The Hypnotist’s Love Story, Page 31

  Colleen had been a marketing assistant. Ellen wondered if she just imagined that Patrick's face automatically softened whenever he mentioned Colleen's name, in the same way that her father's face had softened when he mentioned his real children.

  And so what if it did?

  (And just what did she mean by "real children"? How sulky and silly and obvious of her. She was behaving as if her father had deserted her. Was that what she subconsciously thought? She thought her subconscious was more mature than that.)

  "I'm not a product," said Ellen, although the marketing course she'd taken had encouraged her to think of herself as a "brand."

  "You know what I mean," said Patrick. "I just don't want you getting yourself worked up about this when it probably means nothing. It might not even be related to Ian I've-got-a-big-dick Roman."

  "He owns that paper," said Ellen. "I looked it up on the Internet. It's too much of a coincidence."

  "Have you called his wife?" said Patrick. "She's the one who needs to put a stop to all this."

  "I've left two messages," said Ellen. "I don't think she could help now anyway. He's got me in his sights."

  She paused. "Did I just say, 'He's got me in his sights'? I can't believe I said that."

  Patrick didn't answer. He was lying back on his pillow looking at his BlackBerry. He was addicted to it. It made Ellen laugh when he complained about Jack spending too much time on his Nintendo.

  "Jesus," said Patrick. He sat up.

  "What?" said Ellen, thinking, Saskia.

  "The bastard wants to take me to court."

  "What bastard?"

  Patrick was still looking incredulously at the tiny screen. "That client who is refusing to pay his bill." He tapped furiously with his thumbs. "I got my solicitor to send over a Letter of Demand today. And now this guy is not only refusing to pay, but he reckons he's going to sue us because we took too long to complete the work. What a joke."

  "It's probably just a, what do you call it, a countermove," said Ellen.

  "God almighty! The injustice of it." Patrick's whole body had become almost rigid with rage. "He wanted this job fast-tracked. We worked overtime for him. I missed Jack's soccer game because of this prick, and then he has the audacity to say we took too long?"

  "Your solicitor will know what to do," said Ellen.

  His rage made her feel nervous. She'd always found male anger intimidating. It was so physical.

  She said, "You can call him first thing in the morning."

  "Yes," said Patrick. He turned off his BlackBerry, took a deep breath and glanced at her. "We're not having a great day, are we?"

  Ellen pointed at her stomach. "Shhhh. It was a great day, remember?"

  Patrick put his hand briefly on Ellen's stomach. "Of course it was."

  He put the BlackBerry down on his bedside table and folded the quilt back so that it was covering Ellen but not him.

  They snapped off their bedside lamps at the same time, lay down and turned away from each other, their backs pressed together.

  "Flat pillow," said Patrick suddenly, sitting back up and pulling his pillow out from behind his head.

  "Oops," said Ellen. They swapped pillows and lay back down again.

  Patrick tapped her leg with his heel to say good night; she tapped back with her heel.

  They'd been in a relationship for less than a year, and already they had so many routines, customs and procedures. It was like each new couple created a new kingdom together.

  Saskia couldn't let her kingdom go.

  She closed her eyes and Ian Roman's face immediately loomed in front of her, as if he'd been waiting behind a curtain, ready to jump out the moment she tried to fall asleep.

  I'm putting you out of business.

  He couldn't really put her out of business, could he? Even if the article did imply terrible things about her, she wouldn't lose all her clients, would she? All the goodwill she'd built up over the years couldn't vanish overnight, could it?

  From just one article?

  And for heaven's sake, how bad could that one article be? She wasn't some sort of evil con artist. She hadn't done anything wrong.

  They couldn't just make things up, could they?

  Well, of course they could. She thought about all those celebrity articles announcing that Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt were getting back together, when they clearly weren't. But she wasn't a celebrity. Nobody actually cared about her life, whereas everybody wanted Brad and Jennifer to get back together; that's why they wrote those articles, because that's what people wanted to hear.

  (She herself was quite keen for Brad and Jennifer to get back together.)

