Red Dress

by Bridget Finklaire

  “I’m sure she’s worked quite hard,” countered Terry. “Perhaps it’s time to count your blessings? There are plenty of good things in your own life! Comparison always steals your joy.”

  “Yes, I know.” Katy fell silent as she chewed it over. Maybe he’d hit on something, but was Posh being genuine or living a manufactured lie? Either way, she seemed happy. It wasn’t fair.

  “Where does this envy come from?” Terry asked, breaking the silence.

  “Dissatisfaction with my own life?” Her tentative answer surprised her. “That’s crazy! I’ve got everything I’ve always wanted.”

  “Have you?” Terry looked at her over his glasses, which had slid down his nose.

  Katy stared at the edge of the desk.

  “So, what could you do?” prompted Terry.

  “I need to reframe – shift the way I view things. Some clients never make progress because they’re more comfortable with the problem they know than with the changes they don’t.”

  “True! That’s resistance! Change frightens them so they cling to their neuroses.”

  “I want to make the changes, Terry, even if they are frightening. I’ve lost sight of who I am and what I want. I feel like a rat in a designer cage on my gilt-edged wheel, and it’s going too fast! I’ve taken on too much! Everyone wants a part of me – Richard, the children, the clients. My life is a constant battle against time!”

  “Why?”

  Katy stared at Terry, searching for the answer in his kind, wrinkled eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “And if you did know?”

  “Not that old chestnut!” she said. “Because if I stop, the whole lot will come crashing down.”

  “And if you asked for help?”

  “It just starts a row and I don’t have the energy to deal with it.”

  “It starts a row because you ask for help?” Terry looked up, frowned slightly, then made a note, circling it for emphasis.

  “Yes. I feel like I’m being bull-dozed. No, steamrollered. That’s what it feels like. Richard steamrollers over me.” She shivered.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Powerless, cornered, angry. And it takes it out of me.”

  Terry’s pen moved across the page. “Is he controlling?”

  “Very.”

  “So, you keep going and keep your mouth shut to keep the peace?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t face the alternative. I don’t have the energy for it.”

  “Does he use physical violence?”

  “No, but...”

  Terry waited patiently.

  “I feel bullied. Maybe it’s just because he’s taller than me, but I feel overpowered, manipulated, even. It’s scary.”

  “What does he do that makes you feel afraid?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it. There’s nothing obvious. It’s just how he is! The kids’ friends call him ‘Stalin’! He wears a peaked cap and a long black coat to the rugby and shouts from the sidelines, apparently. He’s a very imposing figure, you know, but it’s not that, it’s his presence, the way he carries himself, the cut of his jib.”

  “And what would you say to one of your clients if they were in your shoes?” There was a pause while Terry let it sink in.

  Katy recoiled slightly, her eyes widening as she stared at a small repeating motif in the carpet. She knew the answer but refused to acknowledge it. Perhaps she’d given the wrong impression or maybe Terry had misinterpreted her.

  Terry could see he’d hit a delicate spot and there was no point in pushing it further. He held the silence. The psyche would go to work in its own way and in its own time. Meanwhile, he’d lead her back to the previous issue.

  “And what if you stopped and let it all come crashing down?” he said, watching the look of horror on Katy’s face. The silence deepened. He glanced at his watch and made a note to address the issue again.

  “Let’s take a look at where you’re spending your time,” he said, bringing the session to a close. “I think you may be heading towards burn-out if you don’t slow down.”

  Katy hadn’t had time to record her comings and goings, so she’d made something up. She handed the scribbled note to Terry. He studied it, sighed, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb.

  On the train back home, Katy was haunted by that final gesture. He’d known it was a fake time-and-motion study, why hadn’t she just come clean? She’d been stupid to think she could fool him. Her eyes prickled with tears. All that stuff about Richard and Victoria bloody Beckham. She didn’t want to think about it, it was too draining. Staring out of the window, the backs of buildings rushing by, her mind quietened. A stream of thought sprang from somewhere and she reached into her bag, fishing out a notepad and pen to capture it, lest it was forgotten.

