No Ordinary Bloke

by Mary Whitney

  At once I noticed her accent; she was straight out of Liverpool. This was an encouraging sign, so I ventured, “Hello, my name is David Bates. I’d like to talk to Dr. Green for a few minutes.”

  “I’m sorry. The doctor only sees potential patients in his office. Were you interested in setting up an appointment?”

  “How long does that take?”

  “He prefers an hour for the first meeting. If both of you agree to go forward, the sessions are an hour and a quarter.”

  “What do you mean if both agree to go forward? Isn’t the patient interviewing him?”

  “Psychotherapy is a mutual decision. For any number of reasons, he may not choose to see you.”

  That was curious. I never thought that someone may not want to see me. The idea of being rejected brought out my competitive side. “All right. When is he available?”

  “If you can make it, he could see you at six this evening. He just had a cancellation.”

  “He works that late?”

  “He keeps late hours for patients who work.”

  The schedule fit with mine, and it seemed like I was more likely to show up today than if I had some time to think about it. I waited a moment just to give myself a minute to talk myself out of it. No good reason came to mind. I was just going to talk with the bloke. “I’ll take it.”

  “Very good. The doctor likes to know a bit about why you’re interested in psychotherapy.”

  “I’m not sure I am interested in it.”

  “Why are you making this appointment then?”

  “Dr. Judith Kincaid suggested I see him.”

  “Why did she suggest Dr. Green?”

  I rolled my eyes, but I gave her something just to shut her up. “I supposed I have a bit of a temper.”

  “All right. Your reason for a consultation is anger management.”

  “Hmpf. Is that what they call it?” I didn’t like being pigeonholed.

  “’Tis,” she said briskly. “We’ll see you at six. Cheers.”

  A few hours later any good vibes I’d felt from my talk with the Liverpudlian receptionist vanished as I walked into a posh office—nicer than mine I might add. Brenda, the receptionist, was nice enough, but I couldn’t get over all the art and fancy bamboo flooring. I shook my head. Sylvia. This was just what I’d thought she’d do. Send me to a fucking tosser.

  I scrolled through my emails as I waited for the guy, and in the back of my mind, I had an idea to bolt from the place. Then he walked in, and I was trapped. “Evening,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dr. Green. Nice to meet you.”

  Not many people would’ve noticed his accent, but I could. There was hint of me own mum’s cadence in the background of an otherwise straight London accent. Sizing him up, I shook his hand. “Evening. Pleasure to meet you as well. I’m David Bates.”

  The first thing I noticed was this was a big guy. He wasn’t the skinny, short tosser I’d imagined. He was shorter than me, but this guy lifted weights. He had a gut; probably accumulated as he aged, but he was well-built. He shook my hand with a confidence and strength that I didn’t expect. Maybe it had to do with him being a shrink, and I was the one coming for help, or maybe it was because the bloke wasn’t fucking afraid of anybody.

  “Come into my office,” he said, dropping my hand and turning around.

  I followed him inside a room that was just as nice as the reception. He offered me a seat on a sofa that had a fucking box of tissues on the table next to it. I chose the chair opposite of him.

  As he took his seat, he said, “Brenda wrote down that you gave the name Judith Kincaid as a referral. I don’t believe I know her.”

  I raised my brow. “Dr. Judith Kincaid.”

  “No. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Fucking Sylvia. She lied to me. Remembering that she’d mentioned, she knew him when they were young, I tried one more time. “What about Judith Worth?”

  His lips curled up into a smile. “Judy Worth. Of course. I remember her.”

  “From university. Is that right?”

  “Yes. We were there together until she ran off with some bloke. I forget the name, but he swept her off her feet.”

  “Albert. Albert Kincaid.”

  “That’s right,” he said, lifting a finger. “Some sort of aristocrat. It’s good to hear she finished her degree. We sort of didn’t expect her to after she left.”

  Well, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say. “She’s my aunt,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Is she now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did she refer you to me? Brenda wrote down you were interested in anger management. Why did Judy think of sending you to me?”

  “She thought we might get on well.” I glanced around his posh office. “Though I’m not sure why now.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I doubt you’d understand me.”

  He chuckled. “Everyone thinks they’re special, and we are, but we’re also not.”

  “Yeah…” I looked out his stunning view of St. Paul’s Cathedral. “I don’t know… How much do you charge an hour?”

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Jesus Christ. I don’t think I can afford you.”

  “Oh, I bet you can.” He nodded. “Just curious. What kind of car do you have?”

  “A Tesla,” I said, knowing I sounded like a tool.

  “You have an eighty thousand pound car, and you can’t afford two hundred quid every week?”

  “I’m not sure I want to spend my money on this, and I bet your clients are a bit more posh than me.”

  “You look posh enough,” he said, studying my suit. “A bit of a snob are you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You can be a snob about people with money if you don’t have it which I’m guessing was true for you at one point. I detected your accent the moment you spoke, but you appear to have done well for yourself.”

  I didn’t like being called a snob, but I was still civil to him. “Thank you. I’m a vice president at Barclays.”