  Surely this Lisa Hamilton would have enough journalistic integrity to talk to clients other than Luisa. Or did she have no choice? Had Ian Roman called her up and said, "I want this woman's reputation trashed or it's your job"?

  Maybe the poor journalist had an abusive husband and three small children, one of them requiring some sort of expensive transplant, and she had to keep her job at all costs, so Ellen would have to be sacrificed.

  "Can you sleep?" said Patrick, his voice suddenly loud in the quiet room.

  "No."

  "Me neither."

  He switched his light back on. "Should I get us some milk or something? Tea?"

  "No thanks," yawned Ellen. She sat up.

  He said, without any real enthusiasm, "Should we have sex, do you think?"

  Ellen laughed. "I'm not feeling especially amorous."

  "No," agreed Patrick. He sat up. "I think I'll go write an abusive e-mail to that client. Or punch something. Or run around the block."

  "Let me do you a relaxation," said Ellen. She would be glad of the distraction.

  "You've got enough on your mind," said Patrick.

  "It's fine," said Ellen. "I go into a trance too."

  "Oh, God, thank you, I didn't want to ask." Patrick lay down next to her. "I can't believe how hooked I've got on this."

  Ten minutes later he was in a medium trance, and Ellen herself was in that lovely liquid state she seemed to reach whenever she hypnotized Patrick.

  "I want you to go back to a time when you felt completely relaxed. A time long before the stresses of running your own business. Think of a time when you felt completely relaxed and happy. Are you there yet?"

  He nodded.

  "Where are you?"

  "Honeymoon," said Patrick. His voice had that stupid drugged quality.

  Ellen went very still.

  Stop right there, said Flynn's voice in her head. She paused, considering, listening to Patrick's deep, even breaths.

  Ask him, said Danny. Ask him what you want to know.

  "What are you doing?" she said to Patrick. There was nothing wrong with that.

  In the soft lamplight Patrick looked ten years younger. The lines between his eyes had smoothed out and his cheeks looked plumper.

  "We're snorkeling," he said.

  "You and Colleen," checked Ellen.

  Who else? Julia snorted in her head. Oh, what a load of rubbish, said her mother. He's just describing a memory to you. This isn't time travel.

  "Yes. It's stunning." Patrick smiled. "Col is wearing a blue bikini."

  "Is she?" said Ellen faintly.

  "She looks gorgeous."

  "Great," said Ellen. Julia was rolling about laughing in her head. You asked for it, you idiot.

  Highly unprofessional, said Flynn.

  "Describe what you're feeling," said Ellen, trying to get him back on track.

  "I've never been snorkeling before. Everything feels slowed down and still and all I can hear is my breathing. The coral is--oh, but I have to tell her!"

  His face changed. The lines reappeared, dragging down his cheeks.

  "Tell her what?" said Ellen. Sometimes a simple relaxation exercise could bring up repressed negative feelings. It had never happened before with Patrick; it wasn't meant to happen with Patrick. This wasn't a proper session; this was just helping
him forget about the horrible client so he could go to sleep.

  And this is exactly why we don't recommend hypnotizing your partner, said Flynn.

  "To see the doctor! Now. Right now. We have to go and see a doctor and catch it, the cancer, before it's too late." Patrick's hand opened and closed reflexively around the bedsheet. "She's so stupid, so stubborn. She felt that lump and she never said a word, for months, just hoping it was nothing, hoping it would go away. Just like she hoped the oil light would stop flashing in her car. Jesus Christ. You idiot, I said to her. You idiot. I made her cry. I shouldn't have made her cry. But she had a responsibility. To Jack. To me."

  Grief ravaged his face.

  "It's time to let this memory slip away," said Ellen. Her voice did not have the appropriate level of authority. She sounded like a beginner: shaky and forced.

  "I will never love another woman like her."

  "On the count of five," said Ellen.

  "I look at Ellen," said Patrick.

  Ellen froze.

  "And I think: It's not the same. It's just not the same."

