Back at the mess, a lackey took his briefcase and small overnight bag to his room and turned down the sheets before saluting and leaving the room. “Sir!”
The small, bald man loosened his tie, undid his collar, and flopped into the armchair. He reached for his briefcase, extracted a laptop from among the papers and switched it on. His hands hovered over the keyboard ready to compose something, but his jaw clenched. Where should he start? Instead, he unzipped his flies, launched the browser, and pulled up his favorite website. He shouldn’t. He mustn’t...it was becoming an obsession...but he couldn’t stop himself. Everybody does it, he told himself! Every, damn, hot-blooded male with a pulse! But not like this, not to this extent, not when they had a smoldering brunette wife at home, who was longing for intimacy.
He’d fallen asleep in the chair and was now jolted awake by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. Scrambling to change the website and clean up, sweat pouring down his high forehead, he remembered the piece of paper in his jacket pocket. A lump was forming in his throat, his heart thumping now as he unfolded it and studied the names. Reaching for his phone, he dialed The Priory. A recorded announcement struck up its monotone voice and he left a hurried message, hung up and dressed for dinner.
A large plate of roast beef with two Yorkshire puddings and a bottle of Claret later, he staggered to the bar for a postprandial. “A large brandy, for God’s sake, man!” he said to the sheepish barman. “Yes, Sir. Right, Sir. Here you are, Sir.”
It was almost midnight by the time he staggered back up the corridor to his room. The small folded paper was sitting unfurled on the desk where he’d left it. Noting the email address, his hands skipped over the keyboard. “No time like the present,” he said aloud, tapping out a short message before mustering the courage to send it, his hand hovering over the mouse as he did battle with himself. “Hit send, you bastard! Send it! It’s your one last chance at something good!”
No, he thought, it’ll be censored, it’s my MoD email. I can’t risk it – and Lauren’ll have her nose in my personal account. He typed the therapist’s name into Google and found the website again. There was an enquiry form, he reminded himself, yes, that would be a safer bet.
* * *
Several miles South-East of High Wycombe, Katy was slipping into bed. Richard was dozing as she gingerly lifted the covers, hoping not to disturb him. There was a bitter taste in her mouth as her body recoiled slightly with the thought of his touch. Richard stirred as she pulled the duvet close. He rolled over, leering at her, his needy hand reaching towards her.
“I’m sorry, Rich, I’ve got a hell of a headache!”
“The oldest excuse in the world, Kit, what the hell?”
“And my back’s been playing up,” she said, turning away from him and clinging to her side of the bed, her stomach knotting and her jaw clamped tight. Her whole body was taut with tension as she lay unmoving, pretending to sleep. As soon as the rhythm of Richard’s snoring steadied, she tiptoed downstairs to the drink’s cabinet, where she poured herself a generous whisky. Around one o’clock, back in her bed and still wide-awake, she remembered some breathing exercises she’d taught her insomniac clients. Breathe in for the count of seven, and out for the count of eleven, then relax each part of the body. She was asleep within ten minutes, and within another twenty, her mind was skimming in and out of a lucid dream. Boxes everywhere, then a treadmill, going faster and faster, then flashes and images and thoughts darting into her mind.
She woke up in a sweat. Reaching out to sip some water from the glass by her bedside, she noticed the notebook. Taking up the pen and holding a torch in her mouth, so as not to wake Richard, she wrote:
They’re on treadmills that keep going faster and longer till they’re exhausted. They’re doing it for money. The reward is two weeks off. They get on a big tube with wings (a plane?) and go to another part of the planet where the boxes are a bit different. I can see beaches and mountains. There’s a forest with waterfalls. Fresh water. Thirst quenching. Drink it all in. Plump up and expand. Unwind and uncoil. They’re pale and desiccated. Thirsting – not just for the water. They’re looking for something real and warm. They’re looking for happiness, kindness, something nurturing. They’re joyful and alive for a moment, talking to the locals and envying their simple way of life.
After putting down the pen and book, and switching off the torch, she snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes. The dream resumed: The box people returned on the tubes with wings, oblivious to their treadmill lives. Behind the beach and at the edge of the woods, there were piles and piles of rubbish – stinking, rotting trash. The sea washed up water bottles, drink cartons and suntan lotion tubes, all covered in black tar. At the other side of the mountain was a gigantic gash – a massive quarry or mine, so big it made the people look like ants. Someone or something had been mining minerals, metals, gemstones, coal, oil – you name it and they’d plundered it, hoarding it away in cavernous storehouses. It was a wholesale ransacking of the planet, the great mother, Earth, which seemed to be alive and crying like a person. She was collecting discarded boxes in her arms, stuffing them into her vast apron pockets. Plumes of noxious smoke belched from a factory which was pumping out shiny new boxes at an alarming rate. Katy roused herself from the scene to write it all down.
“Competition, acquisition, consumption,” said the Voice.
It took her by surprise. She’d thought it had gone.
“Would you like me to continue sharing Wisdom?”
“Sshhh! You’ll wake Richard.”
“He can’t hear me.”
“I thought you were confined to the landing mirror and my office! This is my private space, for God’s sake!”
