Just Like a Woman

by Madeleine Clark

  ‘Yes. OK. But it must be during working hours. It has to be when I’m at work. Not in the evening, I can’t take calls in the evening.’ Sarah started to feel good again. It was possible. If Stephanie said it was, it must be. Then the thought occurred to her, ‘Oh I saw his real name is Michael. What should I call him?’

  ‘Oh good god, Robert! You must call him Robert! Always Robert. He really doesn’t like to be reminded of his other name.’

  Sarah was surprised by the force of her voice. Then she continued in a softer tone. ‘Sarah, can’t you tell your mum the truth? You are twenty two now. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.’

  Sarah could not contain the sigh. Stephanie really had no idea. She just did not listen to what she had been trying to tell her in the last three sessions. Still, three sessions wasn’t that long, Sarah justified, Stephanie hadn’t had time to get to know her well enough yet. Maybe it was just too soon, Sarah tried to convince herself.

  ‘I can’t. Mother wouldn’t like it.’ Her stomach turned at the thought of it and she swallowed to keep control. ‘She really wouldn’t like it.’ She added in a whisper.

  ‘As she seems to tolerate you coming here, why not say I’ve only got an evening appointment one week? And as I’m so busy, have suggested you need to book in for a double appointment? How does that sound?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think she’d like that. Not a double session. She doesn’t really like me coming here at all. It’s only because of Dr. Short. He persuaded her to let me come. The only time I’ve been out at night is for an office party. And Dr. Short had to come round and tell her.’

  ‘What about that, then? An office party?’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll work again. She wasn’t very happy about it, and Dr. Short had to come round and persuade her to let me go. It wasn’t a very good evening either. No one talked to me all night.’

  ‘We won’t worry about that now. You can tell me all about that at another session. And once you’ve been out once, you will be able to tell her the truth.’

  Sarah sighed again at Stephanie’s naivety.

  An unfamiliar sensation of butterflies danced in Sarah’s stomach accompaning her journey home. She caught sight of herself in her rear view mirror and immediately the butterflies crash landed in panic. Her mother would know something was wrong as soon as she saw her face. She had to think, think of an excuse, a plan, something to tell her. Stephanie had no idea what she had suggested; how dangerous this was for her. Her chest thumped as she thought about it and her breathing became harder. Pulling the car on to the curb, she stopped, ignoring the horn blowing as another vehicle overtook her.

  The voice started its tale.

  Arriving back home, she walks up the drive swinging her handbag and before she gets to the shiny white front door, it opens and her mother stands there, her starched white apron tied about her waist, she greets her with a warm smile.

  ‘Had a good day? You look like you have, darling.’

  ‘Oh, mum, you’ll never guess what!’ She calls to her, smiling all over her face.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a cup of tea, and you can tell me all about it, if you like. I even managed to get to the shop for some crumpets. We’ll have a proper tea in the lounge.’ Sarah leans forward to kiss her mum on the cheek and she smells of warm chocolate biscuits. They put their arms around each other and walk into the sparkling clean house.

  What would it be like to have a mother like that; a mother who cared about her; who thought about her; worried about her. A mother who loved her? She let the film flow on,

  Sitting at the kitchen table she tells her mother about Robert, laughing about how she would decide which name to call him, what to wear on her date, where to go. Her mother sits and listens to her without interruption, without comment, without criticism, while she pours her a cup of tea.

  Fifteen minutes later the scenes started to fade as reality returned, she looked in the mirror; reflecting back at her she could see there was nothing left to fear in her face; her chest now still, her breathing normal. Maybe Stephanie’s idea would work. The office party would give her more time and an excuse for a new dress, but she would have to involve Dr. Short.

  She drove home.

  Reaching the front door, her mother wrenched it open, the mouth already forming words.

  ‘Tell me, tell me.’ She whined.

