My Name Is Echo

by Marguerite Valentine

  The receptionist remembered me. She said, ‘That’s Anya, isn’t it? I tell you what, I’ll book you for an assessment and we’ll see what we can do.’

  I said, ‘Don’t book me in with a man.’

  She said, ‘It’s only for a one-off, he wouldn’t be your actual counsellor.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want a man, that’s my problem. Men.’

  There was a silence and she said she’d see what she could do.

  Two weeks later I was at the Finsbury Park Counselling Centre, sitting in front of a woman for my assessment. I was about to enter shark-infested waters, although I wasn’t to know that. Some counsellors and therapists are on a different planet. They see the world in a different way and you have to learn how to speak their language. They’re serious, they don’t joke about, and you need to know that before seeing one.

  The woman I saw for an assessment sat opposite me. I could see her eyes raking over me. Like my mother, I thought, although she liked a laugh and this woman didn’t. She looked cold and hard. I thought she was rude and she got under my skin right from the get-go. I didn’t know what to make of her. She was eyeballing me so I did the same to her. I didn’t know what to say or how to start. It seemed I was supposed to mind read because eventually I realised she wasn’t going to speak to me and I’d have to speak first. I asked her what was to me an innocent question. ‘Do you like your work?’

  A look of annoyance passed across her face, so I said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’ I smiled at her but she still didn’t respond. I tried again. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  She spoke then. ‘Well, perhaps you could tell me what’s brought you to our service.’

  There wasn’t a trace of warmth in her voice. She was the ice queen reincarnated. I could almost see shards of ice dropping from her mouth. I thought that’s a funny thing to say, ‘our service’ as if she was a waitress in an upmarket tearoom, like Betty’s of Harrogate. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t want to annoy her again so I said, ‘Lots of things,’ and waited for her to encourage me, but she didn’t. So I said, ‘Would you like to hear about them?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  I really couldn’t make her out. She gave me the creeps and I began to think she found me threatening. It made me wonder why she was a counsellor. I saw myself through her eyes. She didn’t like my irreverence or the way I dressed. It was what I call ‘urban ethnic’ and my mate had designed it. I particularly liked my tights, black and purple narrow horizontal stripes and I wore them with a black cardigan, flat black pumps and a silk dress. The skirt was lilac with a panel at the hem of pink lace. It was a version of rockabilly and I looked a little eye catching.

  Neither of us spoke for what seemed an eternity. My mind was drifting away from her, when I heard her say, ‘I think it’s difficult for you to be here.’

  She was right. I said, ‘I think it’s difficult for me to be here.’

  She had that look again so I said hastily, ‘I’m agreeing with you.’

  I looked at my watch. I was thinking how much longer. It felt like torture. Any minute I expected an arc lamp to be switched on and directed at my face.

  I said, ‘You’re difficult to talk to, if I’m allowed to say that.’

  ‘There’s no rules here.’

  I looked at her in disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious. No rules.’

  But as I said that, I saw there was no point because she wouldn’t answer. I was wrong. She did answer. What she said was, ‘You want to engage me in an argument.’

  I felt a flash of anger. ‘If you call having and expressing a different view from you, wanting an argument, you’re right.’ Her lips tightened, she stared icily at me. She was so uptight, it was frightening. I stood up. It was getting as if I’d like to smack her one, although of course, I wouldn’t in reality. I looked at my mobile.

  ‘Oops, omigod, I have an urgent appointment. I have to go. So sorry.’ I stood up.

  She didn’t get up out of her chair. I walked towards the door and as I turned the handle, I heard her say, ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this.’

  I looked over my shoulder and said, ‘Enjoy the rest of your day.’ I winked at her and stayed just long enough to see her glare at me.

  I couldn’t wait to get out and as I passed through reception the woman at the desk said, ‘You’re early, didn’t it work out?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know you employed people off the street with emotional handicaps. Is this “social services” or something?’ She looked blank. ‘People with an empathy deficit. The woman I just saw, she has an empathy deficit. She needs a counsellor.’

  She smirked and said, ‘Don’t let it put you off, sometimes it happens, two people don’t get on. I’m sorry. Shall I book you in again?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I need to check out one or two things first.’ I smiled. ‘Pity I couldn’t see you.’

  She smiled back, ‘Well, I just do the bookings but I hope to see you again.’

  It had been a bad experience. I left the building and went to the community coffee shop just down the road and sat drinking coffee, pondering what I should do next. Saf had told me North London was full of therapists and counsellors.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ I’d asked. She said ‘Not much, they both work with people. Therapists have a longer training, but what’s important is you feel safe with them, and they’re on your wavelength.’

  Well, that hadn’t happened for sure. It felt as if I was at a dead end. I sat stirring my coffee, idly looking at the notice board. There were lots of ads including, I noticed, some for therapists and counsellors.

