My name is Philip. That much is true, although as you will understand I need to be quite vague about the specifics of this tale. I work as a psychotherapist at a practice in West London. I had been working there for just under a year when a woman came to us presenting with depression. I'll call her Christina, to protect her identity, although if she ever reads this I'm sure she'll recognise herself.
After an initial phone consultation, she arrived for her first full appointment one glorious July morning. The moment she walked through the door I knew I was in trouble.
As therapists, it is of course an iron rule that we must never, ever, get involved with our clients, either emotionally or sexually. And I knew, the moment I set eyes on Christina, that that was going to be an issue.
She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. At the time I estimated her age to be about thirty, the same as me, although in point of fact she was thirty-four. She had short dark hair and was tanned to a lovely caramel brown, and her black dress, though modest, was impeccably cut to accentuate her figure. She was wearing no jewellery apart from tiny gold ear-studs, and while I couldn't put a name to her perfume it was something expensive. When she removed her sunglasses, her eyes were a deep and soulful brown. I was lost already.
But I was a professional with a job to do. After getting her permission to record the session, which we always do, I invited her to give me some background. She sat quietly for a moment with downcast eyes, and then began to speak in a low subdued voice that the microphone was barely able to pick up.
"My husband died a little over a year ago."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"He left me a very wealthy woman. I have a house in London, another in Lisbon, and apartments in New York and Paris. My husband had considerable interests in the luxury hotel business, so I also have suites available in about thirty cities around the world. He had other interests -- commercial property, shipping -- but hotels were what he loved. Materially, I have absolutely nothing to worry about.
"His death was quite sudden and unexpected; his heart. He was quite a lot older than me and the marriage had been in some trouble for a while. We wanted different things, I think. He wanted me to show off to his friends, really, as if I were a yacht or a super-car. And we -." She stopped.
"Go on."
"We had lost interest in one another. Sexually, I mean."
"I see. Did you remain faithful to one another?"
"Yes. I mean, I can't be completely sure about him, but I think so. If I had taken a lover it would have wounded him terribly, and I didn't want to do that. After all, he treated me with great kindness. I feel guilty that I wasn't with him when he died -- he was on a business trip to Canada. It was only supposed to last two or three days."
"Do you feel that you don't deserve your wealth?"
"In a way," she said. "I didn't marry him for his money, you know."
"Why did you, then?"
She looked up sharply. "Because I loved him."
"Of course. Go on."
"His death was a terrible shock. It took me a long time to understand what was happening with the legal side. There were lots of meetings where I wasn't really taking much in. I was never much involved in the business side of his life. I didn't want to be. I was already quite comfortable when we met; money has never really interested me. I wasn't looking for more than I had."
"But now you have it."
"And I don't know what to do."
All the time she was talking, in my mind I was undressing her. I wondered if that caramel tan was continuous over her whole body. I imagined how that that exquisite skin might feel next to mine, warm and silken. I wanted to touch her, to tease her, to make her lose control. I wanted to make her beg and give her what she was begging for. I wanted to smell that perfume mingled with her sweat and the feral scent of her arousal. I wanted to astonish and delight her, to satisfy her as no lover had ever done before.
In short, I wanted to fuck her until she couldn't take any more.
But of course I gave no sign of any of this. Instead we spoke about her family background, which contained nothing unusual. Her parents were both dead, and had left her substantial property in the UK and abroad. She had an older sister living in Tuscany, but they weren't close. There had been no children from the marriage - "I can't," she said matter-of-factly.
I closed the session by asking her to keep a written record of her emotional state over the following week and to bring it with her to out next appointment, which she seemed happy enough to do. When she closed the door behind her I felt my heart still pounding.
The second session was worse, if anything. Again she wore black, although this time her dress revealed enough cleavage to whet my appetite. Not that I needed the encouragement.
We went through her journal and discussed her feelings of insecurity and black self-loathing and where they might have come from. She described in some detail how she lost her virginity while still a schoolgirl in Switzerland, and how it had made her feel about herself and her body. I wished that I had been her lover, and had made a better fist of it than the clumsy Swiss boy who had had that honour.
She talked about her sleepless nights, and I imagined her drowsing in my arms, drugged by sexual satiety.
I asked if she had had any relationships since her husband died. She shook her head.
"I couldn't imagine giving myself to another man," she said.
"Perhaps that's part of the problem."
"Do you think so?"
"Maybe you should think about it."
She didn't look convinced.
Afterwards I went straight to my colleague Sue, who has always been something of a mentor to me, and confessed my feelings for Christina.
"It happens more often than you'd think," she said. "Therapy can be a powerful and intimate connection."
"This has nothing to do with therapy. This is lust."
"Then you'd better learn to control yourself, hadn't you? It's part of the job, Phil. Deal with it."
"I'd be much more comfortable if you'd take her on as your client."
"I'm sure you would. That's exactly why I won't do it. You'll learn from this."
I wasn't convinced.
As it happened, my willpower wasn't put to the test. Christina came into the office and cancelled her treatment, leaving a sealed envelope addressed to me at reception. The contents startled me.
Dear Philip,
I hope you won't take my decision to cancel our sessions as any reflection on yourself or your competence. They have actually been extremely helpful, more than you may ever realise.
I would very much like to see you in a non-professional capacity. This coming Saturday I shall be having coffee in Mario's in Knightsbridge from 10 am and you are very welcome to join me there.
If you do not come, I shall of course respect your decision.
Yours,
C
I didn't show this note to Sue, although I ought to have done. I didn't even mention its existence. We discussed possible reasons for her cancellation, of course. Many of our clients were bored rich people with nothing much wrong with them, and they came and went on a whim. I convinced Sue that Christina was just another one of those.
Of course I had to go. It might or not be ethical, but I was going to do it anyway.
She was waiting for me as promised, wearing her customary black, but this time something cut very low at the front and very high at the side. And she smiled at me: I had not seen her smile once. Her smile was as perfect as the rest of her.
"I'm so glad you decided to come," she said.
"You're looking well."
"I feel so much better, thanks to you."
"I'm glad to hear it." I ordered an espresso with water on the side.
