Red Dress

by Bridget Finklaire

“It got out of hand. I could charm the pants off the girls, and it became a sort of game. How many could I chase down? How many would capitulate, if you get my drift?”

  “And how many did ‘capitulate’?”

  The bald man laughed. “Not many in the early days, but I got better with practice. And as they got older, you know...”

  “There were more substantial conquests?”

  “I got my rocks off more often, if that’s what you mean – and I got good at it too!” he said, widening his cobalt eyes as he smiled broadly.

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  “How would you feel? Bloody powerful!”

  “Happy?”

  “I was never happier than when I’d won a conquest.”

  “And afterwards?” Dr. Watkins probed further.

  The bald man hunched over slightly, his knees pulling together, revealing the outline of sinewed muscles beneath his suit. He stared at the floor for a moment, deep in thought. “It was never enough – the thrill of the chase, the sex, the girls. I probably felt a bit guilty. Felt bad.”

  “And how did you deal with that?”

  “Not confession, that’s for sure! The Catholic Church had lost me. I just kept going! Every time I got a new girl, I felt better. Funny really...”

  “Why?”

  “I hated girls before. They’d stood around giggling in their silly frocks and plaited pigtails – laughing at me while some brute was pushing me around in the corner of the playground.” The bald man frowned and sat up straight. “I suppose I felt powerful over them in the end. I could do what the fuck I liked!”

  “Anything you liked?”

  “I never abused anyone. Never forced it. I didn’t have to. I could twist them round my little finger most of the time. I learned to treat them a bit mean to keep them keen, but only so far...that was the trick. Be nice, be easy-going, don’t threaten, then be a bit mean.”

  “In what way were you mean?”

  “Not calling them when I said I would, not making any commitment, looking at other women – that sort of thing.”

  “And did that continue?”

  “For a while. I was into dirty magazines and learning about women and what they liked.”

  “From the magazines?”

  The man’s head nodded. Dr. Watkins opened his mouth as if to say something but must have thought better of it.

  “I did feel guilty though. I hadn’t been to confession and I was, you know, relieving myself a lot as well as doing it with girls. Part of me knew it couldn’t last and I’d end up burning in hell!”

  “And did you?”

  “In a manner of speaking...”

  “What happened?”

  “When I got to university, I realized I had to sober up. I couldn’t go on playing the field as hard as I had.”

  “You were drinking too?”

  “Drinking, smoking, magazines, girls.”

  “Carry on.”

  “I was growing up, I guess. Realized it was a teenage thing, except that was the problem, I was acting grown up but the teenager was still coursing through my veins. Then disaster struck.” He hesitated then lowered his voice. “I started losing my hair at the age of nineteen.”

  “That must have been difficult for you. How did you handle it?”

  “I panicked. It was falling out fast. By the time I was twenty, I was bald. Thought it was Divine retribution.” He finished the water in one large gulp before setting the glass down and continuing. “I didn’t think I could get girls anymore. I mean, who would want to go out with a short, bald man? I hid in my room for months. Felt terrible.”

  “Did you tell anyone? Was there a college counsellor?”

  “Nope. Kept it to myself. That was my annus horribilis.”

  “Did you continue with the magazines?”

  The bald man’s face turned a pale shade of pink as he shuffled in his chair. “And worse.”

  Dr. Watkins raised both eyebrows before recomposing his neutral expression.

  “I developed a predilection for prostitutes.”

  “Tell me more about that.”

  “Not much to tell really. A few times with a couple of different girls. Nothing too kinky.” He said, running a finger beneath his collar. “Quite an exciting experience for a young man.”

  “Anything else that you feel is important?”

  The bald man cleared his throat. “I had an air of mystery surrounding me, and some of the ladies that I’d chatted up before got curious. In the end, I found that being bald didn’t make much difference. Of course, at that age, quite a few of them wanted classic good looks, the tall, dark type, but the sensitive ones – they were all over me.”

  “And then?”

  “I knew I had to settle down, so I started going steady. It was the first time I’d had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks.”

  “The swing of the pendulum.”

  The man looked up at Dr. Watkins, his brow furrowed.

  “You swung from playing the field to the opposite – settling down at an early age. We often find personalities swinging from one extreme to the other. It’s a way of compensating for perceived deficiencies. But what triggered this turn of events?”

  “I don’t know – I had the feeling I had to conform! My dad was annoyed with me and my mum was disappointed. They always thought I’d amount to nothing – piss it all away – the charm, the intellect. I had to prove them wrong.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “I signed up for the Royal Air Force after graduation. Mum and Dad couldn’t believe it. Didn’t think I’d have the staying power. But I proved them wrong.”

  “Carry on.”

  “I stayed! Did well, then got married in my early twenties. It seemed like the right thing to do. The RAF like a married officer. See it as a stable influence. It means you get a nice quarter to live in.”

  “And how was married life?”

  “Disastrous, if I’m honest. We were young and came from different backgrounds. It was never going to last. We were miserable.”

  “What about the sex life?”

