session, she said very little. Instead she sat feet together, hands neatly folded in her lap, eyes constantly roving around the circle, watching and waiting for reactions and feelings to reveal themselves. Her silence and the fact that nobody knew anything about her beyond her name, address, telephone number and what they saw was, of course, very powerful. She revealed nothing about herself, while the group revealed everything.
She was in her late fifties, heavyset with thick ankles and an auburn bob so straight and symmetrical that it looked like it had been cut with the aid of a set square. Clotheswise she favored soft, elegant, loose-fitting layers, set off by chunky amber jewelry—very much the uniform of choice for postmenopausal Hampstead Brahmins who had piled on a few pounds lately.
Since it was the end of the month and payday, everybody had slipped a neatly folded check under the box of tissues that sat on the glass coffee table. Cyn had often noted how Veronica never discussed her fee beyond the first session. It was so British, she thought. She imagined how different it would be if this were New York instead of London. She couldn’t imagine a New York shrink having the same issues surrounding money. Quite the opposite, in fact: “OK, it’s March and these are my spring specials: schizophrenics and passive-aggressives half price. If you book now, there’s also a 20 percent reduction for hypochondriacs. This will include a complimentary MRI scan, a colonoscopy and a Barneys voucher. Also, look out for my twofer deals. Until April I’ll be taking on two anorexics for the price of one overeater.”
Just then, Ken, thirty-six, a deeply sensitive and earnest former Catholic priest who had left the priesthood three years ago and was still plucking up the courage to have sex (and whom Cyn was convinced had the hots for Clementine), turned toward Cyn. “I think Clementine was only trying to offer Jenny some constructive advice. I’m sure she meant no harm.” Cyn didn’t say anything. Instead she sat there wishing somebody would offer him some constructive advice along the lines of: “Ken, since you’re not actually Amish, have you considered the possibility that a beard with no mustache is not a great look?”
“Clementine’s right,” Jenny said. “Maybe my appearance is something I need to think about. Perhaps I could do with a bit of a makeover. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” She turned to Clementine. “I want to thank you for having the courage to say what you did. It was important for me to hear it.” Poor Jenny, Cyn thought, you could mug her and she would put it down to a “valuable learning experience.”
Clementine offered Cyn a victorious smirk, then said she had something she would like to share with the group. “I finally managed to give up my car maintenance class.” She had started the course, not because she had the remotest interest in learning about car engines, but because it was somewhere to pick up men. “I only slept with nine of the men.” Cyn asked her how many there were in the course. Clementine stared down at her French manicure. “Eleven,” she said without looking up.
“Oh, but you’re getting there,” Jenny trilled. “I mean, Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that. You should be very proud of yourself.”
“I wish I could be proud of myself,” Sandra, a Jewish yo-yo dieter, was saying forlornly. “My mother says her postnatal depression began when I was born and won’t end until I get married. How do you live with all that guilt?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Clementine snapped. “Can’t you get her on Prozac?”
Sandra shook her head. “She tried it, but she says it interferes with her suffering.”
“You know,” Clementine said, “I think my insecurities stem back to when my mother used to come and meet me at school wearing a brown corduroy Donny Osmond cap. Before I came here, I spent ages trying to find the right support
She was in her late fifties, heavyset with thick ankles and an auburn bob so straight and symmetrical that it looked like it had been cut with the aid of a set square. Clotheswise she favored soft, elegant, loose-fitting layers, set off by chunky amber jewelry—very much the uniform of choice for postmenopausal Hampstead Brahmins who had piled on a few pounds lately.
Since it was the end of the month and payday, everybody had slipped a neatly folded check under the box of tissues that sat on the glass coffee table. Cyn had often noted how Veronica never discussed her fee beyond the first session. It was so British, she thought. She imagined how different it would be if this were New York instead of London. She couldn’t imagine a New York shrink having the same issues surrounding money. Quite the opposite, in fact: “OK, it’s March and these are my spring specials: schizophrenics and passive-aggressives half price. If you book now, there’s also a 20 percent reduction for hypochondriacs. This will include a complimentary MRI scan, a colonoscopy and a Barneys voucher. Also, look out for my twofer deals. Until April I’ll be taking on two anorexics for the price of one overeater.”
Just then, Ken, thirty-six, a deeply sensitive and earnest former Catholic priest who had left the priesthood three years ago and was still plucking up the courage to have sex (and whom Cyn was convinced had the hots for Clementine), turned toward Cyn. “I think Clementine was only trying to offer Jenny some constructive advice. I’m sure she meant no harm.” Cyn didn’t say anything. Instead she sat there wishing somebody would offer him some constructive advice along the lines of: “Ken, since you’re not actually Amish, have you considered the possibility that a beard with no mustache is not a great look?”
“Clementine’s right,” Jenny said. “Maybe my appearance is something I need to think about. Perhaps I could do with a bit of a makeover. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” She turned to Clementine. “I want to thank you for having the courage to say what you did. It was important for me to hear it.” Poor Jenny, Cyn thought, you could mug her and she would put it down to a “valuable learning experience.”
Clementine offered Cyn a victorious smirk, then said she had something she would like to share with the group. “I finally managed to give up my car maintenance class.” She had started the course, not because she had the remotest interest in learning about car engines, but because it was somewhere to pick up men. “I only slept with nine of the men.” Cyn asked her how many there were in the course. Clementine stared down at her French manicure. “Eleven,” she said without looking up.
“Oh, but you’re getting there,” Jenny trilled. “I mean, Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that. You should be very proud of yourself.”
“I wish I could be proud of myself,” Sandra, a Jewish yo-yo dieter, was saying forlornly. “My mother says her postnatal depression began when I was born and won’t end until I get married. How do you live with all that guilt?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Clementine snapped. “Can’t you get her on Prozac?”
Sandra shook her head. “She tried it, but she says it interferes with her suffering.”
“You know,” Clementine said, “I think my insecurities stem back to when my mother used to come and meet me at school wearing a brown corduroy Donny Osmond cap. Before I came here, I spent ages trying to find the right support
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