  “A vice president at Barclays with a bad temper. Have you had it for since childhood or is this something new?”

  “Always.”

  “No. Not always. You don’t appear to have any serious psychological condition. Babies, toddlers…they don’t tend to have bad tempers unless something isn’t quite working in their brain. For the rest of us, real anger has an emotional trigger and then develops over time.”

  “I suppose.” I wasn’t the fucking shrink. How would I know?

  “And do you only lash out at people verbally or do you physically act out as well?”

  “I’ve been known to get into a few fights.”

  “I’d think so.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re a big bloke. You’ve got a scar on your face, and your nose looks like it’s been broken a couple of times.”

  I nodded. All of that was true.

  “You also appear to be a complete and utter arsehole.”

  “Fuck you!” My mouth hung open in shock. “Don’t you have some ethical code not to insult your clients?”

  “You’re not my client yet.” He sat straighter in his seat. “You’ve repeatedly insulted me, and I’m not sure I want to take you on. I don’t think you really want to do any of the work necessary to deal with your issues. It’s much easier to just be a jerk and fight than to figure out why you’re an arsehole and change.”

  “Who said I don’t want to do the work?” I also sat up in the chair. “Maybe I just don’t want to talk to a tosspot shrink like you.”

  He took on an angry glare and pointed his finger at me. “I’m not a fucking tosser, and if you want to fight over that, let’s go.”

  I laughed, incredulous that a psychologist was challenging me to a fight. It all seemed ridiculous, so I offered an excuse. “You called me an arsehole. I think I can call you a tosser.”

  “You are an arsehole.”

  “Then
you’re a tosser.”

  “I told you. I am not a fucking tosser.”

  “Well, you’re certainly an arsehole.”

  He slowly cracked a smile. “I’ll give you that.” Leaning back in his seat, he tapped his pen on his chair. “But at least I’ve worked on my shit. What happened that made you decide to see a psychologist? What was so pivotal?”

  There it was—the question whose answer gave everything away. I stared down the bloke. He was a prat to be sure, but wasn’t this why I’d kept that number in my drawer? Rubbing my neck, I looked outside again and said, “Me girlfriend broke up with me.”

  “You’re not so young. I’m sure you’ve had girlfriends in the past. Was this one special?”

  “Yes.” My eyes remained steady on St. Paul’s. It was safer that way.

  “Like no other?”

  “Like no other.” I smirked. “And there’ve been a lot of others.”

  “Losing someone like that would be pivotal,” he said with some sympathy in his voice. “Did you hurt her physically?”

  “Fuck no.” My head spun back to look him in the eye. “I’d never hit a woman. Never hurt her. Not ever.”

  “Ah ha…” I nodded. “Maybe you saw a bit of that growing up?”

  “Some.” I averted my eyes and exhaled. “A lot.”

  “That would make me angry as well. Make me want to hit some of them, even if I was getting a bit old to get into a brawl. Sort of sad to see an old man fight.”

  I snorted. “You seemed ready for a fight yourself, and you’re closer to being an old man than me.”

  “We all have our issues.” He smiled and stood up. Extending his hand he said, “I’d be happy to help you with yours.”

  “Thanks.” I shook his hand and returned the smile. I had to admit. I sort of liked the arsehole. “But how am I going to afford two hundred quid a week?”

  “Oh, sod off, Mr. Vice President at Barclays. Unless you tell me you’re supporting an orphanage full of your offspring from your wild lad days, I think you can spare two hundred quid.”

  Five months and four thousand quid later, Dr. Green said I’d really progressed. During those months, I’d sat on his damn sofa and spilled my heart out. The emotions came in fits and starts at first and then it was a deluge. Yes, I reached for those damn tissues by his sofa more than once. After fighting the bloody demons of my childhood, I still wasn’t as mentally together as Allison. Unlike her, I hadn’t forgiven my father, but Dr. Green said that might take until my deathbed. Instead, we worked on how I could move on as an adult without fighting all those damn demons every fucking day.

  The key thing I learned was to take a timeout and be rational. I had to ask and answer simple questions. Was something really worth a physical fight? Was it worth ruining my day, month, or as I now knew, my life? Was there a less confrontational reaction that would get me another result?

  Throughout the sessions, Dr. Green would occasionally ask about Allison. It was never obtrusive, just a question here and there. As I started to get my crap together, though, his questions intensified. Until finally one day he asked, “Why don’t you reach out to her?”

  “Dunno,” I said, as I began to fiddle with my shoelace.

  “You’re scared that she’s going to reject you again even after you’ve worked so hard on yourself.”

  “Maybe…” I frowned at his hitting the nail on the head.

  “So she rejects you. Do you know what happens then?”

  “Other than being a pathetic fool?”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “If you had the balls to contact her, regardless of the outcome, I would never say you were a pathetic fool. Back to my question. Do you know what happens the next day if she rejects you?”

  “No, but you seem to,” I muttered.

  “The sun rises the next day. The birds will sing. Life will go on. That’s what happens. You move on because she wasn’t the one for you.”

