Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers

by Marika Cobbold

  ‘John, don’t joke about such things,’ she had squealed at the other end of the line, but she had been comforted by the promised visit.

  Of course having stayed overnight it took for ever to extricate himself the next morning.

  ‘One slice of toast: that’s not breakfast. You should have porridge or an egg at least. They say that actually eggs are very good for you and do not have an adverse effect on the cholesterol levels. When am I seeing you again? And how is Melanie? She’s moved out? Why didn’t you tell me? Well, I can’t say that I’m sorry. I never cared for her. You’re still friends? Why? When it’s over it’s over and nothing good comes from dragging things out.’

  ‘I’m going to miss my train,’ he said.

  Her voice trailed behind him as he disappeared out of the gate and into the waiting taxi.

  ‘Don’t forget it’s your cousin’s birthday next week. The post to New Zealand takes for ever, as you know. And …’

  He was running for the train when, on the periphery of his vision, he glimpsed a small child, a baby really, winding her unsteady way along the platform. He took avoiding action but the small girl changed direction and lurched right into his path, bouncing off his shins and landing on her bottom, where she sat, a look of utter surprise in her round eyes before she opened her little mouth into an O and screamed. The father picked her up while yelling invective at John.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry. Is she OK?’

  The father replied with another stream of obscenities. John’s train was about to leave. The child had stopped screaming, glaring instead from the safety of her father’s arms.

  ‘“God, I’m so sorry. Is she OK?”’ The man was mimicking John’s voice, exaggerating his RP vowels before reverting to his usual manner of speech. ‘If she is, it’s no thanks to you, you fucking lunatic. I mean, who the fuck do you think you are? Why don’t you fucking look where …’ On and on he went.

  John looked at the child, who had just stuck her tongue out at him. He looked at her father’s bullet head and working mouth. He looked at the train about to depart and thought of his client, who depended on him, then he turned on his heels and ran for the train, catching it just as it was about to pull out from the platform.

  He arrived in London in time to change and get into court. He presented his arguments, heard the judge sum up in his favour and returned to Chambers where he worked solidly for three hours, preparing for the following day, barely looking up from his desk. When, finally, he took a short break, making a cup of coffee in the Chambers kitchen, his mind flooded with terrifying images: the little girl on life support following undiagnosed bleeding in the brain. Her spleen ruptured from when her little stomach made contact with his knee. Her mother weeping, inconsolable, at her only child’s bedside. The fact that the child had landed on her bottom, the fact that she had looked unhurt, made no difference now. He should have suggested a check-up at the nearest casualty department, just in case. He should, at least, have remained at the station until the father had calmed down and was able to assess the situation rationally.

  He sat down at his desk, leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying and failing to reason his way out of the onslaught. When a colleague put his head round the door and asked him how it had gone in court, John’s expression as he replied that it had gone very well indeed, thank you for asking, was of such despair that the colleague thought he had misheard and asked him again.

  In the end John could resist no longer and, letting go of reason, he picked up the phone and dialled the number of the transport police. He asked if there had been any reported accidents at Winchester station. The WPC on the other end of the phone asked why there should be. He began his explanation.

  ‘So you’re saying that the child was with her father and that she seemed shaken up but unhurt?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t stop for long.’

  ‘But you stopped and checked?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did, but as I mentioned, the father wasn’t making much sense. He was angry, which is understandable.’

  ‘He was abusive?’

  ‘Yes, he was. But as I said, that’s understandable under the circumstances.’

  ‘So let me get this straight, sir. You were running for the train when the child ran out in front of you. She was knocked to the ground but landed on her bottom. Her father was there. You stopped to enquire as to the child’s condition and you were told that the child was unhurt.’

  ‘I think so, yes. It was hard to hear what he was saying, but yes, that’s what I think he said. The thing is that internal injuries or concussion do not always show up until later, sometimes when it’s too late. If the father wasn’t aware of that risk …’. He paused.

  ‘But the child, who was with her father, had stopped crying and appeared unhurt?’

  He imagined her rolling her eyes at a colleague. But mixed with the shame of knowing he was coming across as a complete idiot on the end of a phone was the relief of having his fears brought out into the open and hopefully demolished, or, failing that, simply laughed away.

  ‘She stuck her tongue out at me, so yes, I thought she was OK.’

  ‘So the child by now appeared unhurt and was in the care of her father, who, although irate, confirmed that the child was indeed all right. You then left to catch your train.’

  ‘That’s about it, yes.’

  ‘So what would you like me to do, sir?’

  ‘As I said I was simply phoning to make sure that there had been no reports of-’

  ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  John hung up.

  At the therapist’s later that afternoon, he said, ‘I made an absolute fool of myself as well as wasting time. I can’t afford to waste time. And I knew the child was all right. The real me, the logical, sane me, knew that perfectly well, but as usual that didn’t matter. I was just sucked into …’ He paused as Angie Bliss, gazing into space, her eyes opaque, poured herself a glass of mineral water. ‘I’m sorry if I’m boring you,’ he said. ‘OCD is very boring. In fact, it’s as tedious as hell, repetitive and pretty ridiculous, so why can’t I stop?’

