The Vampire Shrink kk-1

by Lynda Hilburn

  ‘Kismet? Are you there? Tom Radcliffe here. Oh, well, I guess I’ll leave a message. I know you’ll be sad you missed my call, but I wanted to let you know I’ll be in Denver for a conference and we should get together for lunch, catch up and touch base, do some networking. You have my cell phone number. Give me a call.’

  ‘Catch up and touch base? Do some networking? You arrogant ass.’ I forced myself to breathe as my heart rate calmed.

  He always talked that way. Pompous. Oblivious. I wondered if his vocabulary had expanded to include all the astrological information he surely must be privy to now. Would he tell me that Mercury was up Uranus, and that’s why he’d broken my heart? No matter. I had no intention of meeting him for lunch or anything else. The welcome mat had definitely been pulled out from under Tom Radcliffe. He might still have the keys to my libido, but the rest of me wouldn’t be going along for the ride any more. I pressed the button to erase his message and called the deli.

  After I’d eaten, I brought my laptop over to the table and wrote for a little while. Then I stretched the cramped muscles in my arms and checked the time. Since I had nothing planned for the day, I figured I could either work for a couple more hours, or I could break my routine and do something different – maybe take a walk in that big neighbourhood park I’d been meaning to explore. Jefferson Park was Denver’s equivalent of Central Park in New York City, and it had lots of trees, benches and trails. It was only a couple of blocks from my townhouse.

  Yes, exercise. That was the ticket. I looked down at myself. Whether I liked it or not, it was clear that being physically inactive – sitting on my butt all the time – had a downside. I’d promised myself I’d rectify the fitness situation and gain some muscle in other places besides my brain. I changed into a comfortable dark-blue sweatsuit, put on my still-in-the-box walking shoes, and headed out the door.

  Denver could be counted on to have over three hundred sunny days per year, and this late-October morning was a prime specimen. Actually, the fact that it was mostly sunny in Colorado was one of the few things I would have changed about a state that was, otherwise, paradise. Coming from the Midwest, I loved a good rainstorm and relished the introspective embrace of a grey, overcast day.

  The first thing I noticed was how many walkers, joggers, runners, bicycle riders, skateboarders and pet-walkers were out on the park trails this early in the morning. And, even more interesting, was how many of them were holding Starbucks cups in their hands as they engaged in those activities. I marvelled at the level of physical coordination it must take to run and drink coffee at the same time.

  ‘Kismet? Kismet! Is that you? I thought you lived around here someplace. You didn’t call me back.’

  My mouth went dry and my stomach churned. The voice was very familiar. Especially since I’d just listened to it on my voicemail. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard and run as fast as I could in the opposite direction, but instead I turned around slowly and stared into the dark-brown eyes of Dr Thomas Radcliffe, my astrologer-humping ex-boyfriend.

  Shit.

  This wasn’t how I’d imagined our first meeting would be after all this time. In my vision, I was dressed to the nines – painted, polished and gorgeous. He’d be overcome with remorse for his treatment of me and beg me to take him back. I, of course, would kick him to the kerb. But instead, here I was looking like something the vampire had dragged in, wearing a baggy old sweatsuit. I couldn’t even remember if I’d brushed my hair before I left.

  There was absolutely no justice in the universe because he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still classically handsome and impeccably groomed. He could’ve been a model who’d just stepped out of West Coast Magazine. To add insult to injury, he’d finally grown out his thick black hair, which I’d repeatedly asked him to do during the time we were together. There’s just something about a man with great hair.

  ‘Tom. How nice to see you,’ I lied, silently pleading with my facial muscles to transform what I was sure was a grimace into an acceptable smile.

  I’ll be damned if I’ll let him know he still affects me.

  He came over and almost-hugged me, one of those not-quite-embraces – complete with an air-kiss on either side of my face that are so popular among the rich and famous. ‘You look just as I remember you.’ Which made me want to knee him in the nuts.

