Chapter Seven
Lily
I’m doing plank jacks, working my abs to Todrick Hall’s latest album. It is perfect as my current HIIT workout music and is blaring through my headphones as I complete my ten seconds, rest and then start a short burst of mountain climbers.
I am trying to focus on my morning workout. The trick is to go so fast there is no space to think but my mind is struggling today to stay on task.I know I’m an ‘expert’ on psychology but brains are devious creatures and mine seems to enjoy torturing me most days. It’s spent the last few nights conjuring up the guy from the sauna doing all manner of not-for-public-places things even though Iknowresisting the subconscious charms of Cacti Guy is a no-brainer, simply because it’s quite obvious from the age of the woman who called him into the hot tub that he likes them young. Much younger, and that is a great big red flag. A huge one, one big enough to lay on the ground and carpet the whole of Buckingham Palace. Fantasising about him is wholly inappropriate and my conscious mind – sensible beast that it is – is trying to firmly entrench this view whenever my thoughts tend to slip.
Unfortunately, my unconscious mind has always been a rebellious creature and even my mindfulness practice that I did on waking today was interrupted by my brain taking me to places that left me flushed and not particularly calm.
With my workout finished, I jump into the shower in the hope that the water cascading down my skin may cleanse my mind as well. It’s Friday today so I have a lecture to deliver on social cognitive development followed by tutorials this morning and part of the afternoon. I love the fact that I work one day a week in the university; it tethers me to the academic world, keeps me up to date with the latest developments in my field. And it balances out the consulting work I do the rest of the time, the work which is paying the bills and allowing me to squirrel up a nest egg, something that is going to be all kinds of important if I can never have children to help me out as I age.
I run conditioner through my hair and switch my brain off from dwelling on my barrenness as well. On how my knowledge of that has shaped all my life choices as an adult. On my need to remain single so that no one else has to pay the price for my fucked-up ovaries. I recognise where I am going with this – it is a well-trodden path – so I acknowledge the thought, acknowledge its validity and then whack it in a box. I don’t need to spend this morning fretting on that one.
I am aware though that spending the afternoon with Angela yesterday is probably why my mind is heading in that direction, and whilst her dolls are no indicator that she has fertility concerns, the lifelike nature of Courtney in particular has been unnerving me and making me think about my inability to have babies.
Fredrico, Courtney, Paisley and Robert had been pushed through the door yesterday for her second appointment this week, in a four-seater stroller that was as unwieldy as a small tank.
She may have originally come to me for dating advice and support but I have got her to the point where she is grudgingly accepting that deeper therapeutic work may be helpful. Her history indicates that there is a strong possibility of PTSD so I did suggest today that I could hand her care over to someone else who is an expert in that field, but Angela was adamant she will only work with me.
I suspect some EMDR, a highly effective psychotherapy that allows people to heal emotional trauma, will be a great starting point. I’m hoping that if we can deal with the causes of her anxiety, help her process trauma she has carried from childhood, she can develop a healthier relationship with Federico et al.
Initially she looked at me as if the therapy I was suggesting was akin to taking a well-known serial killer as a lodger, but by the end of the session she was less resistant and I’m hoping next time we talk she may be willing to tentatively commit.
And whilst Angela’s dolls are playing with my mind she is far from my most bizarre client. Early on in my career I’d opened the door to find a fully made-up clown. Then there had been the identical twins dressed in matching outfits who alternated their sentences – trust me, that shit is even spookier than clowns on your doorstep.
I had one client with a marmalade fetish – no joke, marmalade! I haven’t been able to see it the same way since. And then there had been Serena, who could only enjoy sex if the man didn’t look at her; in fact she was only ever truly comfortable if he remained blindfolded the entire time. The entire time. From getting undressed to the point of leaving. And whilst most partners don’t mind it occasionally, most object to it as a full-time thing. We did a little bit of work on that. I’m all for indulging your sexual pleasures but there has to be a degree of mutuality. To be fair, Serena made massive strides and is now happily married and living in Scotland.
Oh, and I had one client who couldn’t bond if the woman didn’t call him Mother at the point of orgasm – he was one of my few failures.
However, the majority of the time my clients are remarkably nondescript. Everyday people who have hit a block in their relationships or who are struggling to begin one and suspect that they may be the reason. Whilst my work as a sex and relationship therapist is normally centred around single people who want to find and keep love, I do some more regular work with couples who are struggling as well. I’m a bit like Hitch from that movie with a smidge of the TV showSex Education– throw them together and ta-daa, you have me.
I step out of the shower and wander through to my bedroom, drying myself off as I go, and reach for one of my work outfits, which are all carefully streamlined and colour-coordinated. I like my strict routines – wake up, meditate, HIIT, shower, breakfast. I like order in my life; discipline makes everything so much smoother. My mother comes and gasps at my wardrobe when she visits, unable to marry the child I was years ago to this woman she perceives as ordered and chaos-free.
Perception is a funny thing.
I step into the skirt and zip it up, and as I check myself in the mirror I run my hand down my figure, over my stomach. Fifteen-year-old me would never have believed that this professional-looking woman, this slim, clear-skinned woman standing looking back at her, would be her future. Not believe it even for one second.
If only our younger selves had faith in our older selves to get them through safely to the places we need to be.
Hitting adolescence had me really piling on the pounds, craving carbs and sugar like never before. And before had been bad enough. My periods were a hellscape and at sixteen my mother marched me to our GP, who told me I was fat and lazy and that shifting the weight was the only thing that would help.
Easy to say and – as I learned later – with PCOS and your whole endocrine system working against you, next to impossible to do. It took me a long time, so many tears, years and much frustration, to finally embed a routine that works a little for me. And I am one of the lucky ones. Only now, now I am too scared to deviate from it.
I also know that finding that strength, the determination to change, wasn’t down to the healthiest reasons. Should my path ever cross with Scott Oakley and his mates again, it will not be a meek schoolgirl with zero self-esteem that they will be dealing with.
However, that’s enough of that.
I grab a pair of heels, slip them on and head to the kitchen for breakfast.
‘Hey, morning,’ I greet Dan, whom I hadn’t expected to see and who is doing yoga next to the futon. I’m used to having the mornings to myself; Kevin’s work, and Dan’s for that matter, means that they normally keep late hours, and seeing either before noon is a rarity.
‘Morning. I’m here early to try and motivate your flatmate,’ he says and I quirk my brow – we both know that that will not be an easy sell at this time in the morning. ‘He needs help writing a song for Drag Factor.’
‘Isn’t that in July?’
‘Well, yes, but there’s no harm in getting him prepared early.’
‘Truth! He needs to win this time, I still haven’t got over Vivicious' victory last year.’
