March (2)
I quite like painting. It's a mindless, stress-free sort of activity. Unlike some of the jobs I've had, there's that immediate sense of having achieved something tangible. This morning, the room was a strange half-pink, half-blue hybrid like a newborn's room where the parents were hedging their bets. Now just a few hours later it was completely blue. Well not simply 'blue', according to the label it was the colour of Mount Fuji.
One reason we'd bought the house because we really liked the area. It was green and leafy without being too far from the city centre. I impulsively decided to go for a walk, my breath steaming in the cold air as I strode across long, inky black shadows cast by the lampposts lining our street. I headed towards the park, which was a short walk away down the hill towards the river.
As I walked I remembered what Charlie has said about seeing Abby out running and I wondered if she used to run this way, perhaps completing a couple of laps of the park before jogging back. I used to run myself, although I'd gotten out of the habit since the move. Today was the kind of day that made me feel that I ought to dig out my running shoes from the back of the closet. I pictured myself a couple of pounds lighter, lithe and athletic, my hair shining in the sun as I jogged through the park, motivational music pounding through my ear buds.
All day I'd been wrestling with my conscience. It seemed to me that the journal I was reading was very personal and private, and not written for public consumption. Reading it felt like spying on Abigail or "Roxy", as it seemed she was known.
On the other hand, why had she left it behind if it was so private? In any case, surely the right thing to do here was to try and get it back to her. And, I reasoned, the best way of working out where she was, was to examine it for clues. Perhaps it would tell me more about her relationship with Terry.
Yes, that's what I was doing, I convinced myself. After I got back, I had a quick shower then retrieved it from the bottom of my underwear drawer. I wasn't being nosy, I was simply examining a key piece of evidence for clues, like a heroine in one of those crime novels I was so addicted to.
I resolved to try to read the whole thing, however long it took. I skimmed the first few pages, which only contained some half-finished sketches of a garden plan (which, judging by the state of the garden, she must have abandoned), and notes about things like dental appointments. On the next page, there was a cryptic note that read simply:
D called. Again, I told him I wasn't interested in taking him on, not after what happened. I made it clear I didn't like being tied up, not with someone who wasn't a long-term client anyway. And certainly not after what S. and P. told me about the way he treated them. I recommended several girls who are into that kind of scene and I'm sure they'd be perfect for him but some people just won't take no for an answer.
When I flipped over the page, I found a lengthier piece:
I often wonder how to describe myself. Escort? Call girl? Certainly not 'prostitute'. That conjures up images of desperate teenage drug addicts giving hand jobs in an alley for small change. People may laugh, but you know I genuinely consider myself a sex therapist. I know that makes some people roll their eyes, as if it's just a euphemism for 'hooker', but I honestly think that I can help people with their sexual issues, or at least help them live out long-held fantasies.
Take "C", for example. To anyone who knew her, she was a typical suburban housewife, happily married with a fifteen-year-old daughter. Physically, she had a fair complexion and was a little on the plump side but without being overweight. Who would have known what dark thoughts lurked beneath the sunny, open grin that she always greeted me with?
Although I'm bisexual, I generally prefer female clients and I knew the first time I spoke to C that she'd be a lot of fun. You see C's 'thing' was being seduced and spanked by a lesbian. We'd talked about it over the 'phone several times and she told me she'd had that fantasy as long as she could remember. Although she was completely happy with her marriage and primarily attracted to men, she sometimes found herself guiltily browsing though lesbian porn on the internet.
Her recurring fantasy, the one that she wanted help with, was based on this guilt. She fantasized about an older lesbian boss, finding out about the kind of websites she was visiting in work-time and what might happen.
Another reason I describe myself as a 'sex therapist' is that I take a lot of trouble to fulfil the client's requirements. I'm not just some bimbo turning up in a tight skirt and an eye-wateringly low top. I always make an effort to have the right look. In this case, I wore a smart but fashionable black skirt suit over a silvery grey blouse, my dark hair scraped back off my forehead and held in place with a matching black Alice band. More importantly though, it was about acting the role of a dominating boss, someone who expected employees to do as they were told.
I'd meet up with C every Thursday at a hotel room in town. I believe she told her husband she had an aromatherapy class. All of my clients would pay for the room and my time, and C was from a wealthy family so she'd book us a suite: two interconnecting rooms, a bedroom and a lounge complete with a desk. I'd get there early and make it look more like an office by pulling the desk into the middle of the lounge and placing chairs on either side.
When she turned up, I'd slip easily into my role as 'angry predatory boss' dressing down an errant employee as she took the seat opposite me.
"Well, I'm sure you know why I've called you in today. I spoke to you last week about being careful about what kind of websites you visit on work time, didn't I?"
"Yes, madam," she'd say, staring at her shoes.
"Well, let's see: hotlesbians.com, lesbiansex.com, ilovelez.com. Do you think these sites are appropriate for a workplace?"
"But I didn't.. .I mean, how...?" she'd stutter, nervously wringing her hands.
"Are they appropriate?" I'd interrupt.
"No madam, I'm very sorry."
"Well sorry just isn't good enough. I warned you last time that your job was at risk, didn't I?"
"Please Madam! I need this job!"
"Well you should have thought of that before you visited those disgusting websites," I'd snap angrily.
"Please, don't take my job. How will I explain it to my family? Please, I'll do anything."
"Anything, eh? Get up, let's have a look at you," I'd say sternly.
She'd always stand motionless, head down, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, as I circled around her pretending to decide what to do next, although we both knew where this was going.
"I think perhaps you need to be taught just how seriously I take this," I'd say, taking her hand in mine and leading her towards to bedroom.
"Please Madam, what are you going to do?" she'd whimper, as she followed reluctantly.
