psychiatrist who’d been recommended to me in the old days. I made an appointment for Thursday lunchtime.
The first visit wasn’t a conspicuous success. The analyst was middle-aged, handsome, well-dressed, with teeth as white as his shirt-cuffs, a soothing deliberate manner, and a photograph of a beautiful wife and child on the desk. I was too uptight to tell him very much, but he gave me enough tranquillizers to last a week, on condition that I returned again next Thursday lunchtime.
‘It’s very kind, but I can’t afford it,’ I muttered.
I felt a totally doglike gratitude when he waved my protestations airily away and said:
‘Don’t give it a thought, Miss Brennen. In exceptional circumstances I take National Health patients, and your case interests me very much.’
The tranquillizers got me through another week. My legs were photographed in every conceivable type of stocking, and the advertising department professed themselves delighted with the result.
The following Thursday morning, just as I was setting out for the doctor, Xander rang, just back from the Middle East, and absolutely raving over his trip. He and Gareth had pulled off some fantastic deals he said, and Gareth was a star.
‘I simply adore him,’ he went on. ‘I’m thinking of divorcing Pammie and asking him to wait for me, and darling, he can sell
‘Was it terribly hot?’ I said.
‘Terrible, and if I see another belly dancer, I’ll go bananas.’
‘Did Gareth have lots of birds out there?’ I said, suddenly feeling my voice coming out like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘No, actually he didn’t. I think he’s got some bird in England he’s hooked on.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘Well, this ravishing redhead met him at the airport, bubbling over with excitement, flinging her arms round him.’
‘Mrs Smith?’ I said in a frozen whisper.
‘No, much younger. Laura, I think she was called.’
‘Lorna Hamilton?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Gareth was supposed to be giving me a lift into London, but I left them to it.’
Almost sleep-walking, I got myself to the analyst. On the way I passed a church; the gutter outside was choked with confetti. Gareth and Lorna, Gareth and Lorna, a voice intoned inside me — they sounded like a couple by Tennyson.
The analyst had darkened his waiting room. After the searching sunlight it was beautifully cool. His receptionist got me a glass of iced water, and then I heard him telling her to go to lunch. I lay down on the grey velvet sofa. This time I found myself able to talk. I didn’t tell him about Gareth, but raved on about my childhood.
‘I wasn’t allowed to be loving as a child,’ I sobbed. ‘My mother didn’t love me. She never kissed me goodnight or tucked me up. Neither of my parents loved me, they fought like cats to have custody of my brother, Xander, but they fought equally hard not to have me. .’
‘Go on,’ said the analyst noncommitally. I could feel his pale blue eyes watching me, smell the lavender tang of his aftershave.
‘I know what happens to people who aren’t loved enough,’ I went on. ‘They just close up, and love or hate themselves too much. They’re incapable of getting it together with anyone else. .’
After three-quarters of an hour of my ramblings, he glanced at his watch.
I got up to go.
‘I’m sorry, I must have bored you to death. You can’t possibly put me on the National Health.’
‘I thought we’d dispensed with all that,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll come again next week?’
‘Oh please, if you can spare the time.’
He scribbled out a prescription. ‘Here’s another week’s supply of Valium.’
He turned towards me, the prescription suddenly trembling in his hand. He was trying to smile; his blue eyes glazed, his face pale, he was sweating and there was a tic in his cheek. Then he walked round the table, stood in front of me and put a wet hand on my arm.
‘I was wondering,’ he said, that tic was going again, ‘if I might see you — outside consulting hours. I am sure I could show you there was no need to be so lonely.’
Behind him, smiling sunnily, was the photograph of his wife and children. I had trusted him implicitly.
‘I d-don’t think it’d be very wise,’ I said, backing away from him, ‘I’ve never found married men very satisfactory.’
I wrenched open the door behind me, amazed to find it unlocked. I saw fear start in his eyes, the Medical Council passing judgment. Then he squared his shoulders.
‘Of course,’ he pressed the bell on the desk, magicking up the instant receptionist to show me out.
I ran down the street prescriptionless and sobbed helplessly in the nearest garden square.
By some miracle I got back to the office just before Miss Parkside, the office crone. She arrived grumbling that she couldn’t find a size 16 skirt to fit her anymore, and brandishing a large Fuller’s cake to distract everyone’s attention from her lateness.
‘I suppose I ought to have worn my all in one,’ she said, plunging a knife into the hard white icing, ‘but it’s too hot in this weather. It must be well up in the nineties. Come on, Octavia, you need feeding up.’
She handed me an enormous piece. In order to save money, I’d trained myself to go without lunch and breakfast. I usually had something to eat free in the evening at the restaurant while I was waitressing. Every mouthful of the cake seemed like sand in my throat. All the typists looked sympathetically at my reddened eyes, but said nothing.
My task for the afternoon was to ring up the papers and chase them to come to a press preview the next morning. I found it distasteful and embarrassing. In the middle Xander suddenly rang me. He sounded drunk.
‘I know you don’t like personal calls, darling, but this is a very special one. You’re going to be an aunt.’
‘A what?’
‘An Aunt! Pammie’s pregnant.’
I gave a scream of delight that must have echoed through the whole building.
‘Oh Xander, are you sure?’
‘Quite, quite sure, she’s even being sick, poor darling.’
‘How long’s she known?’
‘Well, just after I went to the Middle East, but she wanted to be quite sure before she told anyone.’
I’d never known him so chipper.
‘Good old Pammie, isn’t it marvellous,’ he went on, ‘Ricky rang me up just now and was so nice, he even congratulated me about work, said the Middle East trip had been a great coup. Look, darling, I mustn’t keep you, I know you’re busy, but come over and celebrate at the weekend.’
I put the telephone down feeling utterly depressed. I knew I ought to be delighted, but all I could think was Xander was getting so far ahead of me in life, with a job that was going well, and a baby on the way. I felt sick with jealousy. I wanted a baby of my own. Listlessly I finished making my telephone calls, and started stapling press releases together for the preview tomorrow. The afternoon sun was blazing through the window. I could feel the sweat running down my back. Miss Parkside and the typists had already started grumbling about the prospects of the journey home.
The telephone went again. Miss Parkside picked it up.
‘For you,’ she said, disapprovingly. ‘Make it snappy.’
It was Lorna. I could recognize the breathless, bubbling schoolgirl voice anywhere. This time she was jibbering with excitement and embarrassment.
‘Octavia, I must see you.’
I felt my hands wet on the telephone.
‘Where are you?’ I said.
