The front section of The Artist’s Way deals with how people can self-sabotage. How they can block themselves and prevent themselves from doing the things they love. Apparently one of the main blocks is,
‘If I really was a [insert] I would have [insert].’
So for me we could say,
‘If I really was supposed to teach people to ski I would have pursued a career in skiing from an early age. I have not done that. Therefore it can’t be my thing. I should give up.’
And I’ve blocked myself before I’ve even begun, before I’ve even tried. The book helps you recognise this incorrect and self-sabotaging way of thinking so that you don’t become a slave to it, so you don’t give up on your dreams. Had love and its absence become my block? Was I incorrectly telling people that love had stopped them doing things too? Was I liberating women or disempowering them? I was starting to become confused.
Regardless of Chad’s theory and my own inner turmoil I did not want Beatrice to spend a single second thinking she was not a musician. ‘If I was a musician I would have gone to the school or chosen to carry on studying in the UK.’ That’s what she’d implied, just as The Artist’s Way had described. She’d blamed herself, devalued herself, devalued her talent. She had given herself a hard time unnecessarily, incorrectly. So, with a spin in my head and confusion in my heart, I ordered Beatrice Van de Broeck a copy of The Artist’s Way. Maybe if she read it she’d be able to see that her choice not to study piano was simply a block. She could see how perfectly normal it was. Perhaps it could even show her how to remove the block altogether?
the calm before the storm
fortnum & mason tea shop
‘Please don’t feel obliged to wait,’ I said to Jenny Sullivan, wishing to God she’d just bloody well leave. ‘I have to wait because I promised my grandma and my best friend I’d meet them for coffee, so I can just see you back at the office, later on …’
She huffed moodily and continued to stare out of the window. And just for the record she had totally invited herself along. I’d told her I had to meet friends and she’d just silently glared at me until the words ‘Would you like to join us?’ popped out. Then she’d grumpily agreed to come as if I had just insisted she join us, opposed to her forcing me to invite her through the power of silence, the mentalist.
We were together because we’d just presented the idea for LSD Drop-In Centres to Downing Street (although the first thing they told us was to change the name). Jenny had been smug as the kitty cat in Alice in Wonderland (the one with the big gob) as soon as she found out that I needed her.
‘You are both twatting going,’ was Chad’s response to my protests. ‘True Love at Westminster,’ he’d cooed. ‘True Love hobnobbing, no, advising the men who run this country.’ He started to well up. ‘My mum would ‘ave been so twatting proud.’ He pronounced the word proud with an A, praade, as if being all East End and earthy would distract us from the fact his eyes were weeping like a Virgin Mary figurine from Lourdes.
‘Don’t fuck it up,’ were his parting words as we left the office.
Peter had spent weeks emailing me notes for my presentation. We had created a 50-page proposal outlining the reasons why a nationwide initiative to help young women reach their potential would become the foundations upon which the success of the UK would be built (Peter’s words). But when I’d given it to Jenny she’d flicked through it like a cartoon flipbook, preferring to use it as a makeshift fan on the overheated London Underground. And that was probably the most use it saw all day. Because when we arrived at Downing Street the man we were supposed to be seeing, Michael Bates, the actual Education Secretary, had been called into an emergency meeting on the salt content in primary school lunches. So Jenny and I met with a different man called Richard Ballentyne, who was The Shadow of the Shadow who shadowed the Shadow Education Secretary—which made me think we were in a Batman film. And this Richard Ballentyne didn’t give a crap about my presentation. He spoke only to Jenny Sullivan, which was convenient, because when I tried to stand up and start talking she snatched the proposal from my hand and presented it herself—the thunder-stealing idea-sabotaging cowbag that she is. Even worse she presented it verbatim. Yes, that’s right. She had memorised the whole bloody thing—every single word of it—which meant I had to add photographic memory to the never-ending list of her gifts and qualities. And Richard Ballentyne spent the entire presentation staring at Jenny’s legs. He used the Q&A to ask her about her contract with L’Oreal, then quizzed her on her recent photo shoot for M&S underwear.
