The following morning, Tilly announced she was starting a part-time job at the local café.
“But I was going to hang out with you today!” said Katy.
Tilly scowled. “Mum! I’m sixteen! I don’t want to ‘hang out’ with my mother!”
Freddie giggled. “We’re not kids anymore, you know! We’ve got our own lives!” Lacing up his baseball boots, he added, “I’m off to the park with some mates from school.”
“When will you be back?”
“Dunno. I’ll text you.”
“Will you be home for lunch?”
“Probably not. We’re kicking a ball around then going to Tom’s.” Tucking a battered old football under his arm, he left the house to the sound of the windchimes.
Of course, they wanted to be with their friends, thought Katy, it was only natural. They’d be listening to their music, laughing at the in-jokes, and using their own version of the English language! It saddened her, though, feeling so shut out, but it was part of being a teenager, she supposed. It was normal to reject your parents and find your own way. It was healthy.
“Rich?”
“What now, Kit?”
“Any plans?”
“Apart from lying on the sofa with the rugby and the papers?”
“I thought we could go somewhere?” She was dying to get out of suburbia. “What about the South Bank?”
Richard wrinkled his nose and returned to his paper.
“The West End, then?” She was twirling the silver bangle on her right wrist.
“On a Saturday? You must be joking! It’ll be packed.” He flicked over the page.
“What about a matinee, or a gallery?”
“For fuck’s sake, Kit! I’m in the City all day, and the last thing I want is to get on a sodding train into town!”
Katy’s shoulders slumped, her smile vanishing as she tried to muster some enthusiasm. “And I’m stuck inside these four walls whenever I’m not confined to my room in Harley Street. I’d like to go somewhere for a change!” He wasn’t taking it on board. She could sense his prickly energy, but she had to try.
“Perhaps we could go for a walk by the river? What about Kew Gardens?” She said it as brightly as she could. His withering expression cut through her, but she wasn’t going to give up. “I thought we could do something together, Rich.” The calm, measured voice was as much as she could manage. She mustn’t show him how upset she was – he hated it if she ‘whined’ or ‘turned on the waterworks’.
“We are together, aren’t we?”
He looked up from his paper. “I’ve had a hell of a week. I want to relax for Christ’s sake!”
“Okay!” She was biting her lip and counting to ten. If she said anything, it would only cause another row, and she didn’t have it in her. Hovering a little longer she plucked up the courage. “I’ll tidy up the house and cook a nice supper. Why don’t we invite Ben and Tara over?”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to spend my evening with your whacky friends.”
“How about inviting your friends instead?” It was too late, she’d said it now! She knew he didn’t have those sorts of friendships, only contacts, acquaintances, and colleagues. Richard’s left eye twitched as his nostrils flared. “I’d have to give them notice. Unlike your rabble, they get booked up weeks in advance!” He buried his head in the Times.
Katy spent the day tidying, mowing the lawn, and cooking, while Richard relaxed with the Saturday papers. The children were out having fun and she couldn’t help feeling jealous. She’d tried, hadn’t she, but it took two to tango? Having stacked away dirty plates and cleaned up after supper, she called through to the snug. “Just going to meditate!”
Richard grunted.
At the top of the stairs, she hesitated by the mirror before wandering into the office. Positioning her meditation stool, she sat, her throat tightening, along with her jaw. A restlessness took hold as an uneasy feeling churned in her stomach. Walking over to the window, she gazed out over Sycamore Road, her fingers fidgeting with the curtain. Moments later, she was standing in front of the bookcase, plucking out A Course In Miracles. Flipping it open at random, she read:
Perception is a mirror, not a fact, and what you look on is your own state of mind, reflected outward.
“Exactly what we were discussing!” said the Voice.
“Oh! You took me by surprise!”
“You weren’t expecting me. An interesting notion.”
“What?”
“Things are rarely as you expect. Expectation is based on a construct you make in your mind, which itself is formed from old memories – experiences, things you’ve seen, heard or read about.”
“It’s the picture in your head of how you think it’s going to be that trips you up!”
“It’s only what you think.”
“And not what’s real.”
“You’re getting it, by Jehovah!”
“The rational mind can fool you, can’t it?”
“Quite so.”
“I tell that to my clients. You thought you saw a snake, but it was only a piece of rope.”
“You’re not really seeing, just taking in a portion of what is, then comparing it with what you know. The mind is conditioned to see what it wants.”
“So, you notice a lawn and think ‘grass’, but you don’t see the beauty and form of each individual blade?”
“Good example! The brain takes in what’s general, not what’s specific.”
“It looks for patterns and matches them to its knowledge base. I learned that when I trained!”
“What the logical mind perceives is rarely objective.”
“And sometimes, plain wrong! It can see a black bag of rubbish in the dark and think it’s a body!”
“And it can deceive in other ways too. You think you can’t, that you won’t be able to, that you’ll fail. Is that a true reflection of reality or just a thought?”
“I tell my clients a story about perception. If you were attacked by a dog when you were young, you’ll think that dogs are dangerous. Now, you’ll see a dog and avoid it. If you had a loveable pet labrador when you were little, you’ll think that dogs are wonderful. When you see that same dog, you’ll make a fuss of it! Same dog, two different reactions!”
