by Boyd Brent
Clearly ashamed of her malfunctioning spawn, mother draws the woman’s gaze by raising her voice. “We are a little early …”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Palmer … the waiting-room is just through there.”
The waiting-room is large and stuffed with mismatched sofas. There's a whiff of furniture polish and encroaching insanity. Several people are waiting in here. Some flick through magazines. All are keen to avoid eye-contact.
A tall woman in a tweed trouser suit appears in the doorway. She calls my name cheerily, as though I’m about to meet Santa (Claws presumably). We follow her up the main staircase to the landing above. We walk to the end of a corridor and go up another flight of stairs. We enter a short corridor that contains an antique grandfather clock. Dickory dickory dock, the little dancer ran up the clock. Two armchairs sit side-by-side opposite it. The door at the end of the corridor is black. The woman raps on it and barges straight in.
The first thing I notice about Richard Carter is his shirt, too tight for his muscular torso, its buttons appear close to popping. A hand is presented to me. I shake it and look up. Richard Carter is about fifty. Effortlessly groomed. Distinguished. His smile, confined to the edges of his mouth, is as practiced as his teeth are polished. The smile vanishes and he gazes at me over the rim of his spectacles. “…you must be Harley.” I nod quickly. Unusually, mother has failed to utter a single word. I glance up at her. Marion Palmer is regarding Richard Carter like he’s something priceless unearthed at a jumble sale. It’s an expression I have never seen on her. “I’m Marion Palmer,” she says, practically curtsying, her voice an impostor’s. The impostor who managed to pull the wool over dad’s eyes, perhaps?
“It’s a pleasure. I’m Dr. Carter. Please, take a seat.” Richard Carter sweeps an arm over two chairs in front of an expansive desk. Oh, now I see it … the gesture of a matador invigorated by the arrival of a virgin bull. The little bull and its mother sit down. In a corner of the desk, a cast of Degas' ‘little dancer of 14 years’ stands with a pained, unnatural gait. My eyes pass from the exhausted-looking dancer to a painting above a fireplace to my left …‘Dancers at the Bar,’ also by Degas. I assume I’ve been brought to the right place. The assumption of a vaporous child who thinks herself obese.
Richard Carter sits down behind the desk, interlinks his fingers and leans forward. “Would you like some coffee … or tea, Mrs Palmer?”
“Oh, please, call me Marion.” Mother pauses. She holds his gaze and traces her tongue across her bottom lip. “I’d really love one actually … coffee, black, one sugar.” He nods at his assistant. “And anything for you, Harley?”
I shake my head.
“So! You’re a pupil at The Ballet Academy. I gather you won a scholarship?”
“Uh, huh.” Mother leans across and removes a hair affectionately from my eyes. “Yes, I’m very proud of her, doctor.” I turn my head and study mother with a puzzled expression. “Don’t you like your mother helping you, Harley?” he asks, opening a folder on his desk. I gaze down at my hands. “I don’t mind.” Mother shrugs and rolls her eyes as if to say, 'She’s always like this. What am I to do with her, doctor?' He jots something down in his folder. Pulls another sheet from beneath it. “I have the hospital’s assessment here …your weight is obviously a concern.” He lifts his gaze from the sheet and looks at mother. “Has Harley managed to increase her calorie intake since she’s been home?” One, two, three seconds pass as they hold each other’s gaze. Mother blushes and says, “I’m making sure she eats something, of course I am. It’s not easy. She can be so stubborn.” Mother glances at me like I’m a dog that refuses to be house-trained. Richard Carter writes something on his pad. Without looking up he says, “Tell me about this ‘menu’ of yours, Harley.”
My mind is suddenly absent. I open my mouth but can’t find a single word. Mother straightens her back and peers down her nose. “Dr. Carter asked you a question, Harley.”
I find my voice. “…not much to tell about it.”
He picks up my medical report, brings it closer to his eyes and reads … “Unlimited water, two rice crackers and half a bowl of clear soup.” He gazes at me over the top of his glasses for confirmation.
I shrug.
“Have you ever rebelled against this menu?”
I imagine my friends and I wearing tutus and chasing The Menu with clenched fists. I shake this unhelpful image from my mind. Richard Carter rephrases the question. “Have there been times when your hunger made you indulge in foods that were not on this list?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And how did you feel on those occasions?”
“I felt really scared.” I look at mother for sympathy but her eyes are lapping up the doctor. “Anything you’d like to add, Harley?” he asks, continuing to write. My eyes are switching back and forth between them. Richard Carter is scribbling away and mother is captivated. I’m not altogether certain of what I’m witnessing but one thing is clear: she has never looked at dad like this. When I speak, I sound distant and confused, “Well … sometimes it feels like I’m being inflated … like a balloon … and I might actually pop if I don’t …”
Richard Carter looks up. “… induce vomiting?”
I nod.
“Thank you for being so forthcoming, Harley. I sense you want to recover from this disorder …that you would like to eat normally.” His gaze passes over my hair, my mouth and long neck …settles on my breasts, barely visible beneath a pink, mohair sweater. He clears his throat. “Tell me, what is your main motivation for getting well?”