‘But what are your thoughts on my idea?’ I’d asked the Jenny-obsessed politician.
‘It’s cute, Katherine,’ he’d said. ‘Cute and rather utopian, because if everyone is constantly checking in with themselves at these centres who, my dear girl, is going to be doing all the work?’ Then he’d laughed before shoving a Hobnob in his gob and trying to touch Jenny’s left hand.
‘Surely,’ I’d argued, ‘if the government helped people understand the things in life that made them happy and ensured they did these things either outside work or for their work there would be a reduction in stress-related illnesses; in the depression brought about by feeling alienated and unfulfilled; a reduction in the sense of hopelessness so many people feel. Which I thought would be a good thing for the country, economically, and certainly for NHS resources.’ Which Federico was still concerned about after I accidentally reignited his obsession with MRSA the day I discovered Jenny’s husband was a big fat whore. ‘Plus if kids actually understood the kind of work they wanted to do, and got into that field, there would be fewer people leaving jobs, a reduction in Jobseeker’s Allowance, in recruitment costs, in the cost of temps needed to cover absences from work, a reduction in the amount of sick pay given to people signed off through stress. Economically it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it, Mr Ballentyne?’ He was staring at Jenny’s breasts. ‘But it’s not a six-foot blonde who models underwear for M&S,’ I said, lobbing a Hobnob at his head. ‘So how f*****g interesting could it be?’
That’s when I was asked to leave.
fortnum & mason tea shop
‘Oh, so you are going to wait with me,’ I said as Jenny continued to sit at my table. ‘Well, that’s nice …’ I nodded as she tapped away on her mobile phone in silence. I racked my brains for things to say. ‘Thank you for presenting the idea, Jenny. I didn’t think you’d even read the proposal, if I’m honest. But you seemed to be able to recall every single word of it …’
‘It was a good idea, Kate,’ she said, putting the phone down and stirring a complicated coffee concoction. ‘Although I think the media has more influence on public opinion than government. You probably should have pitched your idea to the private sector.’ Helpful.
She continued to stare out of the window.
I compulsively checked my watch.
Then suddenly, out of the blue.
‘Nathanial and I separated.’ It had been quiet for so long her words startled me.
‘Nathanial?’
‘Nathanial … my husband …’
‘Oh!’ I blushed redder than a burning sun as the image of him snogging in Liberty’s burst into my brain.
‘It’s OK, Kate, everyone knew about the affairs. Everyone but me, although I think even I knew on some level.’ She took a small pot of cream out of her expensive handbag and started moisturising her perfect hands. ‘Kate, you won’t know this about life yet, but sometimes it’s hard to accept the things that one doesn’t understand. I’ve spent a long time stuck on the “How could he?”s and the “Why would he?”s and as long as I’ve stayed stuck I’ve avoided dealing with the truth. Cowardly I know. Anyway it’s hard to ignore things that are literally under your nose—’ Her voice started to wobble. She took a deep breath and another sip of coffee. ‘I am still struggling with the “How could he?”s but I’m not in denial any more.’
She went back to staring out of the window.
I went back to staring a
t my watch.
I still wasn’t sure why she’d come with me or why she suddenly felt the need to start sharing. But if she was in the mood for sharing I wouldn’t have minded a bit of the breakfast fruit salad she’d ordered herself without asking first if I might like something. And was it me or was Avoidance becoming a common theme in Love-Stolen Dreams?
I’d met women who were avoiding ending a relationship (We are fine as we are / nothing’s perfect); avoiding getting into a new one (I won’t meet someone I like / I don’t think relationships are for me); avoiding intimacy (things are simpler on my own/my time has passed); avoiding truth (Jenny). We seemed so much more in control of our lives than we realised. Which meant Chad’s theory of Responsibility Avoidance was potentially spot on, because even when we knew bad news was approaching, like Jenny, we seemed to have the ability to choose to ignore it until we felt ready. How was that possible? How was it possible that I had chosen to ignore Gabriel’s behaviour, hurting myself until the very last moment when I could take no more? Why did Jenny choose to avoid dealing with her husband’s adulterous ways? Avoidance and Choice—they were an odd combination but they seemed to go hand in hand. It was as if they were dating, or at least going steady, and I wondered how many other women were avoiding things at this very minute.