  He grinned and stretched his arms out to the sides, making a show of his rippling biceps. ‘You just popped into my head the other day and I decided to make it a point to see you when I came to Denver.’

  Asshole. I just ‘popped into his head’. So much for my fantasy of the daily inner torture I hoped he’d endured as he replayed the loss of me over and over in his mind.

  I retreated from his pseudo-hug and made my face as neutral as possible. My gaze slid to his skin-hugging running tights and I noticed he still wasn’t reluctant to advertise all his products and services. No matter how obnoxious he was, he did still possess certain . . . arousing . . . attributes. I fought a flood of memories and coaxed my eyes up to his face, straining my brain for something brilliant to say, but instead came out with the verbal equivalent of elevator music. ‘You’re still running every day?’

  ‘Yes, indeed – got to keep one step ahead of Father Time.’ He patted his tight abs.

  Dr Cliché. I wonder if this man ever has an original thought.

  He tugged on my arm and guided me over to a nearby bench and sat. ‘Can we sit for a minute? Now that I’ve got you here, I’d love to catch up. What are you doing these days? Are you writing? Are you married?’

  I reluctantly joined him on the bench. ‘Well . . .’ I managed to get that one word out before he launched into a monologue.

  ‘Things are going so super for me. My private practice in San Francisco is booming, both because of the success of my last book and my radio programme. You wouldn’t believe how busy I am and how in demand I am as a speaker. Did you see me on Dr Phil? I was one of the experts for a recent segment. Oprah’s people are talking to my people. She’s starting a new network – can you imagine what an appearance on one of her shows will do for my books? I live in a fabulous house in one of the finest sections of town and I just ordered a brand-new Ferrari. I’ll take you for a ride the next time I see you . . .’

  I just stared at him as he went on with his manic rant. He didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t spoken or that I was gaping at him like he was a nasty squished bug on my windshield. Had he always been this way? What had I been thinking? Had I really been so dazzled by his appearance that I’d ignored his self-absorption? More likely, I’d simply been so desperate for any kind of attention that I blocked out behaviours I didn’t want to see. I amused myself for a few seconds by mentally thumbing through the list of personality disorders he fitted into.

  Hmmm. Definitely Narcissistic Personality Disorder. And with his temper, maybe Borderline as well. Obsessive-Compulsive. Then there’s the sex addiction . . .

  ‘So, whatever happened to Summer, the astrologer?’ I interjected loudly, with what I hoped was an evil grin.

  ‘Who? Oh, yes. She was a sweet thing. Simply adored me. Thought I walked on water. But we were from two different worlds, and she wasn’t a good fit for where I was going. We parted the best of friends.’

  Yeah, sure. I’ll bet. I wonder what her version of the break-up is.

  He glanced down at his diamond-studded watch. ‘Oh, damn. Look at the time. I’ve got to hurry back and get dressed for my presentation. Hey, here’s an idea – why don’t you come to the conference with me, and you can listen to my lecture. I bet you’ll really learn a lot from it. What do you say?’

  How typical. He’s jogging in a diamond watch.

  ‘As tempting as that sounds,’ I said sarcastically, which, judging by his solemn head-nodding, he’d totally missed, ‘I’ll have to pass. I have clients.’

  ‘Bummer! It’s a shame you can’t attend, but I know how seriously you take your work.’

  He said that as if it
was a bad thing. He’d always viewed my refusal to join him in the fast lane as a character flaw, as well as a personal disappointment.

  ‘Yeah.’ I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘It really is a drag that I’m too burdened with my mundane private practice to spend time discussing your superficial – er, super – life. Maybe the next time you’re in town.’

  He gave a quick pout – he actually poked his bottom lip out – patted my arm, then offered his fake ‘I’m really just one of the guys’ grin.

  ‘I was going to keep this as a surprise for you, but I guess I can tell you now. I expect I’ll be seeing a lot more of you as I’m doing a series of workshops in Colorado, and I’d love to discuss the possibility of using your office part-time while I’m here. Could we get together for dinner and talk about it?’ He flashed me a toothy California smile.

