No Ordinary Bloke (34 page)

Her expression softened into one of complete sincerity “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed this about me, but there are people who find me arrogant to the point of being rude and condescending. That’s a quote from several people in my review.”

“
We’ve
told you that since you were thirteen.” Flabbergasted, I started laughing. “How is this news to you?”

“Oh, you call me bossy and conceited, but I didn’t know that I came across so poorly sometimes.”

It was odd to speak to someone so self-absorbed yet so completely un-self aware. “Okay…”

“So I’ve taken to seeing a psychologist. She’s helped me immensely.”

“Really?”

“Yes. When I talk to people now, I think of what it would be like if I were them. It’s been very effective. People at work have begun to notice.”

“What do they say?”

“That I’m more friendly and understanding.”

“Brilliant. Good for you.” I scratched my head. “But what does this have to do with me?”

“You need to see a psychologist to deal with your temper and violent behavior.”

“No way. You can sod off right now.” I had about twenty other ways of expressing how I felt, all equally crude and dismissive.

“I knew you’d say something like that to me.” She reached into her ridiculously sized handbag that probably cost the annual GDP of Malawi. “I have a name and number for you,” she said as she pulled out a slip of paper.

I held up a hand to stop the paper from getting close to me. “No, thank you. I’m not seeing a shrink, especially some posh New York bird.”

“Why would I recommend my own psychologist in another country? I’ve got one in London for you. Mummy recommended him.”

“Good God. Your
mum
recommended him?”

“Remember she is a trained counselor, you prat. Anyway, his name is Benjamin Green. His office isn’t far from here. She knew him growing up.”

“No, no, no.” I shook my head. “I’m not going to a shrink, and I’m certainly not seeing a posh tosser who I’d hate to even have a drink with.”

“You do remember my mother is your mother’s sister? They grew up in the same family in the same neighborhood. Mummy isn’t posh, nor would she ever recommend someone like that for you.” She looked at me with scorn. “Give us a bit of credit.”

“I don’t really like the thought that my aunt and cousin are conspiring over my mental health.”

“Well, then stop beating up poor blokes and losing the girlfriend you love,” she snipped. She stood up and dropped the paper in my lap. “Call him. He’s not expecting your call, but use Mummy’s name. And don’t worry. They’re both highly ethical. He won’t go ratting on you to anyone, and even if he tried, Mummy wouldn’t listen.”

As she began walking toward the door, I asked, “So this is why you came?”

“Yes,” she said, reaching for the door. “I’m just here to be helpful. Don’t worry. You’ll see that I’m right once again.”

“If a psychologist is so helpful, why are you still so arrogant?” I said sourly.

“Because you deserve it.” She grinned. “You wouldn’t listen to me if I was nice to you.”

I
f I’d properly crumpled the paper Sylvia had given me and tossed it in the rubbish bin, nothing more would have happened. Instead, I stashed it in a drawer. It was a simple act, but a crucial choice because it left an opening for me to actually ring the bloke up.

So there it sat for a week begging for an answer—do I call or not? Finally, late one afternoon when I was one of the last people in the office, I opened the drawer to find a calculator. There was the number right on top of it. I couldn’t touch one without the other, so I picked them both up. Examining the number, I sighed as I knew it was time to make a decision. My hand instinctively moved to toss it, but I stopped myself. Allison had always said it was something I should do. Unlike Sylvia, I didn’t think a simple session or two with a shrink would win Allison back. Yet if I threw the number away, would I also throw away any chance with her?

When I looked at my problems that way, the answer seemed simple—at the very least I could call just to see what the tosser was like. Within a minute, the line was ringing on the other end as I tapped my pen impatiently. Then a woman answered, “Good afternoon, Dr. Green’s office. May I help you?”

At once I noticed her accent; she was straight out of Liverpool. This was an encouraging sign, so I ventured, “Hello, my name is David Bates. I’d like to talk to Dr. Green for a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry. The doctor only sees potential patients in his office. Were you interested in setting up an appointment?”

“How long does that take?”

“He prefers an hour for the first meeting. If both of you agree to go forward, the sessions are an hour and a quarter.”

“What do you mean if both agree to go forward? Isn’t the patient interviewing him?”

“Psychotherapy is a mutual decision. For any number of reasons, he may not choose to see you.”

That was curious. I never thought that someone may not want to see me. The idea of being rejected brought out my competitive side. “All right. When is he available?”

“If you can make it, he could see you at six this evening. He just had a cancellation.”

“He works that late?”

“He keeps late hours for patients who work.”

The schedule fit with mine, and it seemed like I was more likely to show up today than if I had some time to think about it. I waited a moment just to give myself a minute to talk myself out of it. No good reason came to mind. I was just going to talk with the bloke. “I’ll take it.”

