Just Like a Woman by Madeleine Clark Page B

seat having to listen to what she said. Fucking comedian she thought she was.
    They’d all had a few drinks, he was aware of that, but he wanted to know what she thought. And he stupidly asked her what her first impression was as she entered the sitting room and saw the Dylan painting. Her answer floored him.
    ‘Well I’d just have thought someone with bad taste had decorated the room.’ She laughed as she said it. Then she tried to soften it by adding, ‘but we all have individual tastes, and yours is individual.’ She even managed to make that sound like an insult, laughing lightly and winking over at his wife as if it was the most wonderful joke. His wife laughed gently back, and reached across to ruffle the bitch’s hair. God he’d like to ruffle her fucking hair for her. Bitch, fucking opinionated bitch. And then she had turned her lovely smile on him, the smile she had won his wife with, so sweet and innocent, as if it was the most ordinary comment to make in someone else’s house about their décor.
    Didn’t she know who he was? What he was?
    Hell, people stood in the rain for him, just waiting for a smile or a wave, and if they were really lucky an autograph. And she came round to his house. His house! Full of herself. A nobody. Criticizing him! What had his wife seen in her? They had been good friends by all accounts. Certainly spent enough time together, too much for his liking. No, she needed to be taken down a peg or two, but he hadn’t had the chance. God, if he could have had an hour on his own with her. He’d have taught her a lesson in manners she wouldn’t have forgotten.
    What was her fucking name? He drew on his cigarette, leant his head back into the cushion, and closed his eyes, picturing her. It began with C. He was sure it did. He thought of all the names he knew beginning with C, but knew it wouldn’t come from that because it wasn’t an ordinary name. She had a nickname, one he hadn’t heard before. That was it Cam, Cammy. Stupid fucking name. The lovely Camellia, who insisted on being called Cammy. Well that spoke for itself.
    He wondered if his wife was still in contact with her, suspecting she would not let Cammy go without a struggle. She liked bright sharp people, they challenged her. Too much for him though, probably why he kept Terry around. God, all these fucking women! He needed a man around to talk to, someone who would understand how he felt. Andy! He’d understand. He grabbed the phone from between his legs and pressed auto dial, but before it could finish dialling the number for him, the phone beeped letting him know he had a new message.

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    Chapter Four
    S tephanie felt the phone vibrate in her pocket. Watching her client lying in the chair with his eyes closed, she carefully extracted the phone. The screen displayed she had a missed call and a voice message. Glancing back at the client she silently flipped the phone open; she didn’t recognise the displayed number and decided it must be a wrong number. Quietly she replaced the phone in her pocket and listened once more to her client, who with his eyes still shut began to speak in a whispered tone; his words nothing important. None of her clients seemed to do anything important any more, but of course they all thought every word they spoke was so vital, profound even. But it was all so bloody mundane; people enjoying being victims; wanting to be victims; wanting the kudos of being a victim; and they sure as hell didn’t want to give up being a victim. Life would be too difficult then. Nothing or no one to blame anymore. There was far too much mileage from being a victim.
    It often seemed to Stephanie there was an epidemic of the ‘poor me’ syndrome. And on top of this they were all amateur psychologists these days as well. It was so infuriating. Just because this client once had his penis touched by a teacher! That was it. Nothing else happened and he now managed to convince himself he had been sexually abused and