The trees on
Fulham Broadway had a sprinkle of white blossom, but it was with little hope
that I climbed the stairs behind Caroline up to the first floor office of the Marital Solutions Counselling and Therapy
Clinic. The place had been recommended to Caroline by her friend Xena, and
Caroline had dragged me there for what she described as my last chance.
We were met
by a receptionist in a white coat and directed towards a waiting room, the
walls decorated with posters about erectile dysfunction. Clinic literature
showing naked couples having air-brushsed sex was scattered on occasional
tables beside the pale green chairs. Thankfully we were the only couple in the
waiting room, but I still felt I had to talk in a whisper.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Caroline? In my experience
talking about things makes things worse, not better.”
“According to Xena, it’s not just about talking. They have
male and female therapists who help you overcome problems with a physical or
emotional cause. They say they can get you started again.”
“Couldn’t we go to an expensive hotel for the weekend?
Wouldn’t a couple of days in bed with room service do the trick?”
“And what happened when we tried to find a weekend in between
my business trips? You said you were going to a football match.”
“It wasn’t any football match. It’s the one that will decide
the season.”
“You don’t have any insight, do you? We have to do something
now or there’s no point in living together any longer.”
“I don’t know how you can say…” The sense of injustice that
surged in me every time Caroline spoke was thankfully stemmed by the appearance
of a woman with a mass of frizzy hair held up with a colourful headband.
“Good morning,” she announced, like she really believed it.
“My name is Sheila Mavistock and I will be your counselor for the initial
diagnostic sessions. You must be Caroline and Robert? I’ve so been looking
forward to meeting you. You sound like wonderful people from your profiles.”
Profiles? I didn’t recall completing a profile. Caroline gave me the look which
said, Don’t say anything.
Sheila gave me a warm smile. “It’s unusual for a man to be so
honest. That’s a good sign. I’m sure we’ll be able to help. Come this
way.” She led us to a room which was a
cross between a lounge and a library. Shelves with psychology books lined the
walls, heavy curtains framed the windows, and musty old sofas completed the
look of Carl Jung’s study. She pointed us to a deep red damask three-seater sofa.
We sat at either end.
“Time is precious so I’m going to assume you’ve read about
our programme. It’s designed for busy, successful people and is proven to work
by our own dedicated research team. The references are in the brochure at the
back. Do you have any questions before we start?”
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