“My dad,” I say, almost defensively.
“That’s interesting.” He underlines something.
Mother nods in agreement. “She’s always hated disappointing her father. Not too worried about me though, are you dear? Not terribly concerned about the person who does everything for you.” She turns her head as far away from me as possible. “Are you okay, Mrs Palmer?” he asks, not troubling to look up from his notes. Mary comes back into the room. She places a china cup and saucer down in front of mother. Sensing the tension, she beats a hasty retreat. Mother lets out a sigh of resignation and reaches for the cup.
“In the short term, I’m going to prescribe Harley a mild sedative.”
Mild sedative? He’s about to dole out a diazepam-based cocktail developed for adults in the midst of synaptic meltdown. He opens a drawer and retrieves a bottle of the highly addictive tablets. “I will be providing Harley her medication from here. She’s to take one tablet, one hour before mealtimes.” He looks at mother. “They’ve proven highly effective in counteracting the anxiety associated with eating, particularly in cases similar to Harley’s.”
In his nauseating little swamp perhaps. He leans back in his chair and taps his pen against his bottom lip. “How many toilets do you have in your house, Mrs Palmer?” Mother looks as though she’s been asked to clean a toilet. “Just the one … it’s in the upstairs bathroom. Why ever do you ask?”
“Can it be locked from the outside?”
“Yes, I believe it can.”
“It's important that you accompany Harley on her every visit to the toilet. I don’t doubt her intention to make progress …unfortunately, the temptation to vomit can prove too strong … even for the hardiest of intentions. Harley, the bathroom is to remain off-limits unless you’re accompanied by your mother. Is that understood?”
I look horrified.
“It won’t be forever, just for the next few weeks. When not in use, the bathroom is to remain locked at all times.”
“And what about the medium to long term, doctor?” asks mother.
“Next week, Harley and I will commence our one-to-one therapy sessions. I'm sure you and I are going to get on just fine, Harley.”
Chapter 3
St. Catherine Docks, East London. A week before Harley’s project at The Seasons Hotel.
Mitch Tyler was woken by the phone on his bedside table. In a sleepy yet determined American drawl he
advised the caller to “Seek therapy.” He hung up and went back to spooning the female in his bed. Moments later, the phone rang again. A woman’s voice, muffled against the pillow, “Why don’t you just speak to them? Tell them to call back in the morning or something.”
“If I want advice, I’ll ask,” said Mitch, slapping her bottom with a satisfying thwack.
“Ouch! That hurt …” she giggled.
Mitch picked up the receiver. “It’s 2am. Who the hell is this?”
“Hey, Mitch. It’s Leonard.”
“Leonard? I’m pretty sure we’ve discussed the time difference between London and LA.”
“Sorry, bud. I’ve been in meetings all afternoon.”
“What can I do for you, Leonard?”
“Have you finished the article about Clara?”
Mitch rolled onto his back, exhaled heavily. “Jesus Leonard. Must we keep reminding the world why it feels so sorry for Mitch Tyler.”
“What’s the alternative? And anyway … people find your suffering a great comfort. It helps them cope. Think of it as your gift to the world, buddy.”
Mitch remained silent, struggling to form a polite response.
Leonard decided on a different tact. “Have you been paying attention to the ever-diminishing size of your royalty cheques?”
Mitch felt a pang in the pit of his stomach. “My finances are my problem.”
“If you won’t submit the article for your finances, spare a thought for mine.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes. And it’s good news. I’ve landed you an interview with a leading women’s magazine over there.”
Mitch swallowed hard. Closed his eyes. “That’s just great, Leonard.”
“The journalist’s name is Verity Bran. She’ll be in The Bar of The Seasons Hotel on Park Lane next week ... that’s Thursday the 2nd of November. 7.30pm. Are you getting this, Mitch?”
“Yes I am, Leonard. The Seasons Hotel.”
“She’s a blonde …good looking, happily married. Just give her a great interview. Answer all her questions. Be professional.”
“Goodnight Leonard.” Mitch hung up.
“Can I see it?” asked the young woman in Mitch’s bed.
“My recollections of what happened when we got back here are poor I grant you. But I have a feeling you’re already well acquainted with it.”
“Funny guy. I didn’t know you were a writer, Mitch.”
Mitch said nothing, climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
She switched on the bedside lamp – a cone of light struggled into Mitch’s warehouse conversion apartment. She peered into the semi-darkness where several leather couches nestled in the low-beamed, open-plan space. A chrome kitchen ran half its length and provided scant illumination through half a dozen slatted windows. In a far corner she made out the shape of a desk. She glanced at the bathroom door before climbing out of bed and tiptoeing towards it.
The desk was a shambles of old newspapers, magazines and loose-leaf paper. A laptop sat half on, half off the desk. She slid it into a safer position and noticed several sheets of A4 paper beneath. She picked up the top sheet. The title read: ‘My Depressing Article.’
