My Name Is Echo

by Marguerite Valentine

  I took out my ‘Re-Vamp Designs’ business card, and tucked it under the saddle of his bike. I didn’t care if his girlfriend saw it or not. I didn’t leave a message, he’d know it was from me. I walked home and cried but I had to wait another week before I could tell Jason. I tried to avoid thinking about Ifan and his girlfriend by keeping busy at work. I knew my feelings of jealousy and betrayal were irrational, but knowing that didn’t make them go away. All the old memories resurfaced. Then I began to dream and they were bad.

  It was the same one for five nights. I was back in the forest and hiding behind the tree, only this time it wasn’t Gareth and Chloe I was watching, it was Ifan with his girlfriend and as they were about to have sex, I’d wake in a panic. After that, I couldn’t get back to sleep and I’d be awake for hours.

  I became exhausted. I couldn’t wait to see Jason. I needed his help to make sense of my feelings.

  The day came, I arrived early for my appointment and was sitting in the waiting room impatiently flicking through the magazines, when Ifan’s girlfriend walked in. It hadn’t crossed my mind I might see her.

  She sat down and stared at me coldly. She must have known who I was, but neither of us said hello. I put my head down. She was pretty in an ordinary way, but dressed as if she’d just come from work and her work must have been boring because her clothes were boring. She had no style. I thought she looked like an office worker in her black skirt and white blouse and, knowing Ifan, I was surprised he was with her. Maybe she was more interesting than she looked, or after his experience with me, he wanted someone conventional.

  She couldn’t have positioned herself further from where I was sitting but I was aware of her eyes drilling through me. I felt myself blush and began wondering how much Ifan had told her. Would she know I had a hang up about sex? No matter how boring she looked, perhaps she liked sex and she had no problems. She’d be safely predictable and wouldn’t suddenly jump out of bed at the crucial point and cry she couldn’t go through with it. But if she was so together, why was she seeing a therapist? Just as I thought I’d have to go to the loo to avoid her eyeballing, the receptionist said Jason was ready to see me.

  I was relieved, walked quickly to his room and flung myself on to the chair. Jason looked at me curiously. I didn’t speak straightaway but seeing him made me tearful.

  ‘What’s going on? You look stirred up.’

  ‘I am stirred up. Last week, by chance, I saw Ifan. It was after my session. I was walking along the street, and I saw him locking up his bike so I was standing there wondering whether to speak to him, when a girl ran down the steps. He must have been waiting for her because they walked away together. That was bad enough, but now she’s in your waiting room. We didn’t speak, it was all so fast, but you can imagine how I felt. She must see a therapist here. She’s fair haired, dresses like an office worker and wears high heels. Do you know who she might be?’

  He didn’t answer. I hesitated before adding. ‘It’s a shock. After all this time, seeing him with someone else. I thought I was over him. But I’m not. My feelings are the same. I miss him and I feel terrible.’

  ‘Terrible?’

  ‘Yes, I keep having this dream. It’s like it’s about Gareth and Chloe in the forest but this time it’s Ifan and her, the one in your waiting room. I don’t know her name. The dreams wake me up, just as they’re about to have sex. I’ve hardly slept since last week.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘How should I know?’ I was irritated. ‘I want you to tell me, that’s why I come here, isn’t it? If I knew, I wouldn’t need to come.’

  For a change he didn’t seem to know what to say, and was silent. He was thinking. Eventually he said, ‘Perhaps you wake from the dream to protect yourself from watching them. Watching them make love would make you jealous. Having sex is something you haven’t achieved yourself.’ I glared at him, but there was more to come. ‘You feel excluded and inadequate; as if you’re not pretty and it hurts that he’s chosen her rather than you. If you stayed asleep the dream would become a nightmare, so you wake and that way you maintain your control and avoid the pain.’

  That pissed me off. Big time. It was unexpected. I felt as if he’d thrown a bomb in my face. My response was immediate.

  ‘Why do I have to listen to such crap? What you’ve just said is cruel and it’s as if you want to hurt me.’ I glared at him, stood up and gathered my things. ‘You know what? I’m going. I can do without your shit. I came here to feel better, not made worse and you’ve made me feel worse.’

  He didn’t move. His face was expressionless. I was on a roll by then and nothing would stop me. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘actually, it’s you who’s jealous. You’re jealous because I still have feelings for Ifan. I think,’ I paused as I found the right words, ‘I think that’s why you want to hurt me. It’s as if I’ve betrayed you because I still miss Ifan and you want me to be totally involved with you.’