“I’m sorry. We can resume tomorrow evening when you meditate.”
“No. I’m wide awake now, what do you want?”
“You’re seeing where this ‘sleeping’ human consciousness – this unthinking way of living – ultimately leads, aren’t you?”
“I think it’s just a reflection of my own psyche, actually. All the symbols are parts of me. I really relate to the planet – all my resources being drained while I take on other people’s shit – I mean rubbish —”
“It’s okay. ”
“I’m taking on other people’s stuff – not just client’s, but Richard’s as well!”
“As within, so without! Your own psyche is a reflection of the outer world. Humans use Earth’s bounty as if it were boundless, turning a blind eye to mounting problems and hoping she goes on swallowing your detritus.”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way...”
“Out of sight, out of mind – but it’s happening, Katy!”
“Are we creating it? This modern box myth where we keep learning from somebody else and carrying the baton onto the next treadmill?”
“Yes. But you could create something else.”
“How?”
“Stop seeing life as something you have to get through. It’s not a game you have to win. It’s not Monopoly, you know – you’re not here to learn the rules, shake the dice, pass go and pick up £200! It’s not about trophies and trinkets and possessions or how much you can get. You don’t shuffle off this world saying, ‘Thank goodness we got through it, with our pension and nest-egg intact!’ There are more noble reasons for life!”
“Like what?”
“You have a Divine Self – a Greater Self – which chose to come here to explore, learn, expand, become more aware and grow! You all have it! It’s waiting for you to wake up and fully express your true essence. It wants you to follow your bliss – not a spa package with a scented steam room but your soul’s joy, the thing that makes you alive with enthusiasm!”
“Isn’t that a bit selfish?”
“On the contrary – it’s a service to humanity and the world. You’re each a piece of a larger jigsaw. When you follow your soul’s purpose you’re contributing! And joy is the best contagion there is!”
“How d
o I follow it?”
“That’s what I’m here to share with you. But not now. Richard will be awake in precisely nineteen minutes and you need your sleep.”
“But...”
The Voice was gone.
Chapter 5
Dr. Erasmus Watkins’ secretary was a large lady, no nonsense and kind, with a jolly and booming voice. “You left a message last night?” she bellowed down the phone.
The small, bald man held the phone away from his ear, glad he was alone in his room. It was 9 am and he was in no hurry to get back to Brize Norton.
“I, I, err, I, um...” He couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“It’s okay, no need to be shy.”
“I think I, well, I think I might have an addiction. Dr. Slater recommended you – well the clinic – he told me to talk to you – well, Dr. Watkins.”
“Have you looked at our treatment programs?”
“Yes. I’ve seen them on the internet. I don’t think I can do the residential. It’s my wife. Don’t want her to, you know, know.”
“I see, that’s fine. It’s all confidential – the one-to-one sessions with Dr. Watkins, group therapy, art therapy, extra-curricular classes and, of course, the twelve-step program which forms the core of our treatment. The first thing is to come for an initial assessment. How’s the 22nd? We have a slot at 11 am.”
“This month? Yes. I can do October 22nd. Thank you... There’s something else... I’m having trouble, er, ‘performing’...with my wife...” he hesitated and gave a short, high-pitched laugh, “b– but not when I’m ‘flying solo’.”
“Impotence? Most patients find it all falls back into place once they’ve worked through their addiction.”
“I hope so...is there anything I need before 22nd?”
“I’ll send you the relevant forms.”
* * *
Katy trudged upstairs to the office in her dressing gown, a mug of hot tea in one hand and her phone in the other. It was 9 am. She’d fallen back to sleep after getting up for breakfast with Tilly and Freddie. Thank goodness she didn’t have any clients until later that afternoon. It would give her time to catch up on emails and session notes before heading into town. Yawning, then giving her face a gentle massage to wake up, she sat at her desk, her laptop flipped open, watching it whir into action. She should get a new one, this old thing was taking ages to load. She wondered how much time she wasted waiting for it! Sipping at her English Breakfast, she stared out at the street below. The trees were just beginning to lose their leaves and it was quiet after the usual flurry of morning activity.
As the expected page of new emails filled the screen, one in particular caught her attention.
Just thought I’d check in with you! I know you’ve been off balance with the new name.
Popped into my head the other day that an Aura Soma consultation would be perfect. There’s a great practitioner out in Hertfordshire – lives near a forest – her name’s Lavinia Montgomery. Suggest you see her asap. Will text you her number – don’t have it with me now.
Love & Light
Dinah x
Katy started deleting circulars and mailers from the long list, marking invoices with a yellow star – she’d look at those later – and passing over a deluge of unimportant messages. There was a three-line whip from her brother about Mother’s birthday party, which she was compelled to read, three client emails and three website enquiries. She started with the enquiries, one of which she read twice, a smile spreading across her face. “Bloody hell!”
