
“Aren't we almost finished?” I ask the darkness.
“Has he touched you?”
“Do I have to talk about this?”
“It makes you uncomfortable?”
“Course.”
“There are matters of self-esteem here that are important.”
I consider what the reptile has said. It makes sense. “We’ve held hands and, at the party, he kissed me.” I wonder if my cheeks have turned as red as my hair.
“While you were kissing, did he touch you?”
“I haven’t even talked about this stuff with Janet.”
“Where did he touch you, Harley? It is important.”
I grip the sides of the couch. “… he just sort of … played with my hair.”
“Did you like that?”
“... it felt nice I suppose.”
“Did he touch your body?”
“... he might have squeezed my bottom.”
“How did you feel about that? Weren’t you worried he might think it …fat?”
As intended, I’m lulled by the reptile’s shallow insight. I nod. “I was worried … so I told him off.” The pitch of the reptile’s voice rises. “Did you touch him?”
“Uh, no…”
“Why not?”
“I was embarrassed …”
“But you wanted to touch him?”
“I’d much rather talk about something else …God.”
“These areas of embarrassment are like little sores, Harley. We can only heal these sores by discussing them. You want to be a strong person again, don’t you? You want to grow up into a strong woman who can talk about anything?”
“I suppose.”
“You’re doing very well …making exceptional progress. Now, if you hadn’t been so embarrassed, where would you have touched him?”
“... Simon has great arms. I wouldn’t have minded squeezing his biceps …” I giggle and shuffle on the chair.
“But you didn’t?”
“God, No. My arms felt too weak. How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic. Everything you’ve described is perfectly normal … for a girl going through your illness. It’s why you’re here, to get better, and stronger.”
Richard Carter repeated the reassurances that he had made at the end of every session up until then. “You do know that what is said in this room is said in complete confidence?”
“Yes …”
“I will not discuss anything you tell me with another living person … for reasons that are too complicated to go into now, neither should you. Nod if you understand?”
I nod.
“Good. This trust between us is vital in ensuring your recovery. The pills are continuing to be effective?”
“The pills are so great … they make me feel a bit drunk sometimes … but it’s amazing that I can eat stuff now and not freak.”
“You won’t be able to stay on the medication forever, Harley. You know it’s only a short-term solution, don’t you? That’s why our frank discussions are so important.” My eyes snap open. “But I can still keep taking the pills. You aren’t going to stop me taking them yet?”
“No. Not yet.” He walks to his desk and opens a drawer and removes a new bottle of pills. I sit up and perch sideways on the couch. He takes a silver pill box from his jacket pocket and glances over to make sure he has my attention. He transfers the pills to the metal box one mesmerising clink at a time. “These will see you through to our next session on Friday …I’ll refill the box then.”
My mobile is ringing. I withdraw from the strongroom’s keyhole and reach inside my bag … fumble with the phone and manage to answer it before it goes to voice mail. “Hello.”
“Amy?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Peter Moore.”
“Hello Peter. Where are you?”
“I’m going to be about half hour late. Depends on the traffic … sorry, my wife threw a wobbly … stupid mare doesn’t trust me.”
“I expect it’s other women she doesn’t trust … women like me.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“No rush. I have plenty to keep me occupied.”
“Occupied? You’re not letting some other geezer chat you up, I hope?”
“No …I’m catching up on a pet project. I’d like to have it finished before I see you. That way all my attention can be focused where it should be … on you … naughty, dirty daddy.”
“Christ …” The phone goes dead. He will shortly be following it.
Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this sample, Harley's Strongroom is available in the Kindle Store.
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