  It feels as if a compassionate hand is gently taking the reins of my life, steering me towards the next step as it arises. Whoever it belongs to sees far into the distance, timewise. I mean, above the minutia. They seem to be looking from a higher vantage point. Maybe they’ve already calculated the entirety of my life, and they’re able to execute, with military precision, a strategy for me – but they’re not letting me in on the plan. Something, or someone, is coordinating hidden points along a path of space and time – taking me along a trajectory I can’t see. It’s as if the very fabric of creation is being manipulated. Different event horizons are beginning to dovetail with alarming accuracy. Something big is about to happen, I know it, I can feel it in my bones. It’s just around the corner, but I can’t quite grasp it.

  Chapter 11

  Richard was sitting on a black chrome and leather sofa in the waiting room of a smart office in the City. He looked across at his colleague, a woman in her late thirties, her honied hair scrupulously tucked into a chignon, revealing a graceful neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the dark-navy fabric of her skirt pulling slightly as she crossed her legs. She pushed back the cuff of her jacket with an index finger to reveal a gold bracelet watch.

  “We’ve got another five minutes at least before the meeting starts,” he said. “Are we all set?”

  “There was a hiccup with the valuation.” She flicked through her papers. “If we hadn’t managed to persuade them that their P/E ratio was tickety-boo, we could’ve lost the deal at the last minute.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks to your detailed proposal, they were happy to continue negotiations. Acquisitions are always a nightmare.”

  “I think they were sold by the leverage we could generate with some clever media relations.”

  “Yes, but the deal itself has to hold water, and it was close!”

  “Could’ve been six month’s work down the drain!”

  “Due diligence is always a fraught process, but the lawyers are happy, the investment bankers are ready, and it looks like we’re going ahead.” She tucked a stray hair back into the chignon with a long, French-polished finger. “You’ll need to do something about the site closures in the North, if it all goes ahead as planned.”

  Richard opened his briefcase. “All part of strategic communications,” he said, plucking a glossy folder from the top of a fat dossier.

  “Their in-house corporate development team are on board, so I think we’re almost there, but you never know with M&As, they can drag on forever,” she said.

  “I’d like to sew it up this side of Christmas,” said Richard, frowning at a message on his phone. “Otherwise it’ll mess with my corporate communications strategy.” Richard winked at her. “The Financial Times was nosing around this morning,” he said, leaning in so as not to be overheard. “Had to ‘misdirect’ them.”

  “Is that legal?” asked Emma, turning to look him in the eye.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Emma looked away as she laughed. “Seriously, Richard, I don’t want any misunderstandings or surprises, OK?”

  “I�
��ve already briefed the CEO and the main board members and our message is consistent.”

  “Media training?”

  “The usual rigorous questions. I did my ‘Paxo’ impersonation.”

  “Why is this bloody politician bloody lying to me!” mimicked Emma.

  “I couldn’t possibly comment,” he returned, smiling. “But seriously, they know what line to tow.”

  “Do they know about the risks?”

  “Absolutely, and they know exactly how to minimize them and focus on market position and growth opportunities.”

  “And the main print media?”

  “We need to delay. Timing is critical at this stage. I need to control who gets what, and when. I’ll give them the story I want them to print at the time I want it printed. I don’t want anything fueling the rumor mill.”

  “Shouldn’t we be giving them the full monty?”

  “We will. In time. There are a few grey areas I need to deal with first, and I don’t want anyone else leaking anything before I’m ready.”

  “For what?”

  “The right moment. It’s all about nerve.”

  “Nerves,” she repeated, pushing her slender index fingers into her temples. “Do you have any paracetamol, I’m getting a headache?”

  Richard rummaged in his briefcase and produced two white pills, their foil wrapping creased with age.

  “Like I said, you’ve got to have nerve, keep the tension taut then let go at the precise moment, like an archer holding his bow till he’s sure he’s on target.”

