Pee-Pee waits again, giving me the opportunity to dig myself out of my nonsense, but I am committed now.
“It’s very therapeutic, apparently,” I continue, grasping at straws. “You know, the whole… earthy, grounding thing. I thought I might try it.”
“Hm,” she says. The dreadedhm.
She picks up her notebook and taps her pen against it lightly. I know this move. This is her version of a masterclass interrogator.
I need to change the subject before she calls my bluff. “Anyway, how’s your week been?”
She raises an eyebrow, ever so slightly. “Ivy.”
I swallow. “Yes?”
She leans forward a fraction. “Would you like to tell me what’s actually on your mind?”
No. No, I would not.I would like to sit here, sip an imaginary cup of tea, and pretend I am a well-adjusted person who did not get left mid-orgy for a football match.
I force a laugh. “It’s nothing, really.”
She just looks at me.
“It’s silly,” I add.
More looking.
I sigh, slump back into the chair, and blurt out, “I had a foursome.”
A beat of silence.
Then, in the calmest, most composed voice, she asks, “Would you like to elaborate?”
I groan, rubbing my hands over my face. “Not really, but I suppose I have to.”
She gives me that therapist nod that means yes, you do.
So, I tell her. The whole ridiculous, humiliating story—how I thought it would be exciting, how it was, in fact, not exciting at all. How, instead, Graham and Harry abandoned ship to watch football, and how I ended the night sitting on a bus, contemplating my own poor life choices.
Pee-Pee listens without interrupting, nodding occasionally, her expression unreadable. When I finish, she does something truly terrible.
She hmms.
It’s the deep, thoughtful hmm that lets me know that my entire existence is about to be psychoanalysed to pieces.
I brace myself.
She adjusts her glasses slightly. “And how did that make you feel?”
I blink. “Like a discarded takeaway container?”
She tilts her head again. “And why do you think that is?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Phyllis,” I say dramatically, throwing my hands up. “Maybe because two out of three men literally walked out halfway through and didn’t come back?!”
“Hm.”
I groan. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
She smiles… just the smallest, knowing smile. “Not loving it, no. But I do think this experience has left you with some feelings worth unpacking.”