‘Jenny, may I ask what will you do now? Is there anything you didn’t do because …?’ My voice petered out. I wasn’t brave enough.
‘Is there anything I didn’t do because I fell in love?’ She raised her scarily perfect right eyebrow. ‘Yes. I didn’t get to not be in love, Kate. There has always been a husband, a boyfriend, another person. What I didn’t have because of all of them is not having them. I have done a lot of travelling. I like my work. I’m sure now I’m single I could have sex with different men in different ways and all those other “things” that people say they’ve missed out on. But most of all I’d really like to be alone, Kate. That I suppose is what love stole from me. Plus my agent thinks the public are very responsive to women striving to put their lives back on track in the wake of a failed marriage. Apparently having a troubled love life makes you more relatable.’ She took a small spoonful of fruit salad, then pushed the bowl away as if she was full. It just sat there taunting me with its fruity beauty. ‘But my agent said one must rise from the ashes like a phoenix, otherwise one looks like a whiny broken-hearted wimp.’
‘You mean like me?’
‘Kate, it’s important to actually get back up after you’ve been sucker-punched to the floor.’
‘I can get back up. I’m up. I’m onto the next round.’
‘Really, Kate? Have you? Because you very much seem to be lying on your back on the floor.’ I was sitting on a chair opposite her.
She turned back to the window, staring out of it in silence, which was fine. I was bored with boxing metaphors and am actually very comfortable with long, protracted voids of words.
Leah and Grandma finally turned up 45 minutes late and walked over to join us at our table. Then they just stared at Jenny, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, also bloody silent. It was as if I were on a silent retreat. Grandma finally stepped forward and shook Jenny’s hand enthusiastically.
‘It really is a pleasure to meet you, Jenny Sullivan,’ she said, pink cheeked. ‘I absolutely love your work. You are an inspiration to a great number of women out there.’
‘Me too …’ gushed Leah. ‘Me too, I just love your work. You are so talented. Really really talented.’
Bastards.
‘You know, Jenny, and I hope you don’t mind me asking you this,’ Grandma said, sitting herself down, ‘but I have always wondered, what would your advice have been for my beautiful granddaughter? What would you have done if you were Kate?’
‘My advice for Kate has been and always will be the same. Not that she has ever asked my opinion.’
‘Goodness, Kate, you have this wonderful oracle of women’s liberation by your side every working day and you don’t indulge in her wisdom and vision?’ Was Grandma being ironic? Did ironic mean to Grandma what it meant to Peter Parker, in that I totally didn’t get it? ‘So what would you do, if you were Kate?’
I actually winced in preparation for her acerbic words. ‘If I was Kate I’d go back to France. I’d go back and I’d see this ridiculous Gabriel.’
‘What?’ Me.
‘What?’ Leah.
‘Inspired!’ Grandma said. ‘That’s exactly what you must do. Go back and work out why you abandoned yourself in that relationship. Now that would be progress, wouldn’t it?’ she said, patting me on the knee. ‘It’s a wonderful idea, Jenny. A true challenge. And a challenge is just what you need, dear Kate. We have been dancing around this from the very beginning. Time to set yourself free, I think. Jenny, we are very lucky that you joined us today. Very lucky indeed,’ and now she was patting Jenny on the knee.
‘Yes, we are really very lucky,’ muttered Leah, gently stroking Jenny’s knee. ‘You really are very very beautiful.’
Total complete bastards.
quest | travel back to france to see gabriel
dance studio | covent garden
Jane had asked me to go and see her before her final rehearsal for the Pro-Am dance competition. We were supposed to be talking through an action plan for my imminent and already booked return to France but when I arrived at the studio she was pacing up and down, alone, and she was not in the least bit chatty, or at least she wasn’t in the mood to chat about me.
