group.”
The jokey, most probably apocryphal story was typical of Clementine. In the time that Cyn had been in the group, she’d never heard Clementine talk about her past—at least not in any significant way, in a way that might explain her sex addiction. Whatever happened to her while she was growing up, she still wasn’t ready to go back and face it. Veronica would prompt her from time to time—try to encourage her to talk about her mother, who had apparently brought her up alone. Clementine would go silent for a while and lose herself in her thoughts. Occasionally her eyes would fill with tears, but after a minute or so she would come to, brush Veronica’s prompting aside and make another joke or smart remark. It seemed that as long as she was making smart remarks, she felt safe.
“That must have caused you such unbearable pain,” Ken said to Clementine about the Donny Osmond cap. His face etched with sympathy, he reached for the box of tissues and handed it to her.
By now, Jenny-with-the-identity-crisis was looking more distraught than ever. “I would like to know why Ken hands the tissues to Clementine when she’s upset, but when I’m upset he just ignores me. I mean, am I really that invisible? Doesn’t anybody recognize that I’m in pain, too?”
“Of course we do,” Cyn replied gently. But nobody backed her up. Everybody sat in silence because the truth was that apart from Cyn everybody found Jenny a complete pain in the arse.
The silence seemed to go on forever. Long silences were common during group therapy, but Cyn had never gotten used to them. She always felt the need to take control and say something. Anything. Hey, how many psychotherapists does it take to change a lightbulb? Just one, but the lightbulb must want to change. Boom, boom.
Veronica had often made the point that Cyn wasn’t responsible for the welfare of the group and that she needed to learn how to be comfortable with the silence. She tried, but it wasn’t easy. Right now, she focused on the small vase of flowers on the mantelpiece. She liked the way Veronica always took the trouble to make sure there were flowers in the room. Then she started looking at the Mondrian prints hanging on the white walls, the shelves full of books on psychodynamic theory.
It was Sandra Yo-yo who broke the silence. “You know,” she said morosely, pushing her dark curls behind her ears, “if I had to write my epitaph, it would read: Sandra—Eight Stone Three to Eleven Stone Six.” Everybody giggled at this, even Veronica, who didn’t laugh much as a rule.
“I’m sensing a great deal of repressed rage coming from you,” Ken said to Sandra. “I mean, when you’re overweight, there must be some kind of payoff.”
“Ken, you sound like you’ve swallowed a bloody therapy textbook,” Clementine said. “Veronica is the shrink, not you.”
He sat there clearly grappling with the put-down. Before he could say anything Cyn spoke. She had noticed the empty chair next to Jenny.
“I thought we were getting a new member tonight,” she said to Veronica.
“Yes. Jo is coming,” Veronica said, touching her amber necklace. “I got a message on my answer machine just before we started. Apparently there’s a burst water main along Camden Road.” More silence. “So, Cyn. Maybe you could share your feelings with the group about not being able to stand up for yourself.” Cyn thought for a moment. Her mind was a blank. She felt as if she had been put on the spot. It was a bit like being back at school and the French teacher asking her to conjugate an irregular verb she hadn’t learned. Then her mind suddenly flew back to an incident that had happened a few years ago when she was working as a nanny for an English family in Hong Kong.
The job had only been meant to last a year, but she’d stayed five. It was the usual story: agency finds nanny a job with nightmare mega-rich couple. Nanny is desperate to leave but can’t bear to abandon
The jokey, most probably apocryphal story was typical of Clementine. In the time that Cyn had been in the group, she’d never heard Clementine talk about her past—at least not in any significant way, in a way that might explain her sex addiction. Whatever happened to her while she was growing up, she still wasn’t ready to go back and face it. Veronica would prompt her from time to time—try to encourage her to talk about her mother, who had apparently brought her up alone. Clementine would go silent for a while and lose herself in her thoughts. Occasionally her eyes would fill with tears, but after a minute or so she would come to, brush Veronica’s prompting aside and make another joke or smart remark. It seemed that as long as she was making smart remarks, she felt safe.
“That must have caused you such unbearable pain,” Ken said to Clementine about the Donny Osmond cap. His face etched with sympathy, he reached for the box of tissues and handed it to her.
By now, Jenny-with-the-identity-crisis was looking more distraught than ever. “I would like to know why Ken hands the tissues to Clementine when she’s upset, but when I’m upset he just ignores me. I mean, am I really that invisible? Doesn’t anybody recognize that I’m in pain, too?”
“Of course we do,” Cyn replied gently. But nobody backed her up. Everybody sat in silence because the truth was that apart from Cyn everybody found Jenny a complete pain in the arse.
The silence seemed to go on forever. Long silences were common during group therapy, but Cyn had never gotten used to them. She always felt the need to take control and say something. Anything. Hey, how many psychotherapists does it take to change a lightbulb? Just one, but the lightbulb must want to change. Boom, boom.
Veronica had often made the point that Cyn wasn’t responsible for the welfare of the group and that she needed to learn how to be comfortable with the silence. She tried, but it wasn’t easy. Right now, she focused on the small vase of flowers on the mantelpiece. She liked the way Veronica always took the trouble to make sure there were flowers in the room. Then she started looking at the Mondrian prints hanging on the white walls, the shelves full of books on psychodynamic theory.
It was Sandra Yo-yo who broke the silence. “You know,” she said morosely, pushing her dark curls behind her ears, “if I had to write my epitaph, it would read: Sandra—Eight Stone Three to Eleven Stone Six.” Everybody giggled at this, even Veronica, who didn’t laugh much as a rule.
“I’m sensing a great deal of repressed rage coming from you,” Ken said to Sandra. “I mean, when you’re overweight, there must be some kind of payoff.”
“Ken, you sound like you’ve swallowed a bloody therapy textbook,” Clementine said. “Veronica is the shrink, not you.”
He sat there clearly grappling with the put-down. Before he could say anything Cyn spoke. She had noticed the empty chair next to Jenny.
“I thought we were getting a new member tonight,” she said to Veronica.
“Yes. Jo is coming,” Veronica said, touching her amber necklace. “I got a message on my answer machine just before we started. Apparently there’s a burst water main along Camden Road.” More silence. “So, Cyn. Maybe you could share your feelings with the group about not being able to stand up for yourself.” Cyn thought for a moment. Her mind was a blank. She felt as if she had been put on the spot. It was a bit like being back at school and the French teacher asking her to conjugate an irregular verb she hadn’t learned. Then her mind suddenly flew back to an incident that had happened a few years ago when she was working as a nanny for an English family in Hong Kong.
The job had only been meant to last a year, but she’d stayed five. It was the usual story: agency finds nanny a job with nightmare mega-rich couple. Nanny is desperate to leave but can’t bear to abandon
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