That really rankled.
So that’s why I find myself here, on an IKEA two-seater sofa in front of Joanne Buster. Doing better. Unless I manage to convince her she has cured me of my unlikeable traits and made me into a functioning citizen and exemplar of cultural woke-ness, I will lose my job.
‘… as I say, it was ridiculous but I do understand that I chose the wrong word and, on reflection, I could have handled it better.’
Joanne’s earrings start to swing as she nods.
‘Good, Martin. That’s really great you’re able to see how you might have altered your behaviour to achieve a different outcome.’
Christ, I think. The gradual creep of business-speak into everyday parlance is a particularly grating modern tendency. The other day I saw a bin on the street with ‘a solutions-focused approach to litter’ written on the side.
‘Mm,’ I say.
‘What might you have done differently, if you could live that moment again?’
I’m still thinking of the bin. I wonder why it’s happened, this talking so insistently of ‘impacting’ and ‘circling back’, as if we’ve all become template computer documents? Maybe it’s because of that awful television programme where cheap-suited, fake-tanned wannabes sit around a boardroom table and eviscerate each other’s moral character until one of them is elected President of the United States.
‘Martin?’
Joanne is looking at me expectantly. I drag her lumbering question from the depths of my recall. Ah yes. There it is. Nestling in the coal-dark of my consciousness like a piece of shiny plastic. What might I have done differently? Well, Joanne, I might never have been born,but I had no control over that. Birth is a non-consensual act of aggression on the part of our parents, given the world of pain we are subsequently born into.
‘I wouldn’t have used the offending word,’ is what I actually say. ‘And if, for whatever reason I had, I would have apologised straight away rather than go on the defensive.’
I don’t mean any of it, of course, but I know what she needs to hear.
‘Great,’ Joanne says and she is radiating a disarming sort of maternal pride. ‘That’s really great, Martin. And why is it, do you think, that you felt so defensive?’
‘He reminded me of the boys at school.’
For a split second, I think I didn’t speak the words out loud. But Joanne Buster has picked up the scent. She is suddenly less Labrador, more bloodhound.
‘Interesting.’ She tilts her head, trying to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘Say more.’
Dammit.
‘I went to a mediocre public school on a scholarship and I never fitted in. All the other boys seemed to know the rules. I attached myself to the most popular boy in my year. His name was – is, I should say – Ben. I became slightly obsessed with him and his family. I think I wanted them to adopt me. Not literally, of course, but metaphorically.’
‘OK. And your feelings for Ben developed?’
I look at her sharply.
‘As they would for any close friend.’
‘So … nothing more?’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’
‘I’m sorry, Martin, I can see I’ve upset you. I want to remind you that this is a safe space with no judgement. I see many clients who struggle with feelings of repressed sexuality …’
‘Well, I’m not one of them.’
‘OK. I hear you.’
‘No. Well.’ I pause to try and marshal my thoughts, now slippery asfish. ‘As far as I know, we’re here to talk about a specific thing that happened and not my wider life and – and – or – feelings.’
I try to imbue the final word with as much contempt as I can muster.
Joanne is quiet for a long time. She just looks at me with a disconcerting gaze for the rest of the session and then says, ‘That’s us for today, Martin.’ She closes her notebook and stands, smoothing her brightly patterned skirt with her hands.