  “I lost interest pretty early on. Went back to the magazines. She didn’t seem to mind. I don’t think she even knew.”

  “And the prostitutes?”

  The bald man nodded. “Only once or twice, and not at home – only when I was away with the Force.”

  “Divorce?”

  “Yes. Then threw myself into my career and worked my way up the ranks.”

  “Still single?”

  “No. Married my second wife, who was friends with Caroline.”

  “Caroline?”

  “My first wife.” He paused. “My second wife was the ex of one of my colleagues, so she knew what it was like to be an RAF girlfriend. She’d always fancied me, she said. Actually, she made the first move! That was a turn up for the books! Someone chasing me! I fell for her. Who wouldn’t? A powerhouse of a woman who’s never satisfied. Tall, slim, model’s legs, long dark hair, works in the City.”

  “Never satisfied sexually?”

  “Never satisfied with bloody anything – especially me! I sometimes think she’s got me under her thumb.”

  “And has she?”

  “I don’t know. Put it this way – we’re together. Just. It’s been ten years now. We’ve got a daughter.”

  Dr. Watkins seemed to sense the tone of voice, the marginal turning away of the head, the slight pursing of the lips.

  “Tell me about your daughter.”

  “She’s a sweetie, but she’s hard work. Don’t get me wrong – I love her to bits. She’s got ADHD and she’s dyslexic. Struggles at school. Her mum’s not really there for her – she went back to work when Amber was just a few weeks old. I try my best, but I have to work, too, you know?” The bald man buried his head in his hands and leaned further forward. Dr. Watkins noted the genuine emotion, the love, the despair, the longing to be able to do something.

  “How old is she?�
�� he asked in a soothing tone.

  “She’s a millennial. She’ll be nine next year.”

  “And what about your wife?”

  “She’s younger than me.”

  “Tell me about your relationship.”

  “She’s high maintenance, terrifying at times. She’s taller than me, dresses in Austin Reed, and is totally unapproachable! She’s a woman in a man’s world – works at a big merchant bank in the Square Mile. They call her ‘the Ice Maiden’.”

  “She refuses you sex?”

  “No. Quite the opposite. She demands sex, but she’s not very loving. The ice maiden suits her. She’s cold, emotionally, a ball-breaker of a woman, and well...”

  “Do you feel emasculated?”

  “More like castrated! I can’t always get it up, and when I can, I can’t finish the job. She gets angry with me and I get sore – or limp – and it makes the whole thing worse.”

  “And is that why you’re here?”

  “No. She says I’m an alcoholic. I disagree. We drink a lot in the mess and I love my fine wines and brandies. It’s a drinking culture, but I’m not an alcoholic. She asked me to do something about my addiction, but she doesn’t know I’m here. Personally, I’m more worried about the porn, and the sex – or lack of it. With the internet, I’ve progressed from dirty magazines. I read an article that said you become desensitized to the real thing. Did it initially so I could get it up, but got carried away. Look, it’s nothing terrible. I’m not some kind of pervert, but I’m looking at the sites more than I should. At least once every evening, most mornings, and often in the day as well. I feel bad. She’s making demands, I can’t deliver, but in the privacy of my study...”

  “And if things were more harmonious between you and your wife, would you still be resorting to this pattern?”

  “Not to the extent that I am, I don’t think.”

  “And how long have you been using pornography in this way?”

  “Since my daughter was born. I didn’t feel the same about Lauren, and when she abandoned the poor kid and went back to work full-time, something inside me broke.”

  “And how do you feel about your wife, Lauren, now?”

  “I hate to admit it, but I feel used. Hen-pecked, even. I’m just her lackey – fixing the house, taking her places, looking after our daughter.”

  “Have you been for counselling?”

  “We tried but her job’s demanding and she missed one of the appointments. My heart wasn’t in it, so we quit after three or four sessions. She accused me of not taking it seriously – and never tires of reminding me that she paid for it all!”

  “She makes a big thing of money?”

  “She’s the big earner. I do what I can to contribute.”

  “It sounds as if it’s not working between you and your wife. Could that be the cause of your issues?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it is, other times I think I’ve got a problem. I have to steel myself against sitting in front of that screen more often! It could easily slip into four or five times a day!”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it. That’s why you’re here.” Dr. Watkins hesitated before closing the session. “Was there anything else?” The bald man seemed to have had an insight and Dr. Watkins sensed it.

  “Yes. I can’t help thinking that if I were in the right relationship, the sex, and everything else, would take care of itself!”

  Chapter 9

  November 2008

  Katy stood on the top landing in front of the mirror, her hands in her pockets, looking at the space around her reflection. She took a deep breath, leaned in slightly, and tentatively whispered. “Just to be clear. Do we create our experience of life mostly from unconscious thoughts that we’re projecting? ”

  “Not all of your experience, but a good deal, yes. That, and habitual patterns,” said the Voice.

  “And they mostly stem from childhood?”

  “Generally, yes.”

  “Hang on – we’re constructing our lives based on the beliefs of a toddler?”