  Welcome to the wonderful world of Tom Radcliffe’s ego. Plenty of room for everyone, folks, step right up. Watch out for the smelly little piles. Enter at your own risk.

  He stood and began running in place. ‘Tell you what – I’ll just drop by your house after the conference is over next Friday night. I got your new address from a close friend who works for the APA Directory.’

  ‘Hey!’ I frowned. ‘You’re lying. Clinician contact information is confidential. No way they gave you my address. It’s protected – I even paid extra to make sure.’

  ‘Obviously, you don’t remember how persuasive I can be. Especially after a few drinks in the right setting. Wouldn’t you like to be reminded of my special skills?’

  Before I could answer, ‘Hell no,’ he had jogged away backwards, yelling, ‘I’ll see you then.’

  Suddenly, everything about Tom Radcliffe seemed hilarious. I sat on the bench and laughed out loud. Luckily, no clients were around to witness my temporary joyful insanity. I did have a reputation to uphold, after all. Sitting alone in the park laughing hysterically wouldn’t be good for business.

  How could I have been in love with such a narcissistic egomaniac? Such a superficial moron? I’d spent the last two years grieving and miserable, and now I couldn’t for the life of me remember why. As long as we kept enough miles between us and a bedroom, I might never be tempted to recover the memory.

  I had no doubt he’d got my address by seducing an APA employee. Ethics had no meaning in Tom Radcliffe’s world. An official complaint was definitely in order.

  I smiled through a brisk walk around the park and whistled all the way back to my house. Maybe my life was looking up.

  The buzzing of the alarm clock woke me early on Monday, giving me plenty of time to do some writing and organise the online research I’d gathered before I had to leave for my appointment with my therapist, Nancy. I felt so energised by the vampire-wannabe project that by the time I realised I was hungry, it was too late to do anything about it. I’d missed last month’s session, and I didn’t want to be late for today’s.

  I drove to the Cherry Creek office and parked in front of her Victorian building.

  ‘Nancy?’ I knocked on the wood-panelled door frame.

  ‘Come on in, Kismet.’ She walked towards me, a warm smile on her face. ‘Nice to see you – it’s been a while.’

  I strolled into her cosy psychotherapy office and squeezed the hands she’d held out to me in greeting. ‘Hi. I’m sorry I had to cancel our last appointment. Client emergency.’

  ‘Not a problem. We both know how it is.’ She nodded towards a couple of oversize chairs. ‘Let’s get comfortable.’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’ I sank into the soft cushions and sighed. ‘I’m glad to be here today. I really need a session, lots going on.’

  ‘Would you like some herbal tea? I just made one for myself.’

  ‘No thanks. I’m good.’ I propped my briefcase against the chair.

  She sat across from me, Earth Mother incarnate. Full-figured, she wore a vibrant, multicoloured flowing dress, her long, curly white hair caught on top of her head with a jewelled butterfly clip. Bright-green eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘That’s a lovely suit. What an exquisite colour of blue – it really brings out your eyes. Is it silk?’

  I looked down at my trouser-suit and brushed one of my long hairs from the sleeve. ‘Yes, it is. I’m glad you like it. We can thank the good taste of the sales clerk for this outfit.’ We often began our sessions with light conversation because Nancy wanted to give me a moment to settle before we began – a standard therapy technique. As calm and in-control as I remained when sitting in the other seat at my own office, like any client I always felt a little nervous about what the session might uncover.

  ‘Well, let’s get right to it, then. Where would you like to start?’

  Nancy had been a psychologist for forty years, and I’d been seeing her for individual therapy for quite a while. She was my supervisor during part of my licensing process. After I completed the requirements, though I no longer needed supervision, I chose to continue working with her just because she was such a skilful and insightful counsellor. The fact that we also had a healthy mother-daughter dynamic in play didn’t hurt my personal growth, either. It was never too late for quality parenting.