“Very good. The doctor likes to know a bit about why you’re interested in psychotherapy.”

“I’m not sure I
am
interested in it.”

“Why are you making this appointment then?”

“Dr. Judith Kincaid suggested I see him.”

“Why did she suggest Dr. Green?”

I rolled my eyes, but I gave her something just to shut her up. “I supposed I have a bit of a temper.”

“All right. Your reason for a consultation is anger management.”

“Hmpf. Is that what they call it?” I didn’t like being pigeonholed.

“’Tis,” she said briskly. “We’ll see you at six. Cheers.”

A few hours later any good vibes I’d felt from my talk with the Liverpudlian receptionist vanished as I walked into a posh office—nicer than mine I might add. Brenda, the receptionist, was nice enough, but I couldn’t get over all the art and fancy bamboo flooring. I shook my head.
Sylvia. This was just what I’d thought she’d do. Send me to a fucking tosser.

I scrolled through my emails as I waited for the guy, and in the back of my mind, I had an idea to bolt from the place. Then he walked in, and I was trapped. “Evening,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dr. Green. Nice to meet you.”

Not many people would’ve noticed his accent, but I could. There was hint of me own mum’s cadence in the background of an otherwise straight London accent. Sizing him up, I shook his hand. “Evening. Pleasure to meet you as well. I’m David Bates.”

The first thing I noticed was this was a big guy. He wasn’t the skinny, short tosser I’d imagined. He was shorter than me, but this guy lifted weights. He had a gut; probably accumulated as he aged, but he was well-built. He shook my hand with a confidence and strength that I didn’t expect. Maybe it had to do with him being a shrink, and I was the one coming for help, or maybe it was because the bloke wasn’t fucking afraid of anybody.

“Come into my office,” he said, dropping my hand and turning around.

I followed him inside a room that was just as nice as the reception. He offered me a seat on a sofa that had a fucking box of tissues on the table next to it. I chose the chair opposite of him.

As he took his seat, he said, “Brenda wrote down that you gave the name Judith Kincaid as a referral. I don’t believe I know her.”

I raised my brow. “
Dr.
Judith Kincaid.”

“No. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Fucking Sylvia. She lied to me.
Remembering that she’d mentioned, she knew him when they were young, I tried one more time. “What about Judith Worth?”

His lips curled up into a smile. “Judy Worth. Of course. I remember her.”

“From university. Is that right?”

“Yes. We were there together until she ran off with some bloke. I forget the name, but he swept her off her feet.”

“Albert. Albert Kincaid.”

“That’s right,” he said, lifting a finger. “Some sort of aristocrat. It’s good to hear she finished her degree. We sort of didn’t expect her to after she left.”

Well, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say. “She’s my aunt,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Is she now?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she refer you to me? Brenda wrote down you were interested in anger management. Why did Judy think of sending you to me?”

“She thought we might get on well.” I glanced around his posh office. “Though I’m not sure why now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I doubt you’d understand me.”

He chuckled. “Everyone thinks they’re special, and we are, but we’re also not.”

“Yeah…” I looked out his stunning view of St. Paul’s Cathedral. “I don’t know… How much do you charge an hour?”

“Two hundred pounds.”

“Jesus Christ. I don’t think I can afford you.”

“Oh, I bet you can.” He nodded. “Just curious. What kind of car do you have?”

“A Tesla,” I said, knowing I sounded like a tool.

“You have an eighty thousand pound car, and you can’t afford two hundred quid every week?”

“I’m not sure I want to spend my money on this, and I bet your clients are a bit more posh than me.”

“You look posh enough,” he said, studying my suit. “A bit of a snob are you?”

“Not at all.”

“You can be a snob about people with money if you don’t have it which I’m guessing was true for you at one point. I detected your accent the moment you spoke, but you appear to have done well for yourself.”

I didn’t like being called a snob, but I was still civil to him. “Thank you. I’m a vice president at Barclays.”

“A vice president at Barclays with a bad temper. Have you had it for since childhood or is this something new?”

“Always.”

“No. Not always. You don’t appear to have any serious psychological condition. Babies, toddlers…they don’t tend to have bad tempers unless something isn’t quite working in their brain. For the rest of us, real anger has an emotional trigger and then develops over time.”

“I suppose.” I wasn’t the fucking shrink. How would I know?

“And do you only lash out at people verbally or do you physically act out as well?”

“I’ve been known to get into a few fights.”

“I’d think so.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re a big bloke. You’ve got a scar on your face, and your nose looks like it’s been broken a couple of times.”

I nodded. All of that was true.

“You also appear to be a complete and utter arsehole.”

“Fuck you!” My mouth hung open in shock. “Don’t you have some ethical code not to insult your clients?”