“One dog, two perspectives, two different truths.”
“Is that why witnesses at the scene of a crime report different things?”
“Yes. It’s their perception coupled with their perspective.”
“I’m looking at the mountain from the South, you’re looking from the North. We argue about the best route! Another one I use sometimes!”
“Open-hearted discussion usually works! Listen to the other person and understand their perspective!”
“Yes.”
“Rest now. Meditate. Be led by your intuitive mind.”
“That’s the knowing, the little voice inside? But it doesn’t always make sense!”
“Not to the rational mind.”
“But it’s usually right?”
“The intuitive mind is a sacred gift, and the rational mind is a faithful servant.”
“That’s Einstein!”
“Yes.”
“Then he says something about the fact we do the reverse!”
“We’ve created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.”
“How do we change that?”
“Be the change you want to be in the world.”
“Gandhi!”
“You’ve got it.”
“And we change when we shift our thinking.”
“Yes. Become aware. Become conscious. Observe.”
“And use hypnotic regression and anything else that reprograms the mind and clears trauma?”
“Yes. Goodnight, dear one.”
Katy sat back on the stool, a single soothing thought calming her: Focus on the breath in the nostrils.
Chapter 25
Terry ushered Katy into his cons
ulting room on Monday afternoon, wondering what had been so urgent. He crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair.
“I wanted to talk a bit more about Richard,” she said, fiddling with her bangle.
“Okay.”
“He doesn’t seem to want the same things as me.” She hesitated. “He spent the entire weekend lounging around with the papers and the television.”
“Perhaps he needed to relax?”
“I understand that, but he doesn’t help around the house, and he doesn’t seem to realize I have my own needs!”
“Tell me more.”
“He won’t lift a finger at home. I even mow the lawn and take the car for service. He doesn’t do any of the things husbands usually do.”
Katy’s eyes were darting from side-to-side. Perhaps she was putting her thoughts in order? Looking up, she continued. “For a start off, he doesn’t care about his clothes. He leaves them in a heap, expecting someone else to pick them up!”
“You?” Hmm. He didn’t seem to be taking much responsibility, thought Terry.
“Yes. He looks after his suit and shoes because they’re important, but he doesn’t give a damn about much else, including me. If it’s not relevant to his success, he’s not interested.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Used and insignificant!”
“Do you feel like that with other people?”
“No! Not since my childhood.”
Terry made a note. “Have you tried talking to him?” He knew it was a pointless question. Of course, Katy had talked to him! She was a therapist who cared about people, and who knew how to communicate her feelings. Most likely, she’d chosen a partner similar in character to her father, but she had to work that out for herself. He felt his temples tighten.
“Yes. He just gets angry.”
“Why do you suppose that is?” Surely, she’d see it as dysfunctional.
“I think it’s Mummy stuff,” said Katy, a far-away look in her eyes. “He longed to be loved by his mum, be mothered by her, but she’s, well.” Katy stopped short. “He feels second best, discarded, unwanted.”
“And now he’s making you feel second best?” He could be reflecting her own longings for maternal love, thought Terry.
Katy frowned.
He paused before asking his next question. Which way would he go with this? “What makes you think it’s his mother?”
“She rejected him when his sister was born. Angela’s a couple of years younger. Janet, his mum, told him how beautiful Ang was, not like her ugly little boy. Poor Rich. From the photos, he looked like a normal kid to me, and he certainly turned into a handsome man.”
“And Richard told you this?” His eyes widened as he looked up.
“Yes. He might look powerful in that black coat and shiny shoes, but deep inside he’s hurting.” Katy took a tissue from her bag. “There’s a broken little boy trapped inside, just wanting to be loved.” She blew her nose and continued. “I can’t believe she sent him away. He was only two, for goodness’ sake!”
“Sent him away?”
“She put him in a home for a while. Couldn’t cope, he said.”
“How long was he gone for?”
“I don’t know. He won’t talk about it. A couple of weeks, I think.”
Terry’s brow tightened. Katy was obviously mothering him, replacing the love and support he didn’t have as a child. “What sort of home?”
“I don’t know, he won’t tell me!”
His fountain pen scratched across the page. They could be mirroring each other. Perhaps Katy was rejected too? “Carry on.”
“He’s a Northerner, Catholic. Why do they have so many kids when they can’t support them? They were quite poor. He had to go without – toys, Christmas presents, that sort of thing.” She sighed and wiped away a tear. “You wouldn’t know he was from Leeds,” she continued. “The odd tell-tale sign, the occasional flat vowel when he’s tired, but that’s all. Otherwise he’s the perfect City gent!”
“In what way?”
“The way he acts. Wanted to get away from his childhood and succeed, I expect, so he climbed his way to the top! He’s like a bulldozer, flattening anything in his path! Very bright, you see. Got to grammar school, then university. He’s quite inspiring, actually. A good leader and manager, a brilliant thinker. Cares about his team at work.” The corners of her lips turned up into a smile. “That’s why I married him, that and his sense of humor.” She let out a short laugh, presumably at some private joke she was recalling.
