The Therapist, page 10
‘Steady on, Martha. There are two kinds of people you should never ask about the state of the world—psychotherapists and journalists. Surely you know that! We’re the poor buggers who deal with exceptions. We don’t get people coming in here purely to let us know how wonderful their relationships are and how their kids are a source of unalloyed pleasure. I don’t, anyway. The people I see are the people who aren’t coping. Why else do they come? They’re not psycho-tourists. They need help. That’s what gives them the courage to pick up the phone. They’re in trouble.’
‘Sometimes they’re not. Sometimes they’re just trying to understand themselves a bit better.’
‘On the surface, perhaps. And maybe they’re the ones who go to analysts, not therapists.’
It was a familiar theme in Rob’s reflections on the branch of the profession he was in. For Rob, therapy had to mean solid progress. Martha agreed—wasn’t she the great anti-wallowing advocate?—but she was less interested in timelines and boundaries than Rob. She sometimes called him Mister Fixit, not unkindly but not entirely sympathetically. She wasn’t sure that, even now, he understood that clients were usually capable of solving their own problems if they were given the time, the space, the encouragement, the support and the affirmation they needed. All Martha wanted for her epitaph was: She heard us. Rob wanted more than that.
Rob’s point, often repeated, was that if he was doing his job, his clients would soon restabilise and start to get more satisfaction from their lives. And the best sign of that would be when they no longer needed to see him.
‘Funny job, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The measure of our success is the rate at which clients drop off our books.’
‘Sandrine often says that. She gets quite attached to some of our clients and misses them when they stop coming, though I tell her that it’s a good sign. She thinks we should send out little reminders for annual check-ups, like a dentist.’
‘Good one, Sandy. But listen, Martha—it’s completely ridiculous judging the state of the world by the people who come in here. Or by what you see on news and current affairs shows. If it bleeds, it leads: isn’t that the journos’ catch-cry? Well, if they’re wounded or troubled enough—or lost enough—they eventually land on our doorstep.’
‘Oh, I suppose you’re right, Rob. But I read the journals. So do you.’ Martha was still rocked by a study she’d read recently showing that twenty-five per cent of adults reported feeling lonely for most of every week. ‘Twenty-five per cent, Rob. You can’t ignore a figure like that.’
‘True. I’m just asking you to remember that seventy-five per cent of adults don’t report feeling lonely for most of every week. Sorry to sound like Pollyanna, but you can depress yourself if you don’t keep some balance, Martha. When a client leaves here in better shape than when they started, great. But we’re sending them out to join the majority of people who are rubbing along reasonably contentedly. Occasionally even quite cheerfully. Anyway, living lives at least a notch or two up from miserable.’
‘That’s a bit grim. Have you been reading Freud again?’ It amused Martha that Rob, a committed non-Freudian, would occasionally immerse himself in some of Freud’s classics. ‘Very clever,’ was his recurring verdict. It was meant as faint praise.
‘Look, all I’m saying is that when they’re through with us, our clients don’t join some rarefied, elite group who’ve been trained up by therapists to function above and beyond. Normal is okay. In fact, that’s the definition of okay, isn’t it?’
Martha sipped her drink and looked intently at Rob. She couldn’t resist the thought that episodes of something close to misery were what Rob himself seemed to be enduring with increasing frequency as his relationship with Constancia staggered towards its inevitable, messy end.
‘Uh-oh,’ Rob said. ‘You’ve got that Constancia look on your face. Spit it out. What’s on your mind?’
‘Am I really so transparent? Isn’t my face just its usual picture of acceptant tranquillity?’ Martha struck an exaggerated pose of yogic meditation.
‘Nah, I get it,’ Rob said. ‘I really do.’
‘Get what?’
There was a long silence, and then Rob said: ‘Martha, I think I do want to be a father after all.’
That was possibly the last thing Martha had expected to hear.
‘A father? Where did that come from?’
Another silence.
‘It was something Constancia said over lunch a few weeks ago.’