  After they walked in to have their ultrasound, I couldn't stop crying. I had to leave. I was making a spectacle of myself. A woman came out from behind the reception desk and started walking toward me with a kind, purposeful expression on her face that meant: I sympathize, but please shut the hell up.

  I guess people aren't always crying tears of joy here. Ultrasounds don't always mean good news. The woman probably thought I'd lost a baby.

  What could I have said to her? No, I've never actually been pregnant, but I did lose my stepson. Does that count? He's that beautiful kid over there helping his new stepmother with her handbag. He looks tired. I don't think she's feeding him right. Too much tofu and lentils. Not enough protein. And although I didn't lose an actual baby, I did lose a dream baby, because that man over there stopped loving me, and now I'm too old, and he's found someone younger and nicer.

  They would say: No, that certainly does not count. Stop embarrassing yourself. Show some dignity. Some self-respect.

  Fair enough too.

  As I went down in the lift, I was still crying but wasn't really aware of feeling any particular emotion. The tears were like a symptom of some peculiar disease. I was just waiting for them to stop.

  I was walking back to my car when the pain in my leg suddenly became unbearable. If I used Ellen's dial metaphor, it was like someone had twisted it up to high.

  It was impossible to walk. I had to sit down. I looked around for a bus stop or a wall, but there wasn't one anywhere, so I just sat down in the gutter, like a drunk. I couldn't believe that just half an hour earlier I was dealing so efficiently with those developers and now here I was, crying in a gutter.

  A man who had parked his car just in front of where I sat down came over to ask if I was OK. He looked like he was in his late sixties. One of those weathered friendly faces, like a man from the outback. He reminded me of Patrick's dad. He seemed convinced that he'd seen me twist my ankle, and was talking about getting ice for it and how I needed to keep it elevated, and it took quite a while for him to realize that my ankle was fine. I finally had to explain to him that I had a pain in my leg that could not be explained or cured, and that I wasn't crying because of the pain but because of "something personal." He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and took out a card. For a moment I thought he was giving me the name of a therapist, but he said, "This guy is a brilliant physio. I had terrible back pain a few months ago. Excruciating. Nearly brought me to tears. He fixed me right up. Good as new!"

  I thanked him, and didn't bother telling him that I'd already been to seven different physiotherapists and I wasn't going to waste any more of my money.

  "In the meantime, take a really strong painkiller," he said. "And forget that schmuck! His loss, right? Plenty more fish in the sea for a gorgeous girl like you!" He gave me a little pat on the shoulder, and then he suddenly seemed embarrassed, as if he was worried he might be acting inappropriately; he stood up quickly, and his knees made a loud cracking sound, which his brilliant physio might need to take a look at.

  Nice people! How do they get so nice? And how do they sustain it? All that smiling and caring and sharing? It must be exhausting and so time-consuming--keeping an eye out for strangers in need.

  As I watched him go, I thought, for the first time in years: It must be nice to have a dad.

  I bet Ellen has a lovely father, a daddy who bounced her on his knee and called her his princess. She has the look of someone who has been adored by her father.

  I called up the office from the gutter and told them that I was going to work from home for the rest of the day.

  I managed to hobble back to the car, and when I got home I took the nice dad-like man's advice and found an old prescription painkiller in my medicine cupboard. I took two, and then I fell asleep. When I woke up, the brother and sister from the nice family next door were home from school and they were in the backyard. I tried to do some work, but my head felt so fuzzy and peculiar and I kept getting distracted by the sounds of their playing. For nice children they didn't seem to be playing so nicely. It sounded like a toxic relationship: one minute laughter and singing and the next tears and screams of "Stop it!" I was under the impression that children stayed indoors these days and played computer games.

  Eventually I gave up trying to work and I opened a bottle of red wine. I thought I would toast Patrick's new baby.

  That was my mistake. I've never been much of a drinker.

  Ellen dreamed.

  Her dreams were vivid and endless and exhausting. She knew she was dreaming and she kept trying to wake up properly so the dreams would stop, and every now and then she would find herself back in the reality of the dark room, turning over to readjust her pillow, nudging Patrick to stop him snoring, but then before she could stop herself, she'd find herself falling asleep again, toppling headfirst into a canyon of swirling thoughts and faces and sounds.