  Sarah looked beyond her into the hall of newspapers stacked high against the wall, boxes of books and assorted containers battling for space, stuffed bin bags, some tied securely, while others revealed their innards, littering the floor. Her mother had perfected the art of filling a black bin bag to its optimum level, without overfilling it, so it didn’t topple over. Paint peeled from the walls which her mother refused to let her paint. Her mother allowed her to do the housework as long as she threw nothing away, changed nothing and renewed nothing. And in her contrary way, her mother forced her nightly, to sit through awful DIY programmes; all the time her mother’s voice wittering on over the presenter’s voice, about the waste of money, mess and smell.

  ‘So what did she say today?’ Her mother screeched at her as she calculated her way over the rubbish to the kitchen. In the kitchen she saw all her good work of the previous evening had been, as usual, a waste. The draining board was now covered with various jam jars, ashtrays and yoghurt pots. Ashtrays?

  ‘You’ve been smoking again?’ Silence. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘What of it! I’ll do what I want.’

  ‘Dr. Short said you mustn’t smoke and wear a patch at the same time. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Oh shut up. It’s none of your business what I do!’ She stepped back as her mother approached her, waiting for the contact of hand on face, but it didn’t come. Her mother turned and slumped into a kitchen chair, picked up her packet of cigarettes and lit one. She didn’t take her eyes off Sarah. After lighting the cigarette, she took a long drag on it and then blew smoke deliberately in her direction.

  ‘Tell me,’ she whined flicking ash on the floor, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The same as last week. I told her what happened during the week, and she listened, she never says anything.’ Sarah filled the kettle and then started to inspect the mugs.

  ‘She must say something. You can’t talk about yourself for an hour, what would you have to say? She can’t sit and say nothing for an hour. What do you pay her for?’

  Sarah sighed trying to ignore the sarcasm directed at her. Here we go.

  ‘Sometimes there are silences. She says I’m still not in touch with my feelings properly. I’m still repressing too much… um … anger.’ She turned to look at her mother adding quickly, ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘I knew it.’ She watched as her mother smirked. ‘What else did she say? What did you say? And what’ve you got to be angry about. I’m the one should be angry. Being left with you. Having to bring you up all on my own. I should be the one seeing her. Not you. There’s nothing wrong with you. What was it Dr. Short called it? Nervous tension. What’s nervous tension? It’s all a waste of my money, you going to see her.’

  Listening to her mother, Sarah found two cups, not too stained, and poured boiling water into the teapot, she then tipped it out, added the tea leaves and poured in more water.

  ‘D’you want a cup or not?’ She repeated. She wanted to add, it’s not your money, its mine, but decided the price would be too high.

  ‘Of course I do. Now tell me what else. You’re hiding something. I can tell. Now tell me.’ The whinge had changed to a threat and she started to rise from her chair.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ Sarah replied quickly. ‘I didn’t say anything.’ She moved towards the fridge and opened the door, standing behind it, out of her mother’s way. She gripped her lip hard and fast between her teeth.

  ‘Come on, I know there’s something else.’ Her mother sat back down, and took another drag on her cigarette.

  She must think of something, anything. She nee
ded to distract her mother before she told her. She picked up the milk jug and poured milk into the cups. She waited. Waited for the shrill reprimand.

  ‘Tip that out! And rinse the cup.’ Her mother’s voice high.

  Busying herself tipping out the milk and rinsing the cup, she then poured the tea into the cup before adding milk. Placing the cup on a saucer, she walked to the table and put it in front of her mother

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You stupid bitch!’ Her mother stubbed her cigarette into Sarah’s arm so quickly she didn’t have time to dodge it. Then she squished it into the plate of food in front of her. Picking the packet up off the table her mother took out another, smiling as she struck a match to light the fresh cigarette, she dragged heavily and once more blew the smoke at Sarah. Sarah moved over to the kitchen sink. She turned the cold tap letting the water run over her arm. Through the pain she heard sighing and muttering about how stupid one person can be after so many years of being taught to make tea properly.