  ‘I’ve had an exciting new development.’ I bounced my foot absentmindedly.

  ‘What?’ She chuckled. ‘You finally decided to stick your toe back into the dating pond again?’ She lifted her cup and sipped. Nancy constantly teased me about my relationship anxiety.

  ‘No.’ I grinned. ‘But we can talk about that later. I want to tell you about a new client and an idea for a book.’

  ‘Excellent! Your writing muse has returned? Tell me everything.’

  ‘A nineteen-year-old woman – girl? – I’m not sure what to call her, she’s really both. Trying hard to be a grown-up, but immature. Very sweet. Confused. Anyway, she was referred to me by her parents because, according to the mother, she’s obsessed with wanting to become a vampire.’

  ‘A vampire?’ Nancy replaced her cup on the nearby table. ‘I guess that makes sense, with all the books and movies currently flooding the culture.’

  ‘Exactly. Which is why I was so surprised to discover that nobody has written a book on the vampire-wannabe phenomenon.’

  ‘There aren’t any clinical texts on the subject?’

  ‘Nothing I could find online.’

  ‘So you’re going to write one?’ she asked, frowning.

  ‘That’s the plan.’ I sat back and examined her expression. ‘Hey, why are you frowning? You don’t think it’s a good idea? I would be the first psychologist to tackle the issue – talk show hosts would swarm out of the woodwork to book me as a guest.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded, her face serious. ‘That’s what troubles me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ I thrust my hands out in front of me, palms up. ‘I’ve been looking for a topic for my next book and nothing grabbed my interest. You encouraged me to find a cutting-edge clinical issue to study. Well, one dropped into my lap. Why don’t you like it?’

  She steepled her fingers under her chin. ‘Are you sure that’s the kind of attention you want to draw to yourself? Think about the therapists who specialise in alien-abduction hypnosis. Their professional credibility has suffered. They’re associated with fringe, occult quackery rather than professional scholarship. They’ve diminished themselves rather than enhancing their standing in the psychotherapeutic community. I’d hate to see that happen to you.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nodded and tapped a finger on my leg. ‘I can see why you’d worry about that – vampire wannabes and the whole goth-lifestyle situation tend to reek of reality TV. But if I handle the topic professionally, not allowing myself to focus on the sensationalist aspects, I believe this could be a worthwhile project. I mean, wouldn’t there be general interest in the negative consequences of our social fixation with vampires? We really can’t allow our teenagers and young adults to embrace the notion of the undead without professionals talking about the downsides, right?’

  ‘When you put it
that way, I suppose I have to agree a book on the repercussions would be useful. You’d have to make sure your presentation is always impeccable, though.’

  I laughed and brought my hands together, as if in supplication. ‘Impeccable is my middle name.’

  That finally elicited a smile from her. ‘I thought you said “Nerd” was your middle name?’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said, appreciating her, ‘but sadly true. So, you really think the idea has merit?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She raised a shoulder.

  Nancy the Inscrutable.

  ‘Of course, I don’t even know what I’m dealing with yet. Meeting one wannabe and hearing about others doesn’t legitimise a syndrome or disorder. I’ll need to do careful research before I even know if the topic is viable. Would you be willing to read the proposal, just to keep me on the professional straight and narrow?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She nodded. ‘I’d be pleased to give you feedback about this book, just as I did on your others. I’m glad to hear you understand the kind of slippery slope these media-driven topics can be.’

  ‘I do.’ I rubbed my palms together. ‘And I’m really excited about this idea. Vampire wannabes – who knew? My young client says there are tons of vampires in Denver. She’s obviously influenced by a wannabe love interest, probably some gorgeous young Robert Pattinson look-alike. Maybe I can get him to come in for therapy, too.’ I laughed, feeling more and more confident about the idea. ‘Then there are all the Twilight Moms, grown women fixated on the books and the young actors. I might have to open up psychotherapy franchises to handle all the vampire wannabes and the bloodsucker obsessed!’