‘Where is he? Where the hell is he? We literally have two hours today to practise and that’s it. No more time. So where the hell is Julio?’ I really didn’t know but my phone had just beeped with a message from Leah.
6 p.m.—Karmic Awareness Course—Kings Cross. Don’t be late. Lx
‘Jane, does Leah ever make you go on these strange courses, and to these strange lectures, and on these weekends spent in remote villages with nudist Buddhists?’ Jane stifled a giggle.
‘No, she only asks you to do those things,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘Kate, if you just agree to do this past life regression she’ll stop. Until you do I suspect all your weekends will be spent in poorly lit rooms with lots of middle-aged women touching themselves trying to find the source of their internal karmic chakra power nonsense. You’re doing hard time until you do your past life time.’
‘But that’s not fair. Past life regression is bloody scary and weird and … scary.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s scary, Kate: scary is the fact that Julio is still bloody missing!’ Jane restarted her hypnotic pacing up and down, which is when I became mesmerised by her arse. Because very much in spite of the multicoloured leotard she was wearing that had tiny birds printed all over it, her bum looked magnificent. She caught me looking at it and smiled.
‘It’s pretty good, isn’t it?’ She rubbed her bottom with her hands.
‘Can I touch it?’
‘Sure, go ahead. It’s practically solid. My whole body is—have a touch. I’ve never had a figure like this before and it’s just down to dancing. I haven’t changed a thing. In fact I have to eat loads more than I used to, and I drink protein shakes.’
‘I want to drink protein shakes and have a rock-solid arse!’ Nothing in this world was fair any more. ‘It’s amazing,’ I said on my knees, squeezing a bottom cheek in each hand.
‘Have we progressed from kissing everyone to actually fornicating?’ I turned to see Peter Parker sauntering towards us, shower fresh from the gym, his hair still slightly wet. He was wearing amazing jeans and a fitted T-shirt that made his muscular arms look as if they were bursting out of it like a Banana Split. He leant down and kissed me on both cheeks. For a moment I thought I might leap up and bite his sweet-smelling neck. I made myself blush bright red with the thought of it, which confused everyone else in the room, including me.
‘So are you all set for France?’ he asked innocently. ‘Still sure this is the right thing to do? Because you don’t have to go. You could do something else. We c
ould do something else.’
‘Oh, my God?’ Jane looked from Peter to me then back to Peter. ‘Peter, I’ve seen a photo of you in Kate’s flat,’ she said, beaming at him.
‘Have you?’ Peter said, looking from her to me.
‘No, you haven’t.’ Damn her.
‘Yes, I have. It’s been there for years. I mean you’re a teenage boy in the photo, but I’ve just realised it’s you. You did say his name was Peter but I just assumed it was a picture of a godson called Peter, or a nephew, or—’
‘Kate doesn’t have any brothers or sisters,’ said fact-focused Peter Parker.
‘No, she doesn’t,’ Jane said with a smile that she literally couldn’t seem to reduce. ‘So you are Peter. You are all the Peters. Just you. Where to put this strange piece of information I have just gleaned?’
‘I don’t think it needs to be put anywhere, Jane—’ I chuckled ‘—except perhaps through an industrial-sized shredder, or perhaps made into a papier-mâché hat. I don’t know why I think you’ve put it on metaphorical paper …’
‘So, Peter.’ Jane beamed. ‘The 15-year-old boy from the photo who is also a bloody great handsome adult male—what can we do for you today?’
He reached into his pocket and took out two shiny pieces of paper.
‘I have two tickets to a Take That concert this weekend, with back-stage passes to hang out with the band. I just wondered if Kate wanted to stay in London this weekend and we could go? You could go to France another time, later in the year—the weather would probably be better then. And I could go with you, later in the year, if you wanted.’
Love Is a Thief Page 22