  Her mother and her godmothers were running along a beach, naked, laughing in that schoolgirl way that always made her feel left out.

  "They're showing off," she said to her father, who was sitting on the beach next to her, fully dressed, thankfully, in his suit and tie. He had sauce from his Moroccan chicken wrap on his lip.

  Ellen said, "The daughter's relationship with her father is the model for all her future relationships." She felt proud, as if she was making some sort of incredibly subtle, ironic, witty point.

  Her father was reading the newspaper now. He glanced up at her with an expression of pure disgust on his face. "This article is about you," he said.

  "It's not true," said Ellen, filled with shame and hurt beyond belief.

  "It is true," said a girl who was sitting in front of Ellen patting a sandcastle into shape with a yellow spade.

  "Colleen!" said Ellen. She was going to be extremely nice to her because that was the sort of person she was. "How are you?"

  She tried to think of a topic of conversation that would interest Colleen. "I hear that you sewed your own wedding dress," she said. "You must be so talented!"

  "You're being condescending," said Julia. She was sunbaking on her stomach and lifted her head from her towel to speak.

  "She should never have got pregnant," said Colleen to Julia. "That was unethical of her."

  "Probably," yawned Julia. "But she means well."

  "It was unethical because he's still in love with me," said Colleen complacently.

  "But you're dead!" cried Ellen, suddenly remembering and filled with the injustice of her accusation.

  "You're a very pretty girl," said Ellen's father to Colleen.

  Colleen tilted her head. "Thank you, David."

  "Well, I'm so sorry for getting pregnant," said Ellen. She knew she was acting petulantly because she was jealous of her father complimenting Colleen, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. She began to fling handfuls of sand at her own face. "How can I redeem myself? What can I do to ma
ke it up to you?"

  "Ellen. Stop it. You are making an absolute fool of yourself," said Madeline, who was sitting on the old couch they had when they shared a flat.

  "Did you hear something?" said Patrick. Ellen woke to see Patrick sitting up next to her in bed, rubbing his eyes.

  "It's just the wind, I think," said Ellen.

  Outside, the wind was howling, making the windows rattle. She sat up and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table.

  "Sorry," said Patrick. He lay back down.

  Ellen tipped back her water glass. It was empty. She didn't remember drinking it. She looked at the clock: only four a.m. This night would never end.

  "I'm having all these peculiar dreams," said Ellen.

  There was a bang as a branch or something landed on the roof.

  "Me too," said Patrick. "It's the wind."

  "You said something when I was doing your relaxation," said Ellen.

  "Mmmm?" said Patrick.

  "About Colleen."

  She waited. Patrick snored.

  Ellen lay back down and instantly dreamed again.

  This time she was walking down the aisle on her wedding day, wearing her grandmother's dress. She was carrying the baby in the palm of her outstretched hand. The baby was the size of a bead and it was rolling back and forth across her palm.

  "Keep your hand flat! You'll drop it!" said one of the wedding guests. Ellen turned her head to see that it was her client Luisa, wearing a big hat. "You don't even know how to look after a baby! I should be the pregnant one! Give it to me!"

  "I gave you your money back," said Ellen briskly. "There is nothing more I can do. I am a good person."

  She kept walking. She could see Patrick at the end of the aisle, facing away from her. He turned around to look at her, and Ellen smiled at him, but his face changed.

  "Stop following me!" he yelled. His voice echoed throughout the whole church. "It's over! Can't you understand? I never loved you!"

  Ellen was mortified. "Patrick, it's not Saskia, it's me!" she called out. She tried to keep her voice light and cheery, because it was a wedding after all, but loud enough for Patrick to hear right down the other end of the aisle, which had become as long as an airport runway.

  "Leave me alone!" shouted Patrick.

  "Darling, I don't think he loves you anymore," said her mother. She and the godmothers were dressed up like bridesmaids from the eighties, in pink taffeta dresses with giant puffed sleeves.