  Emma frowned, stood up and turned towards the window, perching her willowy frame on the back of the sofa. A small diamond glinted from its fixture, hanging around her neck on a delicate gold chain. The top two buttons of her crisp shirt were tantalizingly open, perfectly revealing the classy piece of jewelry. She was calm, in control, thought Richard, casting his eye over her with proprietorial approval. Her only armor was a flash of lip gloss, a touch of mascara and her Mont Blanc pen. He walked over to join her. “Don’t you just love the view from this window?” he said, leaning in close. “If you look carefully you can see the Lloyds Building – through that gap.” His left hand was resting on her shoulder, his face almost touching her hair as he directed her gaze with his right hand. She smelled of Chanel and expensive leather.

  “The people look like matchstick men from up here!” she breathed.

  “Or little worker bees...buzzing home to suburbia. What are you doing afterwards? Dashing off, you busy little bee?”

  “No plans actually.”

  “Fancy a bite to eat – there’s a little wine bar round the corner – great tapas.”

  “Tapas? An offer I can’t refuse!” she said, closing her file and laughing.

  “That settles it then.” He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket. “Sherbet Lemon while we’re waiting?” he said, proffering a crumpled bag and watching the dimple on her face as she smiled and reached in with an elegantly manicured finger and thumb.

  * * *

  In another part of the country, a short, bald man was busy at his computer. He’d just finish up here before heading to the Masonic Lodge. It was a game to him, a charade – the RAF, marriage, the Masons – and he had played valiantly. The life he’d constructed made him feel responsible, triumphant even.

  Later he’d be in the mess, downing a bottle of Bordeaux, reinforcing the deception with alcohol-driven bonhomie. His wine-tasting hobby was a stroke of genius, the perfect cover for blotting out guilt and compensating for whatever it was that was missing. He’d be fifty soon. A couple more years and he could retire from the force. A rebel couldn’t stay loyal forever, and beneath the imperturbable surface, the outrageous flirt was buried but still breathing, waiting for the right moment, the right woman. He was an officer and a freemason, with a badge of respect, but the challenge had worn thin, the game won years ago. His life had become tiresome and tarnished like any fake. An embryonic craving for something more, something challenging, was awakening in his veins.

  He finished the email, hit ‘send’ and closed the laptop.

  * * *

  Katy arrived home after her Thursday evening clutch of clients. Wandering into the kitchen, she slid her hand to the back of the refrigerator, taking out a slim bar of eighty-five per cent chocolate. Just one square, she told herself, breaking off two.

  Tilly was upstairs, music blaring, and Freddie was just through the archway in the snug watching Family Guy.

  “Where’s Dad?” she called through, the last piece of dark deliciousness melting on her tongue.

  “Dunno! Thought he was with you!”

  “I’ve been in Harley Street!”

  “Oh. Tilly might know.”

  “Tilly?” She called, realizing she probably couldn’t hear over that thumping beat. Stomping upstairs, she knocked on Tilly’s door and stuck her head around, trying to ignore the ramshackle jumble-sale inside. Her eyes met shambolic piles of clothes, books, magazines, and makeup. “Did Dad say anything to you about being late?”

  Tilly shook her head. Was she conveying the negative, or was she just keeping time to the music?

  “Wait!” she said, suddenly, “he phoned earlier, said he’d be late, something about a deal in the City.”

  “Thank you!”

  Struggling not to spark a row, Katy closed the door, took a deep breath, and returned to the kitchen.

  It was eleven o’clock when she pulled herself upstairs to meditate. No sign of Richard. She wasn’t going to message him nor be one of those wives who nagged! Passing the mirror at the top of the stairs, she felt a warm, familiar feeling, as if she were being wrapped in the lightest cashmere.

  “It’ll be okay,” said the Voice, and pre-empting her answer, added, “I won’t keep you. I can see you’re tired.”

  “Thank you,” she thought, moving towards the office just as the windchimes jangled downstairs. Richard was calling to her. “Kit? You still up? Where are you?”