  My eye was caught by one in particular. It was a professionally designed A5 leaflet, with a photo of a good looking, middle-aged man. Underneath his picture was a list of questions like, ‘Do you suffer with shyness? Are you anxious or depressed? Do you have problems with your partner, with work or at home? Have you suffered loss?’ It went on, ‘I’m a trained therapist and work with all types of emotional problems, including domestic violence, abuse survivors, sexual problems, eating disorders.’ All sessions were completely confidential and he offered ‘A fast, friendly service, with a sliding fee scale.’ It said, ‘Call me on my mobile and I’ll return your call within twenty-four hours.’

  There was a short biography. His name was Jason Fellowes and it said where he’d trained, but that meant nothing to me. He seemed to have done lots of things: teaching, importing and exporting, working on a pig farm and keeping a small holding in Spain where he’d kept bees and sold wild herb honey.

  He came across as friendly and normal, and after my experience with the counsellor I’d just seen, I was too scared to try another woman. What with her eyeballing, her looking for a fight and then blaming me for how she felt, maybe, I thought, it was time to try a male counsellor. Jason also reminded me of Mr Harris at school, which made me feel better. I took one of the leaflets, stuck it in my pocket and caught the bus back, intending when I got home to get on the net and find out more about him.

  There was more. He had his own website with photos. He seemed to work all over London and one photo showed him with a herd of pigs all gathered round. I laughed when I saw it; they were looking up at him as if he’d descended from heaven. I thought, pigs are supposed to be intelligent so he must be alright. There was another of him holding a jar of his honey, presumably made by Spanish bees.

  It said he believed in self-determination, non-judgementalism, total acceptance and valuing the authenticity of the client’s story. How good is that, I thought. He certainly knew how to appeal and after my ghastly interaction with Mrs Frosty, I needed a positive experience. I rang him straightaway and left a message. A woman rang back the next day.

  We arranged to meet at his place of work which was in a building in one of those huge London squares at the back of John Lewis. It se
emed he shared it with other therapists and counsellors because the waiting room was almost full. No one spoke. It was like a doctor’s waiting room minus the coughs. There was a rather snooty, smart-looking receptionist sitting behind a huge modern desk, but it turned out she was actually friendly. She offered me coffee while I waited for Jason and spoke as if we knew each other already. She reassured me he was expecting me, then she sat down and her attention was glued to her computer screen, except when she answered the phone. The phone rang constantly. Jason was in demand. She’d ask their name, how they’d heard of him and according to their answer would fix an appointment or tell them he was fully booked. I thought I was lucky I could see him so quickly.

  I waited fifteen minutes. I was becoming more nervous. Eventually he called the receptionist and she showed me to his room. He was waiting outside and as soon as he saw me he smiled and shook my hand. His hand was clammy. I walked in. His room was large, painted that drab green you see in National Trust properties, with oak window shutters and wall-to-wall carpeting in a golden colour. Underneath the window was a huge mahogany desk, but he didn’t sit behind that but gestured to a leather chair and invited me to sit down. He sat diagonally opposite. So far, so good. A different experience to Mrs Frosty; he was friendly and he initiated conversation.

  He smiled, and leaning forward, he said, ‘I can see how nervous you are, Anya. Well, you needn’t be. Tell me what’s brought you here today. That is, if you’re ready. It’s disconcerting to open up to someone you’ve only just met, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t answer straightaway. I looked round. There were signed portraits of famous actors on the wall, thanking him for how he’d helped them. I looked from them to him. He could have been one of them. He was slightly tanned, just enough for it to be flattering. His hair was close cropped, grey. He could have been a dead-ringer for George Clooney. He oozed self-confidence, charm and style. He leant back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his ankle resting on his knee, and smiled. He seemed never to stop smiling. I noticed his shoes, expensive, tan brogues and his tweedy shawl-collared sweater – the rural look, aka known as smart casual. It might have looked poncy but he carried it off.

  ‘You know I haven’t got much money. I can’t pay you much. I’m not famous and I’m not rich.’

  He threw his head back and laughed, theatrically some might say. ‘Please don’t worry about that. It’s the person I’m interested in, not their wealth. The rich subsidise the poor here. I’m more of a Robin Hood character.’

  I looked at him suspiciously, bit glib, I thought. I said, ‘Where’s your tights then, your green tights, shouldn’t you be wearing them?’ Not funny, but the best I could do given my nervousness.

  He laughed again. ‘I can see you and I are going to get on, Anya. But we have work to do and what I’m really interested in is you.’

  You bet, he was. Looking back, I was completely taken with him. He knew how to put me at my ease and his manner was easy and open. He had a ready smile and made lots of eye contact and in his presence I felt valued and attractive. Perhaps he put me in mind of Gareth when I’d first met him all those years ago in Ffridd, before things had got complicated between us. My mind began drifting again.

  I heard him say. ‘Okay, Anya, give it to me. What’s going on for you?’ I was surprised by his informality. It was the type of thing Maddy might have said. I paused to get my thinking straight, looked across the room but he knew what I was trying to do. He said, ‘Don’t bother to organise what you want to tell me, because I want to see for myself what’s the most important and the most disturbing for you. Speak as you feel.’ My words tumbled out, one after another, chaotically tripping over each other, the flow of thoughts and feelings stopping only when I paused for breath and before the inevitable tears that followed. I was hardly aware of Jason when I re-lived the humiliation of the night with Ifan. I told him everything, how we’d first met, our friendship and how, just before we’d been separated by the river near-drowning experience, he’d seen me naked, and how he’d kissed me, but after that he’d disappeared and I thought he was dead.