  Releasing the hold of her lip with her teeth, Sarah sat down at the table opposite, keeping her eyes on the cup in front of her, playing with the spoon in the saucer. Then quietly in between her mother’s tirade she said,

  ‘Stephanie thinks I’ll need quite a few more sessions, in fact she wants me to start going twice a week.’ She brushed imaginary crumbs off the table not daring to look up.

  *****

  ‘Shall I, shan’t I?’

  Robert’s finger hovered over the send button, as he reclined on the settee, looking at the phone intently, searching for a clue. He read and re-read the message he had typed in, deciding it was structured with just the right tone of humour. She’s only some girl, he thought. But Stephanie had picked her out, so she must be something.

  He recalled the last one she set him up with. The woman had made it clear she wasn’t interested in him right from the start; only seeing him to please Stephanie. He appreciated her extreme attractiveness, but it had completely blinded Stephanie to the obvious. She didn’t like men; never had and never would. And Stephanie had missed it. Stephanie saw everyone as individuals she either liked or didn’t, never noticing their colour, creed or sexuality. Considering Stephanie’s occupation Robert thought she would by now have been more sensitive. It was his opinion that Stephanie’s complete and utter egotism was the reason for her very successful business; it seemed to him people mistook her lack of interest and total indifference to their woes and troubles to be the attitude of an expert; a wise woman. It was her indifference to him and everyone around her that had first attracted him to her. But he had been surprised she didn’t pick up on this woman’s orientation because Stephanie was so obviously attracted to her. The woman would have done anything for Stephanie, well almost anything but unfortunately shagging him was not one of them. Why Stephanie had not just settled for her instead of playing her games he didn’t quite understand. But she enjoyed the grooming and the manipulation. And now she wanted to use a client.

  What would this Sarah be like? A brunette would have been nice, but a blond would suffice and Stephanie knew his likes and dislikes in women well.

  Taking a breath his finger pressed down on the button and two seconds later the phone beeped back informing him her phone had received his amusing invitation to dinner. Now all he could do was wait.

  His eyes wandered round the lounge as he smoked his cigarette and ran his fingers through his hair. His mind distracted as his eyes lighted on his old Dylan painting. What was it about that Dylan painting? He knew something was wrong with it. He had painted over it many times, but still couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. He was happy with his Lennon and Marley paintings, knew he had captured their essence, but Dylan somehow escaped him. Perhaps it was time to attempt another one, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready yet. Not after what that fucking woman had said. He didn’t want to remember her, that bitch friend of his wife’s, but she came into his head anyway. He recalled the first night he met her, when she was here for dinner.

  They had been sitting right here on this settee, just chatting while he sat in the armchair, watching and listening. She seemed nice; bright smile; bright lady. He had even felt an attraction to her, especially that beautiful red hair. That was until she offered up that criticism. Fucking bitch. He’d wanted to slam a punch in her face there and then, but instead held his breath and sat back in his seat having to listen to what she said. Fucking comedian she thought she was.

  They’d all had a few drinks, he was aware of that, but he wanted to know what she thought. And he stupidly asked her what her first impression was as she entered the sitting room and saw the Dylan painting. Her answer floored him.

  ‘Well I’d just have thought someone with bad taste had decorated the room.’ She laughed as she said it. Then she tried to soften it by adding, ‘but we all have individual tastes, and yours is individual.’ She even managed to make that sound like an insult, laughing lightly and winking over at his wife as if it was the most wonderful joke. His wife laughed gently back, and reached across to ruffle the bitch’s hair. God he’d like to ruffle her fucking hair for her. Bitch, fucking opinionated bitch. And then she had turned her lovely smile on him, the smile she had won his wife with, so sweet and innocent, as if it was the most ordinary comment to make in someone else’s house about their décor.

  Didn’t she know who he was? What he was?