The toilet flushed. Mitch strode back into the room stark naked. He stood beside the bed and studied the 22-year-old blonde beneath the sheets. He felt a pang of guilt at not remembering her name. Something else he didn’t know: why was she reading? He was about to ask her when he realised what she was reading. “What the hell are you doing with that?” He leaned over the bed and slid the papers from her hands. “Consider yourself confined to this general area …” he said, indicating the bed. She moved towards him, her eyes longing, her breasts lolling. As Mitch kissed her neck, she snatched the papers back. “That particular move is not in the Queensbury Rules, young lady.”
“Lighten up, man … just let me read it …” she said, falling back onto the bed. Mitch picked up a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the bedside table. “Be sure and let me know if my suffering provides you some comfort.” He walked towards a set of double doors that led onto a balcony overlooking St. Catherine Docks. “You can’t go out there …you’re stark naked,” she said, glancing up from the page. Mitch grabbed a black towelling robe from a hook and disappeared through the doors.
As Mitch stood on his balcony smoking, this is what the young woman in his bed read …
The woman who rocked my world died in a car crash on November 19th 2005. To help me come to terms with my loss I wrote a novel. I didn’t imagine it would be published, let alone be a success. My story struck a nerve somehow. What follows is a brief recap of the events that led to me writing, ‘Phantom Red’.
I left college with few qualifications and an interest in professional sport. I lacked the commitment necessary to become a successful athlete. So I did the next best thing and took up sports journalism. I was 32 when I landed my dream job at the Los Angeles Herald.
On my first day my editor calls me into his office. “Mitch,” he says, “how do you feel about upping your game?”
“So soon?”
“I need someone to write something with a human-interest slant. Several members of the Lakers are visiting a centre downtown. It’s a place that counsels abused kids. It obviously lifts their spirits when they meet their sporting heroes. I need someone to go down there and write a piece about the caring side of sport. Think you can handle the assignment, kid?”
“Sure,” replied the 32-year-old ‘kid.’ It’s unbelievable how one banal word can decide the course of your life.
I strolled into the Seven Pines Centre for Children an hour before the Lakers arrived. I wanted to get some background on the place. I was shown into an office: a sparse box-room that contained an old desk and some battered filing cabinets. I was fumbling inside my case, looking for a fresh pad, when the door opened. I’m rapt by a pair of effortlessly long legs – my eyes lapped north, eventually meeting an emerald gaze that forces me to draw breath. My heart goes into overdrive and starts pumping blood like I’m midway through a 100 metre sprint. “Are you all right?” she enquires in a British accent. Right on cue my briefcase slides off my lap and thuds onto the hard floor. She bent double, appraised her visitor's condition. “Can I get you a glass of water or something? Only you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I mumbled something unintelligible.
“Must be the shock of my anaemic complexion … combined with my red hair. Californians struggle with it.” She picked up my case and handed it to me. “… sorry, I’m Mitch Tyler, I'm here to cover the Lakers visit for the Los Angeles Herald.”
“You’re early …” she said, squeezing past a filing cabinet and lowering herself into a chair behind the desk. “I apologise for the state of the place … it’s a bit of a tip. The good news is we’ve been given a grant to improve the facilities. How rude of me, I’m Clara, Clara Saunders.” Forgetting about the case, I stand up to shake her hand and the case flies off my knees and hits the front of her desk. “…I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Have you got an animal in that bag? Only it seems rather keen to get away.”
“You never know. It’s the kind of prank they play on new recruits back at the office.”
“Oh, you’re new to the job. The reason you drew the short straw?”
The ‘straw’ in question had lengthened considerably since my arrival. Which explained my simpleton’s stare.
“This can’t be the most exciting assignment for a sports journalist,” she reminded me.
“Not at all. The work you do here is important. I just hope I can do it justice. Not that I know a thing about it … which is why I’ve come down early to pick your brains.”
“I’m all yours, Mr Tyler. Pick away.”
“You’re British?” I felt confident on this point at least.
“Yep. I’ve come out to Los Angeles to help set up a new treatment programme. A lot of what we do here, the skills we teach are pretty ra
dical.”
“Skills? Teach? Not words I expected to hear.”
“We don’t use conventional question and answer therapies.”
I was born and bred in southern California. Hence my failure to comprehend. “You don’t ask the kids questions about what they’ve been through?”
“Not if we can help it. There are already more question and answer psychiatrists in California, per head of population, than anywhere else on Earth.”
“There are also more lunatics. You think there’s a connection?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she smiled. “No, we focus on imparting practical skills that the kids use to take a stand.”
“Take a stand? Against what?”
“Against the voice in their head that wants to remind them of the degradation they’ve experienced …and makes them relive the worst aspects of it over and over again. We teach them to recognise this voice … and not to engage with it.”
“You talking about blanking inner demons?”
“Precisely. And like any persistent pest when it’s ignored, it loses its enthusiasm … quietens down. That’s when positive thoughts and ideas can start to flourish again.”
“That’s interesting, I can work with that. Sounds like there are some parallels with what top athletes do …you know, learning how to shut out doubt and insecurity …to achieve maximum performance.”
“That’s a very perceptive analogy,” she said, as though there may be more to me than just a pretty face. I wanted to ask an intelligent question about this radical programme. I couldn’t think of one and returned to my comfort zone. “How does inviting sports personalities here fit in with what you do?”