  “Coming!” she said, running back down to give him a hug. He smelled of alcohol, garlic and something sweet which Katy couldn’t quite place.

  “You reek of wine. Did you have a good time? I thought it was some kind of deal?”

  “An acquisition. Ended up entertaining the client in the pub.”

  “Pub? You smell of garlic and...” she sniffed him at close quarters, “Chanel No.5! I thought I recognized that perfume, my mum used to wear it when I was a kid! Made me feel sick in the car!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “I’m not! I hate that perfume! I’d know it anywhere!”

  “Must have been one of the team. There’s a ball-breaker of a woman banker. Could be her.”

  “Rich, answer me honestly, are you seeing someone else?”

  “What the hell do you mean?” he bellowed. “I’ve always been loyal to you. I’ve always delivered.”

  “Rich, what am I supposed to think? You’re home late, and you stink of wine, garlic and women’s perfume!”

  “Is that the sort of level you’ve sunk to, Katherine? Bloody Hell! I don’t know where you get this shit from! Is it one of your clients? Doing the dirty on his wife? Well I’m not like that, and you damn well know it!” His face crumpled as if he were about to cry. “You know you can trust me, you know I’d never do anything to hurt you...” Katy moved in to comfort him. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You always insist on hurting me! What about me, Katherine? What about me?”

  “It’s okay, Rich. Calm down,” said Katy, placing her hand on his arm and stroking it gently. “I thought you might be seeing someone else. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you!” She took his hand in hers. “We haven’t had a sex life for a long time, and it’s my fault.” Her heart was pounding as she said the unthinkable.

  Richard shook her hand away, turning towards the window and running his fingers through his thinning hair. Moments later, he spun back, jaw tight, left eyelid twitching, his face
pale.

  She’d hurt his feelings, she knew it. He was fragile. It was his childhood. She knew where the bones were buried, how could she have been so callous, her, a therapist who should have known better! Of course she had to make this work! He was her husband! She’d loved him once, hadn’t she? He’d be distraught without her! Always feeling alone and abandoned, that’s what he’d told her, after everything that had happened with his mum. “I’m sorry, Rich, I really am,” she said, reaching both arms around him and holding him close. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  Chapter 12

  Katy emerged from the shower, her hair tightly coiled in a towel, turban style, her thick gown tied at the waist. Flinging open the wardrobe, she realized that just as suddenly as it had come to her, it had left: the urge to wear entirely green was gone! Keeping a few choice pieces, olive, linen trousers and forest, boiled-wool jacket, she bundled the rest into a dustbin liner, earmarking it for charity. A craving for lime-green remained, so the yoga top was salvaged, along with a cheap, bright-green hoodie that she’d bought in the sale. She was hankering after magenta now, a color she’d never worn. Foraging through her bedside cabinet, she found an old pair of sunglasses – lime-green frames with magenta inside. She’d bought them ages ago for a fancy dress. It must be the Aura-Soma, she thought, it’s telling me to change bottles.

  The charity shop took her sack of green with appreciation and while she was handing it over, something caught her eye: A string of magenta plastic beads with matching earrings. She picked them up before spotting a plum-pink and lime-green, check scarf, an acid green designer jacket which, because of the color, was a total bargain, and a mauve and cerise floral skirt with bright spring foliage. She bought the lot. Trying it on at home, with a new Sugar Plum Fairy lipstick she’d purchased from the chemist down the road, she looked in the mirror and winced. The lipstick clashed with her skin tone, sucking the color from her face and producing a cold, pinched effect. She eyed herself up and down. “I look like I need a dialysis machine,” she muttered.

  The dark glasses in the middle of November were conspicuous but gave her something to hide behind. Her bold but finely-honed sartorial elegance had sunk without trace. She was obliged to wear her charity shop outfit, however embarrassing and however much she protested. At least it was Wednesday and the only person who’d spot her, apart from Richard and the kids, was Shanti, who she’d be seeing later. But before that, she’d better buy something a bit more tasteful in lime-green and magenta, if such an outfit existed, or she’d look ridiculous at work tomorrow.