  Hell, people stood in the rain for him, just waiting for a smile or a wave, and if they were really lucky an autograph. And she came round to his house. His house! Full of herself. A nobody. Criticizing him! What had his wife seen in her? They had been good friends by all accounts. Certainly spent enough time together, too much for his liking. No, she needed to be taken down a peg or two, but he hadn’t had the chance. God, if he could have had an hour on his own with her. He’d have taught her a lesson in manners she wouldn’t have forgotten.

  What was her fucking name? He drew on his cigarette, leant his head back into the cushion, and closed his eyes, picturing her. It began with C. He was sure it did. He thought of all the names he knew beginning with C, but knew it wouldn’t come from that because it wasn’t an ordinary name. She had a nickname, one he hadn’t heard before. That was it Cam, Cammy. Stupid fucking name. The lovely Camellia, who insisted on being called Cammy. Well that spoke for itself.

  He wondered if his wife was still in contact with her, suspecting she would not let Cammy go without a struggle. She liked bright sharp people, they challenged her. Too much for him though, probably why he kept Terry around. God, all these fucking women! He needed a man around to talk to, someone who would understand how he felt. Andy! He’d understand. He grabbed the phone from between his legs and pressed auto dial, but before it could finish dialling the number for him, the phone beeped letting him know he had a new message.

  .

  Chapter Four

  Stephanie felt the phone vibrate in her pocket. Watching her client lying in the chair with his eyes closed, she carefully extracted the phone. The screen displayed she had a missed call and a voice message. Glancing back at the client she silently flipped the phone open; she didn’t recognise the displayed number and decided it must be a wrong number. Quietly she replaced the phone in her pocket and listened once more to her client, who with his eyes still shut began to speak in a whispered tone; his words nothing important. None of her clients seemed to do anything important any more, but of course they all thought every word they spoke was so vital, profound even. But it was all so bloody mundane; people enjoying being victims; wanting to be victims; wanting the kudos of being a victim; and they sure as hell didn’t want to give up being a victim. Life would be too difficult then. Nothing or no one to blame anymore. There was far too much mileage from being a victim.

  It often seemed to Stephanie there was an epidemic of the ‘poor me’ syndrome. And on top of this they were all amateur psychologists these days as well. It was so infuriating. Just because this client once had his penis touched b
y a teacher! That was it. Nothing else happened and he now managed to convince himself he had been sexually abused and therefore this incident that had occurred more than twenty five years ago, entitled him to feel depressed, morose and oh so full of self pity; demanding sympathy and justification for his behaviour.

  Not in this office. No sympathy was ever dished out here. But that didn’t stop them trying. It was all she could do not to yell at him, but he came regularly every week; never late, never cancelled, and she decided she was grateful to him for the regular income. He was just a little bit confused and needed straightening out. She sighed then looked at the clock. Thank god it was time to bring the session to a close. It had gone reasonably quickly with half an hour before the next one. God she was starving. With any luck Jane would have been to the bakers next door.

  After showing him out the door she turned to her assistant sitting at the reception desk.

  ‘Any calls?’ she asked as she walked towards Jane.

  ‘Uh, yes, but he wouldn’t give his name, and Mr. Cannery has cancelled for this afternoon, so you’ve only got the one left.’ Jane replied.

  ‘Great. An early finish.’ Stephanie pulled the diary towards her and flipped the pages. ‘What did the other caller want?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Just asked to speak to Steph.’

  Stephanie stood up straight and looked at her.

  ‘Steph? Not Stephanie, or Ms. Powell? Did you manage to get sandwiches?’

  ‘No and yes. I assumed you’d know who he was because he said he’d try your mobile. Tuna or steak?’

  Jane placed two packets of sandwiches on the desk. Stephanie picked each packet up in turn, inspecting them,

  ‘Ok if I have the steak? Don’t want to be smelling of fish.’

  Jane nodded and took both packets away to the bathroom, which they also used as their kitchen. Stephanie pulled her mobile from her pocket and walked back into her office while studying the number. Who on earth would call her Steph? And how would he get her mobile number? She nearly dropped it as it started to vibrate again, but she recognised the number immediately this time. It was Robert and flipped the phone open.