* * *
Richard arrived at his 9 am meeting. He wasn’t exactly part of the City and yet he was: not a stock-broker or a corporate lawyer, either, but an advisor – a bit of a spin doctor – a PR supremo with a head for figures, strategy and manipulation. He liked the City. It was all numbers, old-boy’s networks, East Enders made good and calculated risks. Locking antlers in the boardroom and drip-feeding massaged information was his stock in trade. He’d carefully carved out a territory in this bravado world of patriarchal testosterone, and he guarded it fiercely. Surveying the room full of interested parties, his thoughts turned to a David Attenborough program he’d seen about a troop of baboons. They kept fighting to keep rank while the big alpha male beat his chest, barking the loudest and reclaiming his position at the top. This troop would soon fall into place and he’d have them eating out of his big fat hand. The battle for supremacy! Yes! It was the power and authority that fascinated him. Only Westminster with its seductive seat of political clout glittered more golden than this. Perhaps he’d become an MP later in life, or a political strategist. For now, he was stockpiling his assets and lining the nest. Those sorts of ambitions took careful funding, but it would all be worth it! Ultimately, it would change his life, give him the power he craved. His colleague, swan-necked and elegant in her stilettos and Austin Reed suit, flashed him a smile from the doorway as she entered the room. A waft of Chanel accompanied her as she strode towards her seat. The meeting began.
Chapter 6
“Hello? Is that Lavinia Montgomery? I’d like to book an Aura Soma consultation,” said Katy. Sipping at a mug of peppermint tea, she listened to the clipped vowels of the older woman the other end of the phone. “Dinah gave me your number... Yes, eleven o’clock tomorrow would be perfect. What’s your address?”
She’d better find out more, thought Katy, typing Aura Soma into the search engine. Ooh! Nice bottles! The chunky square design reminded her of Chanel No.5, except each of these – there must have been a hundred or so – were neatly bisected with a different shade above and below. They were called ‘Equilibrium’ bottles. Well, that made sense, thought Katy, the top bit must be oil-based and the bottom bit water – otherwise they wouldn’t stay like that! Did it say what was in the bottles? ‘A unique vibrational process.’ Katy assumed it must be herbs, coloring – maybe aromatherapy oil. They had names like Arch Angel Michael, The Essene and Birth of Venus. Ah, there it was, ‘Harnessing the vibrational powers of Gaia. The bottles are a system of color, plant and crystal energies that bring you closer to self-understanding.’ Sounded intriguing, if a little bizarre. She read on, ‘Aura means light, Soma means body, the colors you choose will reflect the needs that are hidden within.’ Katy frowned slightly and pursed her lips, but beneath the mistrust, a lightness was rising within her that broke into a thin smile.
Having finished her preparation, she slipped the files into her briefcase along with her old-fashioned desk-diary, and left for Harley Street. She loved that diary, with its client appointments, ‘to do’ list and notes. It was her way of dealing with stress. Planning ahead, writing things down, and being organized, kept her from feeling overwhelmed. It was a strategy that had helped her make sense of a chaotic childhood, and it continued to serve her now.
At precisely 8.55pm that evening, her last client paid and left the building, shortly followed by Katy, lugging the heavy briefcase into the damp evening air. Oxford Street station was less crowded at this time of night and the train was half empty. Taking the first available seat, she flopped down and let the gentle swaying of the carriage lull her into a light sleep. An abrupt stop accompanied by a robotic female announcement roused her and she hurriedly gathered her bags. Stepping across the platform to the District Line, she caught the next train towards Richmond. At Turnham Green, she pulled herself to her feet, trying not to think about the nine-minute walk that lay ahead.
The windchimes sang out their welcome as she pushed through the door to hear Richard’s voice calling from the snug.
“Thought you were leaving something in the fridge!”
“Rich! I was busy!”
“Had to get a sandwich.”
“Well, I’m sorry!”
Rolling her eyes and taking a deep breath, Katy set her briefcase on the bottom step, hung her bag over the newel post and unbuttoned her mac.
“Don’t know what I pay you for!” said Richard, sniggering at his own joke as she moved into the snug. “Sit w
ith me and watch the news!” He patted the cushion next to him and her aching body buckled and folded to his bidding. She sank onto the sofa, giving him a cursory peck on the cheek. He smelled of sickly sherbet lemons and stale breath. The television flickered as they sat in silence, her mac over her arm, her red high heels pinching, her head swimming with clients. “I’d better get my post sessions notes done.”
Richard pursed his lips and flared his nostrils.
“It’ll only take a minute.”
He gave her a dismissive wave. Katy felt a shot of guilt as she wrestled with herself. “It won’t take long,” she said, giving him a sideways glance. “I’ll meditate later when you’ve gone to bed.” If she didn’t get the notes done now, she’d forget the details.
Richard was flagging by the time she’d finished.
“So, how was your day?” she asked, putting on her brightest client-smile, straightening her skirt and running a hand through her hair.
“Bloody big meeting. Can’t tell you!” he said, tapping the side of his nose with an index finger. “Insider trading and all that. Did you have Seamus today?”
“No. Seeing him tomorrow. The usual stuff. Can’t tell you,” she said, winking and putting a forefinger to her lips. “Client confidentiality!”
“Come on, Kit, give us a bit of dirt!”
“I can’t!”
“Swap? Tit for tat?”
Red Dress Page 7