  Now and again Jason interrupted with a question so I knew he was listening. He made only one comment, ‘So Ifan sexually aroused you, but after meeting him again, something stopped you. Can you say more?’

  I glanced at him and as he said this, I noticed his tan, his white teeth, his sensuous mouth, but for some reason I felt wary and I closed up. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’ve had no other sexual experiences?’

  I shifted my gaze away from him while I wondered whether to tell him about Gareth. There was a long pause. He noticed.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘There was somebody before him, but that didn’t work either. He’s a poet, called Gareth, he’s older and after Ifan vanished, I became obsessed with him. One night I got drunk and tried to seduce him. He didn’t want to know. It was devastating.

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Nearly sixteen.’

  ‘And what about him?’

  ‘Maybe thirty-five. It doesn’t matter. Not to me.’

  He didn’t pursue that line of questioning but said, ‘I’d like to return to your early history, you’ve said nothing about your parents, neither of them, in fact.’

  ‘What is there to say? What little I know about my father is that I’m the product of an affair, my father was married already, and my mother? She’s angry, spiteful, unfulfilled. But she does her best, so I’m told.’

  After this, he sat for a while thinking. I didn’t mind the silence, then he said, ‘Well, Anya, life’s been difficult for you, brought up by a mother who sees you as a “product” – is that your word or your mother’s? – of a man who cheated on her. A father of whom you know little.’

  At that point I interrupted him to say I’d forgotten about my uncle Harry and that I’d gone to Liverpool to find out more about my father. But Harry had other things on his mind. I told him I’d been frightened and how repulsive I’d found him when he came on to me.

  Jason asked ‘Why?’

  For a split second, I thought he must be stupid but I replied politely. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s my mother’s brother, my uncle.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He was silent again, then he continued, ‘Your absent father, the unexplained loss of Ifan, whom you see as your first love, then grieving, you transfer that love and affection to Gareth, but Gareth, from your point of view, rejects you, and your uncle attempts to exploit your vulnerability. It’s hardly surprising you find it difficult to trust men. They either leave you or they reject you. That seems to have been your experience.’

  I was impressed. ‘I see what you mean. But can you help me?’

  ‘How would you like me to help you?’

  ‘I don’t know, you tell me, that’s why I’m here.’

  Jason said, ‘I think you need to come here, regularly. You need space, to talk, reflect, think. You need to feel accepted but do you want that commitment?’

  I answered immediately. ‘Yes, but what about your fees?’

  ‘Don’t worry about them, Anya, tell me what you can afford.’ He stood up and, smiling, held his hand out. ‘Make an appointment with my secretary before you leave. You can cancel later, if you have second thoughts.’

  I thanked him and as I left his room, he said, ‘You’re a very attractive young woman. You must know that.’

  That observation took me aback big time. I could have done without it; I didn’t want to know how he saw me. But I was ready to forgive him. He’d put me at my ease and with the exception of that last comment, he’d said the right thing at the right time. I made an appointment with the receptionist and began seeing him on a weekly basis.

  I looked forward to those sessions and gradually I began feeling better. I don’t know how it worked, but Jason called it �
�the talking cure’, and I did talk. I talked about anything and everything, until the fragments of my life began connecting up and I saw the big picture. All was going well, until the inevitable happened. I saw Ifan.

  London’s a big place and unless you work or live in the same locality or hang out in the same coffee bars or music venues, it’s unlikely that your path will randomly cross with someone you know, but it does happen.

  It was a Wednesday, late afternoon. I’d had my session and was walking down the steps of the building when my eye was caught by a familiar figure. Ifan. I was a little way down the street and he was hoisting his bike up and attaching it with a D lock to some railings.

  I couldn’t move from where I stood and I stopped breathing. It had been almost a year since that last disastrous meeting but he was never far from my mind. I stood wondering what to do, when a girl ran down the steps. Like me, she must have just seen a therapist. She ran towards him, calling his name. He looked up, smiled, then he saw me.

  That wiped the smile off his face. Our eyes met. His gaze was direct, intense. When the girl reached him, she’d put her arm round his waist, and kissed him, but he must have said something because she looked back at me. They walked away leaving his bike still attached to the railings. It all happened so quickly, I was left standing unsure of my next move.

  I continued watching them until they reached the traffic lights and turned into the next street. I saw Ifan glance over his shoulder towards me. Spontaneously I raised my hand to my shoulder and gave him a shy little wave. I was filled with a longing to speak with him and I felt my eyes fill with tears. I walked to his bike and stood for a moment wondering whether to leave him a note or wait until he returned. What would his girlfriend make of it? Yet admitting to myself he had a girlfriend was painful because rightly or wrongly, I still felt he and I were destined to be together.