‘She wants kids?’
‘The opposite. She’s just had her tubes tied. No kids. Ever, ever, ever.’
‘And?’
‘Well, typical Constancia. She said if I wanted to be a father, I’d have to find some other uterus.’
‘That’s a rather brutally anatomical way of putting it.’
‘Constancia all over. Plenty of passion but no romance.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘You really think you might want to be a father after all?’
Paternity again, thought Martha. Sam, Lucas, and now Rob. Was this to be the leitmotif of the final chapter of her working life?
‘Never given it much thought before, I guess. Never been the right time. Or the right woman.’
‘You have said a few times, over the years, that you’d love a relationship like the one I have with Sam. I remember that.’
‘That’s true. That is true. I would.’
‘Sam’s hardly been plain sailing, Rob. Never less plain than now. But I know what you mean.’
‘Maybe mothers and daughters are different. It wouldn’t do to fantasise about what I’ve been missing. I hear plenty of war stories.’
‘Me too.’
‘And it’s not something you decide, really, is it? I mean, did you and Simon ever sit down and say, Let’s have a kid? Rationally, like that?’
That was a topic almost too painful for Martha to revisit.
‘I had a couple of miscarriages before Sam, so there was the assumption …’
‘Sorry, Martha.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘No, I meant mentioning Simon. Not your favourite subject, I realise.’
Martha turned brisk. ‘Look, Rob, there’s a lot of truth in what you say. How many first pregnancies are unplanned? Somewhere between a third and a half? Not unwanted, necessarily—just unplanned. In this day and age! So, yeah, you’re right. It might not always be a deliberate decision. But what is? All these life choices we’re supposed to be making … most of them just seem to evolve, don’t they?’ Martha had often felt that her clients were like bystanders to their own lives, surprised by the way things were turning out.
‘Bertrand Russell, here we come.’ Rob reached over and picked up a card that sat permanently on his desk. He glanced at it and smiled, then read it aloud: ‘Man is a rational animal. So at least we have been told. Throughout a long life I have searched diligently for evidence in favour of this statement. So far, I have not had the good fortune to come across it.’
‘I know. Terrific quote.’
‘We should get it framed and hang it in the waiting room.’
‘No way. It would seem like an insult. People need to live with the fantasy.’
‘That they’re rational?’
‘Don’t you?’
More silence from Rob, yet his clouded face was eloquent.
‘Please say what’s on your mind, Rob.’ Martha was sympathetic. She had wanted three kids and ended up with one. A client she was seeing had only ever wanted one and ended up with three. Two different fathers, the client thinks. How could she not know for sure? Martha wondered.
‘At least you tried,’ Rob said. ‘At least you gave it a go.’
‘And you’re regretting not having given it a go? This seems a bit sudden, Rob. Mind you, I can easily visualise you as a father. A lovely father, actually.’
‘A lovely grandfather, maybe. My brother has just become a grandfather. Well, step-grandfather, anyway, courtesy of his new wife.’
‘So, really, it sounds as if Constancia has actually done you a huge favour.’
‘Come again?’
‘Declaring no babies ever. Go and find another uterus. All that.’
‘How is that doing me a favour?’
‘Knowing fatherhood is not an option with her forces you to question whether you’re ready to live with the idea that the door’s been permanently shut. Like being vasectomised.’
Rob looked steadily at Martha.
‘Oh, Rob. Let her go.’
SIXTEEN
On her third visit, Ruby came into the reception area with an uncharacteristically tentative air, as if she was not sure she was welcome, or even expected. Sandrine greeted her warmly and did her best to reassure her that, yes, this was the correct time for her appointment. Martha would be with her in a moment.
Once she was in the room with Martha and settled into her usual chair, she breathed a huge sigh of relief and, unbidden, removed her shoes. Martha sensed that she was more tense and anxious than usual. More troubled, perhaps.