  ‘Some would say it’s all a matter of self-discipline, or rather lack of it,’ Angie Bliss said. Catching the look on John’s face she quickly added, ‘But that, as we all know, is not the case.’ She glanced sideways at some papers on her lap. ‘In fact, extensive research in biochemistry, pharmacology, radiology and genetics has now demonstrated beyond a doubt that OCD results directly from an abnormality in the brain’s chemistry, a malfunction that leads to faulty firing of the brain’s neurons. As succinctly put by Yale Medical School Professor Richard Peschel, “Recent neuroscience research proves that obsessive-compulsive disorder is a physical, neurobiological disease of the brain.”’ She looked up with a dazzling smile. ‘So how could you bore me? You’re very ill!’

  ‘No. No, I’m not. I have a condition which, thanks to the increasing understanding of the medical profession, is now eminently treatable.’ John too had read the textbooks.

  ‘Excellent.’ Angie Bliss sat back, satisfied, in her chair. ‘Isn’t that good? Now, tell me about your relationship with Melanie Ingram.’

  ‘Aren’t we supposed to deal with the order mania? It’s got worse again.’ Even to himself John sounded like a child whose scraped knee was not getting enough attention.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ Angie said. ‘Oh, and I spoke to Rupert last night. He is very pleased with our progress.’ As John obviously did not look convinced enough she added, ‘He thinks the new approach is completely appropriate.’ Warming to her theme she went on, ‘Freud’s theory that obsessions and compulsions arise from unconscious conflicts between the sex drive and … well, the bit that controls … these things … is really helpful.’

  ‘But as you yourself just said, all that’s been completely discounted in favour of the idea of it being an imbalance of-’
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  ‘Yes, yes, I know the spiel, I’ve just given it to you. The thing is, though, that the most avant-garde teachings on the subject are returning … slightly … to the earlier theory, which is why’ – her voice rose – ‘I am asking you about your relationship with Melanie Ingram.’

  John looked away for a moment, twisting his fingers, but his voice was matter-of-fact as he said, ‘She moved out.’

  ‘Really? Excellent, excellent. About time you got shot of her.’

  John frowned.

  ‘I didn’t get shot of her.’

  ‘So she had had enough of you? Oh dear, that’s not so good.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that either.’

  John thought back to that evening earlier in the month. He had made an effort to come home on time. On his way he had picked up a bottle of Melanie’s favourite Shiraz and he walked through the front door determined that tonight they would have a nice evening, no misunderstandings or fighting but a nice, convivial, companionable evening.

  By ten o’clock Melanie was well into the subject of his shortcomings and what could be done to correct them.

  He had tried passive resistance, smiling and refusing to get riled, followed by diversionary tactics.

  ‘How is work going?’

  Melanie’s Ph.D. in sports psychology was not going well and it was mostly John’s fault.

  ‘If you could even begin to pull your weight at home,’ she said.

  He had sighed, he had thought inaudibly, but Melanie had heard. Then, making things worse, much worse, he had suggested, in that even, measured tone which never failed to enrage her, that paying the mortgage might be seen as ‘pulling his weight’.

  ‘Trust you to bring that up again. I mean how crass, how completely insensitive can you actually get?’ Then she rose to her feet, her knees hit the underside of the tabletop and her wine glass toppled. Without stopping to pick it up, she rushed from the room.

  He too got up and fetched the dishcloth from the sink.

  He was immersed in his task of dabbing soda water on to the red splatters on the cream chair-covers, concentrating on using just the right amount of liquid to dilute the stain but not so much as to wreck the material, when Melanie returned.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said, her voice high with drama. ‘I’m going to my sister’s.’

  He straightened up, putting the soda-water bottle down on the table and the dishcloth back on the sink. He turned round and faced her.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘Let me help you pack.’

  ‘I think we need to examine your past experiences in order to try to shed some light on the present … mess.’

  ‘To be absolutely honest, I’d rather we dealt with the OCD.’

  Sensing his impatience, the therapist turned her gaze on him, her pupils expanding until they filled the entire iris of her eyes, like night filling a curtainless room.

  ‘So, you’re quite happy to continue on your way, making women fall in love with you, thinking you’re in love with them. Breaking up, moving on. That sets a wonderful example for your young daughter, not to mention giving her a stable home environment. Not. What I’m saying is that our job here, yours and mine, is to equip you better for the future.’ John was about to speak but she put her hand up to stop him. ‘Anyway, the … it’s all connected. Yes. That’s what both Dr Daly and I have been trying to tell you; the two are connected, so part of any treatment is of course dealing with your DVD.’ Again John opened his mouth to speak and again the therapist stopped him. ‘Only jesting. OCD. I meant OCD all along. But first we should look back, try to learn from the past. Would you, for example, care to explain the chuck fuck?’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  The therapist repeated, ‘The chuck fuck.’ She leant forward in her chair. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  John felt the colour rise in his cheeks but he looked straight at her, holding her gaze.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So?’ Angie Bliss’s voice was soft, inviting confidence.