“Anything else?”
“From what he’s told me, he was a good little kid, tried to please his mum, follow the rules, do the right thing.”
“And how did Mum respond?”
“I get the impression he was always looking for a crumb of affection. She’s a hard woman, not the cuddly type.”
“Is that your observation?”
“Richard told me, but I can see it too.” She paused. “There’s something else.” Terry nodded in her direction, encouraging her to continue. “There was another baby before Richard. It was stillborn. I wonder if Janet was in mourning when she had Rich? She’s very pragmatic. I can’t imagine her talking it over with anyone, even the priest. I can see her stuffing the emotions down and getting on with it. You know? For her, mothering was practical. Change nappy, feed, sleep. If she hadn’t got over the death of the baby, she wouldn’t be able to open her heart to Rich, would she?”
“That’s quite possible, does he show any signs?”
“What sort of signs?”
“You know the kind of thing – lack of confidence, avoiding connection, getting angry, being guarded.”
“He isn’t good with feelings. He can’t stand big shows of emotion, and he keeps a very tight rein on his own. I’ve only ever known him express anger, depression, and occasional excitement when he’s won something big like a bonus. Actually, I think he’s afraid of something, but he masks it with anger.”
“Does he respond to your emotions?”
“He hates me crying. Apart from that, he needs big, bold brushstrokes to get it. I have to tell him what I’m feeling, but aren’t all men like that?”
Terry looked up at her. “No!” His gentle voice was calm but emphatic.
“I feel like I can’t connect with him.”
He wrote on the file. Richard emotionally unavailable. Doesn’t express or respond to deeper feelings. Katy mothering him. Was she also rejected by mother? Was father emotionally cold or abusive? She was blind to what was going on, he noted. Of all people, she should have guessed. He glanced at the figure sitting opposite him. This woman who could register emotions in others from the slightest movement of their facial muscles, the density of the air around them, the tone of their voice, the way they were sitting. He knew her type. They could cry at a song, the beauty of a sunset, or the joy of children playing. She’d feel other people’s suffering and pain.
“What happens if you cry?” he said at last.
“I try not to, but I can’t help it. The kids tease me if they see me blubbing at a film! I always cry at Cinderella, it’s stupid, but I don’t know why.”
Identifies with Cinderella archetype, wrote Terry. “And how does Richard react?”
“I don’t let him see.”
“And if he did see?”
“He’d be angry or walk away, I expect. I’m afraid to show him. He doesn’t think adults are supposed to shed tears. He’d probably tell me not to be so immature.”
Terry’s eyebrow twitched. Stone by name and stone by nature. This man couldn’t appreciate what he had – a sensual woman whose breast heaved at the miracle of creation and the frailty of human nature. That heart of hers must beat with a thousand subtle emotions. Empaths like Katy had a sensitivity so rare they could pick up on the sentiments of others and mistake them for their own. He looked up at his client. There was something she wasn’t telling him. What had precipitated all this, he wondered?
�
��Anything else?” he asked.
“I don’t think Richard realizes that he is loved, or that he’s made of love like we all are! His parents do take an interest. I know they love him in their way, but he doesn’t see it. He’s built this steel wall around his heart, so he doesn’t have to feel anything. I’m so sad, Terry, to think of the pain that’s locked away inside him.”
Terry pursed his lips. “Perhaps he isn’t hurting? Otherwise, he’d show it, in some way, wouldn’t he? Perhaps he’d cauterize the feelings with addiction, or he’d seek help?”
Katy stared back at him and fell silent. He paused before changing the subject. “Anything else you wanted to discuss?”
“Only my dream diary,” said Katy rifling through her bag and triumphantly emerging with the book in her hand.
Terry listened as she read. “Hmm. I think the client dream is your lack of self-belief. I know you didn’t qualify with the Westminster Pastoral Foundation, I know you’re not a Jungian Psychoanalyst. Still, you are a conscientious and sought-after therapist. You must know that?” His eyes searched hers. Did she still feel she wasn’t enough? “Interestingly, it’s a male client,” he continued. “Bowing to male authority, even if it’s misplaced and dysfunctional. Tell me about your father?”
“What about the house? I’ve had that dream several times, and it’s always the same.”
“Yes.” Terry paused. She’d chosen not to answer the question. The father was likely the key here, but he’d have to wait until she was ready. “When people dream of a house, it often represents the inner self. In your case, there are so many aspects to explore. The flooded basement, the leaking toilet, the tidal river – these point to emotional overwhelm and loss. The subconscious seems to be at breaking point. All the work that needs doing on this house is a reflection of the overload in your life. You have too much on your plate! There’s a level of chaos here which is being suppressed, and a need to make order from it, but you fear you’re unable to. The fact it’s a large home suggests you’re worried about your wider family. The three kitchens. Hmm. The heart and hearth of the family are in disarray. You can’t decide.” He knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. “Between what, I don’t know, Is there anything more?” He wanted to say, ‘is there anyone else?’ but he wasn’t sure that was appropriate. She may simply be searching for a resolution.
Red Dress Page 26