‘I see you’ve taken your shoes off, Ruby. I think that’s a good idea. And I have another suggestion. Before we begin our session—or before we start talking, I should say—I’d like to give your feet a short massage. Would that be okay with you? I assure you it will be pleasant, and very relaxing.’
‘I guess. Why not?’
‘I’ll just go and get some oil and a towel—would you mind taking off your stockings while I’m gone?’
Far from feeling more relaxed, Ruby now felt distinctly uneasy. She had really warmed to Martha and felt they’d made some good progress—or, anyway, Ruby felt they’d had some wonderful conversations about all sorts of things she wouldn’t normally talk about. But taking off her tights seemed a bit much. Still, she trusted this woman …
Martha returned and the massage began. Ruby started to say something and Martha held up her hand to stop her. ‘We’ll just spend a couple of minutes on this, Ruby, with no talking, okay? Just listen to your breathing and relax all the way from your feet upwards. Listen to what your feet are telling you.’
Martha completed the massage and left Ruby’s feet wrapped loosely in the towel.
‘You can put your stockings back on before you leave. Now, I wonder where you’d like to start today. Last time, you mentioned that there was one girlfriend in particular who knew more about you than anyone on the planet. I think that’s what you said. Would you like to say some more about her?’
‘That’s Charmaine I’m talking about. I call her Char. She was a school friend, and we lost touch for a few years when we went to different unis, but now we’re back to being a bit like we were at school. Lots of laughs. Lots of tears. Close as. What more can I say?’
‘Do you feel there are any limits to your conversations with Char? Any boundaries?’
‘Never. That’s the beautiful thing. Nothing’s taboo. She’s just split up from her partner, Brian—they never married—and she’s unloaded all the details onto me. I’ve heard the lot. I’m sure he’d freak if he knew half the stuff Char tells me. But she needs to share. Overshare—that’s Char’s style.’
‘You feel she goes a bit too far sometimes?’
‘Oh no, no, no. I never meant that. Oversharing is our kind of sharing. We like to see if it’s still possible to shock each other. It isn’t. Or not so far. A bit in the beginning, when we first met up again. But not now. We talk about anything—everything. Brian. Vincent. You. Wait till she hears you massaged my feet! Oh, it was lovely. I’m not saying it wasn’t. Really lovely. But Char will go, She what? Fair enough, too. It does sound weird when you just say it. Like, I went in for some counselling and I came out with a foot massage. Is this legit, by the way? Doing my feet as part of psychology? Anyway, you’re better at it than any of the girls in the nail bar.’
‘It’s all one, as far as I’m concerned, Ruby. We’re not confined to counselling here. I need you to be relaxed with me, so you can talk as freely as you want to. Sometimes we do a bit of deep breathing. Sometimes a little foot massage. Whatever it takes. The main thing is that you’re comfortable with it.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m comfortable. Very. I’m just thinking about Char’s reaction.’
‘You’ll feel it’s necessary to tell her?’
‘Absolutely. She’ll love it. She’ll probably get straight on the phone to Sandrine herself to book a foot massage.’
‘Well, we don’t take bookings for foot massages. But I’m pleased if you think Char will get a charge out of hearing about your experience. When do you see Char? Roughly how often would you speak to each other?’
‘We talk every day. Some days two or three times. Depends what’s happening. We have lunch once a week—Wednesdays, while Vincent is off with his therapist. Maybe a coffee on the spur of the moment. Maybe a drink after work on Fridays if there’s nothing doing in my office. She thinks I should bed Jerry. You know Jerry, my friend at work? No way I’d ever even think about that. Not with Jerry. Don’t fuck your friends. Wasn’t that Timi Haze?’
‘I think Gore Vidal might have said it first.’
‘Who? Anyway, that’s the sort of game Char likes to play. Halfway between teasing and shocking. Know what I mean?’
‘But she’s not serious, you mean?’
‘You’d never know with Char. What a case!’
‘So perhaps she knows more about your relationship with Vincent than I do?’
‘Way more. Way more.’