  ‘How do you know about …?’ John hesitated for a moment and the therapist filled in.

  ‘The chuck fuck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s in your notes,’ Angie Bliss said.

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Don’t avoid the subject just because it’s painful.’

  ‘It’s not painful. It’s just not something I would talk about. I’m sure I never mentioned it to Dr Daly. Anyway, what’s it got to do …?’

  ‘Will you stop questioning everything I say?’

  John rolled his eyes.

  ‘You look like my son,’ Angie Bliss said. ‘He’s a boy. You are a grown man.’

  Despite himself John had to smile.

  ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘It’s when you …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s when you sleep with someone one last time just to make sure you really do want to break up.’

  ‘Well!’ Angie Bliss threw herself back in the chair and spun right round. When she faced him again her eyes were dark and her lips set tight. ‘That’s the kind of behaviour that spoils it for everyone. How can you bed a woman, make love to her, allow her to give her body to you, knowing you’re most probably going to break her heart once you’re done?’

  John winced.

  ‘I’m not that calculating. It’s not that calculating. Nor is it something I make a habit of. As I said, I don’t know how Rupert could have mentioned it in my notes because I’m pretty damn sure I never told him about it.’

  ‘So you are ashamed, at least?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘At last we’re getting somewhere. Now, tell me why you cheated on your wife.’

  ‘I cheated once. We worked through it.’

  ‘You mean she worked through it, don’t you?’

  ‘It wasn’t the reason why our marriage ended.’

  ‘That’s what you say.’

  ‘That’s what she’d say too.’

  ‘Once a woman has lost her trust, once the innocence has been plucked from her heart and trampled on, she’s never the same again. All kinds of behaviour you might think have nothing to do with your infidelity: nagging, complaining, sharpness, all these things will manifest themselves over unrelated issues and you men, because you know little and care even less, do not notice the connection.’

  John put his head in his hands.

  When he looked up he said, ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘So will you be able to remain faithful in the future?’

  He felt as if he were at a job interview.

  ‘I was entirely faithful to Melanie. I still am. We’re considering getting back together.’

  The therapist shook her head.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  ‘We’re certainly going to stay in touch.’

  The therapist tut-tutted.

  ‘Not a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? I don’t like losing touch with people.’

  ‘That’s because you lost your father so early on. You have to get over it. Hanging on to spent relationships is no better than hoarding possessions. It zaps your energy and wastes time and space.’

  John’s eyes narrowed but he retained his smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t agree with that. Anyway, I’m not entirely sure that it is over.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is. It would never have worked between you.’

  ‘I can’t see how you could possibly know that. You haven’t even met Melanie.’

  ‘Oh haven’t I? I mean I haven’t, you’re right. But, I … oh well, if you want to waste further time and energy on a doomed relationship that’s fine with me.’ She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.

  ‘Good.’ John too leant back in his chair.

  ‘And the fact that not only I but everyone else is telling you the same thing only makes you more determined to persevere, yes?’

  John tried, unsuccessfully, not to smile.

&
nbsp; ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, that’s just childish.’

  ‘I haven’t said that we are resuming the relationship, only that we are still in touch and have not written off the possibility of resuming it. God, I’m sounding like a Hello! interview.’

  ‘No, you’re not. In Hello! they are together at the time of the interview. It’s only following it that they break up. Anyway, to change the subject: I’ve got a small favour to ask you. I have a client, a writer, whose new book features a divorce lawyer. Although she is herself divorced, unattached therefore, she has no experience or real knowledge of the work you do, so I told her I could help. I was sure you wouldn’t mind meeting up and telling her all about your fascinating life. May I pass on your email address then?’

  In his mind John went over his diary for the next couple of weeks. There was not a lot of slack time.

  ‘If she doesn’t mind it would have to be in the evening.’

  ‘Evening? No, I’m sure that will suit her perfectly.’

  ‘I assume you haven’t told her I’m a patient of yours?’ John was frowning now.

  The therapist looked uncertain for a moment then she said, a little too quickly, ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good.’ John stood up to leave. ‘But you’ve told me about her.’

  ‘Oh well … she said I could. She’s very open, very real, very genuine.’

  John rolled his eyes.

  ‘I told you not to do that,’ the therapist snapped.

  ‘Right,’ John said. ‘I’ll see you next week.’

  Rebecca

  I FELT I HAD been bulldozed into the meeting with John Sterling and I told Angie Bliss as much.

  ‘Of course I appreciate you getting so involved and if I were to go ahead with the storyline you suggested then I would indeed need to research the lawyer angle, but as I said at the time, interesting as your suggestion is, I don’t think it’s right for me.’

  Angie Bliss looked up with a slight start as if I had interrupted her in some reverie.

  ‘What’s not right for you?’ she asked.

  I sighed inaudibly.