  Now I crossed my own arms, considering what he’d said. It was how I’d always lived my life before getting entangled with Allison. I shrugged. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Oh, I know it will be tough. You’ll be anxious. I promise you she’s going to be scared as hell herself, but you need to do something. It’s time for you to move on.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Besides.” He smiled. “You need a shag.”

  I laughed. “You’re Goddamn right about that. It’s been quite a dry spell.”

  “Do you think she’s seeing someone else?”

  “Dunno.” I grimaced. “Don’t like to think about that.”

  But I did think about it—all the fucking time. It was one of the reasons I was so paralyzed. What if it had been a one-sided relationship and all in my head?

  A few days later, I sat on the tube going home, and I got a text from Angus.

  Why the fuck are you never in NYC anymore? Call me, you bastard.

  I snickered so loud the old lady next to me gave me a dirty look. I’d given everything to do with New York over to Declan, and now I concentrated solely on emerging markets. My travel schedule sucked, but the higher risk in my work meant higher reward for my paycheck and it kept me out of New York. I typed back to him.

  Because I’m all over the fucking world. When are you in London next so I can buy you a pint? Or come with me to Kyoto so I can get you a geisha.

  I had an odd feeling so I looked again to my right. The old lady was reading over my shoulder. It was my turn to give her a dirty look. When I glanced down again, Angus had replied.

  Any time! I love Asian girls. Are you still pining for that bird? If so, call me. It’s important.

  Early on after Allison and I broke up, Angus and I talked. He’d said he’d keep an eye out on her for me, but I never thought much of it. What on earth could Angus have for me that was important about Allison? When I exited the station, I rang Angus as I walked home. “How are you, mate?” I asked.

  “Good. Where you been?”

  “Busy. I don’t have much work in New York anymore.” I ran my hand through my hair and cut to the chase. “Have you seen Allison?”

  “I did. For the first time in about nine months, and she was here with Trey.”

  “What?!” My heart began to race. It was my worst fear. “Are they dating?”

  “Dunno. I don’t think so right now, but he’s making the moves on her again. After I sat them down, I took their drink orders. He tried to get her to have a glass of wine with him, but she said no. She stuck with water.

  “That’s good, I suppose,” I said, trying to find some silver lining in what was proving to be a bloody dark story.

  “But when they walked out, he was all over her—helping her with her coat, touching her back to move her along, whispering in her ear—that sort of thing. Then I watched as he took the chef aside for a moment, and I heard them planning a dinner at his house for this weekend. I distinctly heard Trey call it a reunion dinner for two.”

  “Do you think it’s for Allison?” I said feeling a wave of nausea hit me.

  “I do. But get this. Guess who he’s still screwing?”

  “Melanie?” Of course, Trey, the fucking embodiment of hubris, wouldn’t quit Melanie even if he was trying to get Allison back.

  “Yup. Like clockwork. Every Tuesday and Thursday, she comes by and picks up his dinner.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell you any of this, but I don’t know, mate…I thought you might want to know regardless of what happened between you two. She’s a nice girl. I always liked her. Too bad if she ends up with him.” His voice brightened. “So who are you banging these days?”

  I shook my head. My hand… Instead I said, “I’m too busy.”

  “Bullshit. You’re still pining for Allison.”

  “Well…”

  “Get in there, mate. Do something. Don’t just let him get the girl. I’ll lose all faith in humanity if a girl like Alliso
n ends up with a dobber like Trey.”

  Later that evening, I sat on my sofa watching bad TV and wondering what I should do. Surely, she wasn’t getting back with that arse, but what if she was? Eventually, she would have to find out about Melanie. Some affairs could be hidden, but scandalous ones usually came out. All those politicians were evidence of that. I thought about what it might be like for her, and I realized that I cared more that she would be hurt than the fact that she might be single again one day. Now that was a confusing thought.

  I needed to check-in with my touchstone. Adam and I hadn’t talked about Allison since our first few conversations, but I felt like a decision had to be made and quickly. I already knew what Dr. Green would say. How would Adam react? Knowing Adam, he might tell me to forget about the girl because she’d caused me enough pain already. What else might he say though?

  So I rang him up. When he answered the phone, he was cheery. “Just the man I want to talk to. I was going to ring you as soon as Veronica went down for the night. I have big news. What’s going on with you?”

  “I have a question for you.” I rolled my eyes at how I’d just minimized months of emotional struggle. “First, tell me your news.”

  “You’re going to be an uncle again.” His voice oozed pride.

  “Nicki’s pregnant?” My heart leapt for them.

  “She is. Not far along at all. A little over six weeks. We’re not telling anyone else right now, but I had to tell you and our mums.”

  “That’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you.” And I was overjoyed for him, but there was a sneaking twinge of pain in my core. I recognized the lousy feeling for what it unfortunately was—pure jealousy. I tried to make up for it. “You know I love being an uncle.”

  “Thank you. You can imagine we’re chuffed.”

  “Do you care if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “Not at all. Little V taught me that. So what’s up with you? You said you had a question.”