‘And do you think Vincent has any idea of the closeness between you and Char?’
‘Where are you going with this, Martha? Are you being tricky all of a sudden?’
‘Tricky? Not in the slightest, Ruby. It’s a pretty obvious thing for me to raise. Let me spell it out even more clearly. Do you think Vincent might feel about Char the way you feel about his therapist? The intimacy. The frankness. The secrecy. That kind of thing.’
Ruby fell silent. She looked at Martha, then looked away. She reached down and wrapped the towel more tightly around her feet.
Then she said: ‘That’s a bit too obvious, isn’t it? A bit too neat? Like, I’m all for the simplest explanation—that’s a big part of my job. Finding the most simple and elegant solutions. If it’s too complicated in theory, it won’t work in practice. But Char’s my friend. I wouldn’t mind if Vincent had a mate as close as Char is to me. That would be good. That would be healthy. But paying a therapist to talk about your wife? Come on, there’s no comparison.’
‘I thought we were trying to operate as if we believe Vincent when he says that his therapy isn’t all about you?’
Ruby fell silent again. Then she unwrapped the towel, stood up and announced that she’d go to the washroom and put her tights back on. ‘I need to pee, anyway,’ she said.
Martha swivelled her chair around to face her desk and made some notes on Ruby’s file. Then she stood up and walked to the window. It was a cold, clear day, with just a hint of blossom starting to appear on the only two trees that remained from the original garden of the cottage. Spring would bring its usual raft of new cases, Martha reflected. Pandemic or no pandemic, winter exaggerated people’s gloom. Spouses could start to seem duller than usual. Were people who travelled north for winter breaks trying to warm up their relationship? Checking herself, Martha wondered if she might be becoming jaded herself, being tempted by such a glib, simplistic interpretation. Definitely time to think about pulling the plug …
Ruby was back in the room, looking fresh and feisty.
‘You still seem to be missing the main point, Martha,’ she said.
‘Which is?’
‘If it’s not about me, he’d be comfortable telling me what it is about. Isn’t that true?’
‘Look, Ruby, I won’t push the Char analogy too far, but it sounds as if there are a million things you talk to Char about—things that have nothing to do with Vincent—that you nevertheless wouldn’t pass on to Vincent. Am I right? Strictly girl talk? I think you used those very words at our first session together.’
‘Yeah, okay, but you said it yourself—those are things that have nothing to do with Vincent.’
‘But other things are about him?’
‘Yeah. Some.’
‘And that might include some things you don’t discuss with him, either?’
‘Stop right there, Martha. Have you even been listening? I’ve tried and tried and tried to talk about all kinds of stuff with Vincent but he just clams up. Not interested. Then he pays someone—he pays someone—to talk about all the stuff I’d love him to talk about with me.’
Martha nodded and smiled at Ruby. ‘Our time’s up for today, I’m afraid, but I’d like you to think about this for next week: on your very first visit, you said you were coming to see me as a form of self-defence, to find out what really went on between a client and a counsellor—or therapist—that Vincent seemed unable to share with you. So can you imagine the possibility—I’m not saying it is possible, I’m just asking you to imagine—that Vincent might have started seeing his therapist as a defence against the intimacy he suspects you have with Char? Maybe he’s been feeling a bit left out?’
‘Totally different thing. Friends. Therapists. Totally different.’ ‘But that might be the point, Ruby. They might indeed be totally different. And so might spouses and therapists.’
‘I’m not sure you really get it, Martha. But, yeah, I’ll think about that.’
SEVENTEEN
Two or three times a year, Martha invited a handful of clients to join her for afternoon tea in what had once been the dining room of the cottage. She liked the idea of giving a few carefully chosen clients an opportunity to relate to each other—and to her—in a purely social setting. She had also found, over the years, that helpful connections were sometimes made at these little events between people who had been feeling socially isolated. It was an idea she had originally borrowed from a GP friend who started turning on Christmas lunch for patients who lived alone and had nowhere else to go at Christmas.