  “More frequently than you might imagine.”

  “So, Freud was right, we’re conditioned in the first five years of life?”

  “Yes. Have you seen the film, The Matrix?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “It’s not far from the truth. You’re mostly living an illusion, but one that you’ve created, along with those in positions of power.”

  “That’s what the Eastern Philosophers said.”

  “People reproduce what already exists – either through habit, or because they notice what’s currently there.”

  “And if it’s there, we believe in it.”

  “Yes. It’s a self-limiting behavior.”

  “We’re limited by our own beliefs. I’ve heard that before. So, we’re trapped in a reality of our own making?”

  “And that leads to the question ‘what is real?’” the Voice had a mirthful quality. “You think things ‘happen’ to you, but mostly it’s you that has set it in motion.”

  “Aren’t there exceptions? Surely some things just happen?”

  “There are collective creations, like pollution, or crime. And then there are karmic ones from past lives!”

  Katy grimaced. “Paying the price in this life for something you did in another?”

  The Voice carried on. “Sometimes your soul engineers a situation, to grow from it.”

  “Like Neo in the Matrix, learning from Morpheus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why things happen over and over?”

  “If you don’t understand first time, you’ll get an alternative setting and different characters.”

  “But the same pattern until we finally twig.”

  “Then it goes away.”

  “And it’s always something about ourselves? We’re made aware of an unconscious pattern so we can resolve it – that’s how therapy works.”

  “And that’s why you can overcome your challenges and rewrite the screenplay of your life. Think of it as a film. You’re the writer and the director. You can change the ending.”

  “How?”

  “Your childhood programming wasn’t your responsibility – but how you resolve it, and what you make of your life as an adult, is.”

  “That’s interesting…” Katy sat down in front of the mirror.

  “Notice the story you’re telling, the things you say often to self and others.”

  “Neurons that fire together, wire together. But what’s the new ending to the story? How do I know what to go for?”

  “Dare to dream, Katy. Choose the greatest of your visions, your good imaginings, the ones you see when you’re not thinking, the ones that feel impossible, those that thrill you – and stick with them. They’re the new ending.”

  “But ...” She was about to ask where the ideas would come from.

  “Sit in silence or walk in nature, take a shower or chop wood! When you stop thinking, the answers come.”

  Katy frowned. “But I’m too busy to rewrite the future!”

  “Have you decided life’s busy? Is that what you think and say?” The Voice paused. “In a literal sense, you’re making it so! You’re forming a neural pathway in the brain that links ‘life’ and ‘busy’ with ‘overwhelmed’.”

  “Oh my God, you’re right!”

  “I AM. You’ve heard of neuroplasticity? Rewire yourself! Start associating ‘life’ with something else – ‘fulfilling’, ‘exciting’ or ‘peaceful’. And whatever you decide to do, for goodness’ sake, do it because you love it and want to do it.” “What do you mean?”

  “Do things because they bring you joy and make you feel good – because that’s what you came here to do.”

  “But...”

  “Mankind creates good things, too, but many people are unwittingly pessimistic.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re subject to negative influences that are constantly bombarding you.”

/>   “The collective unconscious? All the fearmongering? We worry about the petty stuff and the things that are wrong, rather than concentrating on what’s good and what’s right!”

  “It’s human nature.”

  “What can we do about it?”

  “Choose which thoughts to cultivate, and which to ignore.”

  “Are we talking about designing things? We can’t influence everything in our lives, can we?”

  “From the wheel to the iPhone, from Bach to Bob Dylan, you are creators. Whether that’s inventions, art or music, or whether that’s circumstances, relationships, opportunities or challenges. You generate it all!”

  Katy was staring into the distance, trying to fathom it all.

  “Discover yourself, who you really are, not who you were conditioned to be,” said the Voice. “Then you’ll know the ending you want for your film.” There was a pause. “Understand there are Greater Powers and Forces in the Universe. Harness the quantum field. Everything is energy and vibration, including the activity in your brain.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you can influence reality.”

  “Mind over matter!”

  The Voice chuckled. “And you can use your mind to survive your box life or to seek something more noble and fulfilling.”

  “Noble? Like what?”

  “The evolution of the soul, of humanity itself!”

  “That’s profound.” Katy fell silent as her mind knitted it all together. Leaving the mirror, she shuffled into the office and pulled out the meditation stool.

  “Tell me how it works.”

  The Voice had followed her. “Think of a gardener.” There was a pause. “She plants a seed but has to wait for it to sprout. Maybe the roots are delving beneath the surface. She sees nothing but knows it’s growing. Each day, she waters and waits. If she plants an apple pip, a tree will eventually grow, and providing she tends to it, she’ll reap many apples.”

  “Hmm. It’d take years, though!”

  “And while she’s waiting, she can plant carrots, herbs, strawberries, pansies – things that grow quickly!”

  “Hmm.”

  “You reap what you sow and it’s the same with ideas. You play your part and creation collaborates. The pip won’t grow without mother nature, and it won’t thrive unless you plant and water it.”