I smiled at Bijou Poulet and received a frown in return.
‘Describe a traumatic incident with this woman.’
‘You mean my mother?’
‘Whatever. Just pick up the pace. I haven’t got all day.’ She click-clicked the fingers of one hand and made an upward swirling motion with the index finger of the other.
My mind whirred, went blank, whirred, went blank. There had been many traumatic incidents but at that moment I could not think of a single one. I watched Bijou Poulet tap her pen on the notepad with impatience. I closed my eyes and heard her snort, a long ‘Hnihhh.’
Suddenly I could see my mother’s face. It was poked between the curtains of the fitting booth in the ladies department of Trout and Son and she was breathing heavily through her nose. I was naked from the waist up, struggling with the clasp of a Miss Teen Starter. Perspiration was running between the two things that had brought me there. They were as round and hard as walnuts and burned on my chest under my mother’s gaze.
‘Stop sweating. You’ll soil the thing and I’m not paying for soiled goods.’ She spoke in a hoarse whisper, twisting her neck out of the booth to make sure the shop assistant was out of hearing range.
The plastic clasp, slippery with perspiration, miraculously clicked shut. I pulled up the straps and raised the twin apricot cups over my breasts where they puckered for want of fill. My mother moved in close, breathing relentlessly through her nose. Her eyes were fixed on the cups.
‘Just lean forwards and fall into them.’
I bent at the waist and urged whatever flesh there was on my chest and underarms to fall into the cups. Nothing fell. I had no moveable flesh on my fourteen-year-old body. My mother looked at the empty cups and sucked air between her teeth before expelling it through her nose in a dissatisfied ‘Hnihhh.’ It was clear by the way she frowned that my chest was not good enough and never would be.
‘That’s it?’ Bijou Poulet raised her eyebrows and gave me an incredulous look.
‘Correct.’
‘That story has no entertainment value whatsoever. You need to learn the value of a good punch line. It makes all the difference.’
‘But I wasn’t trying to entertain. I didn’t think it was expected.’
‘What do you think it’s like listening to someone ramble on about personal problems? Psychotherapeutic dramatology is a two-way street. What did you expect from me?’
‘Mental therapeutics. I was hoping you could help me iron out the kinks of abnormality.’
‘I’m not a magician. It’s session number one and we haven’t even scratched the surface. Someone with your psychological profile needs extensive analytical attention. There’s layer upon layer of chronic disorder in your psyche. I’m seeing obsessive-compulsive behaviour and classic female hysteria. Then, of course, there’s the Joan of Arc business, the nub of your psycho-sexual problems.’ She leaned back in her chair and smiled professionally. ‘The good news is, you’re not alone with your psychoses. I treat sick people like you every day. The bad news is that your psychology needs reprogramming from the brain stem up. That sort of overhaul doesn’t come cheap. We’re looking at four, maybe five figures.’
‘I don’t have that kind of money. My funds are limited.’
‘I have an instalment plan with attractive rates for bulk purchase. You’ll need to buy bulk. I can assure you.’ Bijou Poulet smiled in an unnatural way and made a T with her hands. ‘Let’s take some time out. I’ll give you a minute or two to think over my generous offer.’
I should not have been disappointed by Bijou Poulet’s evaluation. Criticism is not new to me. I have heard it all my life and am vaccinated against it to some degree. But what surprised me was the finality of her assessment. I had naively expected some sort of miracle cure. The gift from Mr Chin and the timely assistance of Nigel had convinced me that something groundbreaking was about to happen. I should have known better. The brain is a complex and powerful organ. It consists of one hundred billion neurons and can generate enough energy to illuminate a twenty-watt light bulb. Psychology is not a simple science.
‘I’m afraid I can’t afford more psychotherapeutic dramatology but it would be helpful to know where my central problem lies.’
‘That would be revealed in session seventeen. Not before. Professional reasons, you understand.’
‘I don’t, no.’
‘I’m writing a screenplay, tentatively titled Cat Fight.’
‘About me?’
‘What kind of a psychological professional would I be if I couldn’t keep secrets?’
‘For a moment I did wonder.’
‘The content of my screenplay is private and personal, subject to copyright, patent pending.’ She looked at her wrist. ‘Your session is terminated.’
Without warning, she slipped a hand under my armpit and pulled me to my feet. I was fumbling with the laces of my shoes as I was bundled out of the door and escorted to the bottom of the stairs. The door was opened and I was ejected on to the street, blinking at the sudden whiteness of the overcast afternoon. I turned to protest but the door was slammed in my face. My eyes fell on the buzzer and I saw something I had not noticed before. The word scratched into the paint was not ‘ITCH’ as I had first thought. In front of this was the letter ‘B’.
Something hard poked into the small of my back but before I could react, a familiar voice spoke: ‘Hand over your crocodile bag and make it snappy!’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