  That got to him. He was as angry as me now. He looked furious and waved his hand imperiously in the air. ‘Transference. Your problem, not mine.’

  ‘Whatever that means. But I can guess. Do you think I haven’t noticed?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Your clients, they’re all young women, attractive young women but they never last long. I’ve been seeing you now for a year and I must be your longest-standing client. Why don’t they stay? What’s your game? Are you married? Don’t you get enough? I think not. That’s why you’re so interested in my sex life.’

  ‘You haven’t got a sex life.’

  That was way out of order. I retorted, ‘And neither have you. That’s obvious.’

  He must have lost it by then because he said, ‘None of your business.’

  He got out of his chair and we stood glowering at each other. I was halfway across the room when he stepped across my path, blocking my exit to the door. ‘You’re a creep,’ I said and then I delivered the killer line, ‘You remind me of Harry.’ When I said that, he seemed to pull himself together. He spoke slowly and quietly. ‘You’re here because you need my help. Therapy is a difficult process and it requires that you trust me and recognise I have your interests at heart. This is our first difficulty but you immediately want to run, which is something you’ve always done. I suggest you stay and see it through.’

  ‘What is there to see through?’

  He paused, then said, ‘It’s not Ifan you want to have sex with, the dream is about me with someone else, but I’m unavailable and it’s this which causes you anguish.’

  That shocked me. I laughed sarcastically. ‘You,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. You’re wrong.’ I repeated what he’d said to me, ‘“Transference”, it’s your problem. Anyway, I don’t go for your type, a George Clooney look alike… And I’m still going.’ I side-stepped round him, reached the door and turned to look at him. ‘I’ll think about it, whether I’m coming back. It’s my decision, mine alone.’

  I walked out. I wanted to get out of that building fast. I ran down the stairs. There was still ten minutes left to my session and the last person I wanted to see was Ifan waiting for his girlfriend. I headed towards Cavendish Square for the back entrance of John Lewis. I was desperate for anonymity and figured I’d get that in John Lewis.

  It was, as I thought it would be, busy. I drifted round looking at the various displays. I was upset and wanted some sort of distraction. Eventually I found myself in the handbag department.

  I looked around. The more expensive the bag, the more seductive the display. Before long, my eye was caught by a solitary, beautifully coloured leather bag. You couldn’t miss it. It was lit up with a back light, and balanced high on a clear plastic plinth. It was azure blue and put me in mind of the one I’d bought off eBay. The one I’d called my Anya bag, but after the Gareth debacle I’d put it away.

  I stood in the middle of the crowds surging round the glass displ
ay cabinets, but my mind was in that hotel room, remembering when I’d got drunk and how I’d tried to seduce Gareth – and I would have, if he’d let me. Now seven years later, I was still looking for that wonderful experience but it hadn’t happened. It was then, I realised, big time, I was a mess. Despite seeing a therapist, I was destined, it seemed, never to have a good relationship with a guy and included in this list were male therapists. But then a wave of defiance came over me. Right now, I didn’t give a shit.

  A woman assistant interrupted my reverie. ‘Can I help you?’ I was pulled back into the present. I was standing in front of the blue bag. ‘I was wondering how much that bag is? It’s so beautiful.’

  She took it down and placed it in my hands. ‘It is, isn’t it? It’s one of my favourites. It’s Italian leather, of the best quality and hand made in Florence by Forzieri.’

  The bag clicked open with a clasp. l peered inside. Lined in deep blue silk, it had pockets for a phone, a purse, a notebook. ‘It’s stunning. How much is it?’

  ‘Seven hundred, just under to be precise.’

  ‘Oh. Well out of my price range, but to be expected. Thanks. But actually, I have a beautiful bag at home. I bought it off eBay, but maybe, when I’m rich and famous I’ll buy this one. Then I’ll have two.’ I smiled at her, handed back the bag, left the store and caught the bus home.

  It was crowded but upstairs there were some empty seats and I found myself sitting next to a very expensively dressed woman. She was carrying a Selfridge’s bag and wearing a perfume I recognised. It was familiar. It was Coco Mademoiselle. I stared at her but as I did, I heard the voice of Anya, my namesake telling me she could help me. The woman must have become aware I was looking at her because she looked sideways at me. I said to her, ‘Anya is the perfume, the perfume is Anya and I want to be Anya.’ She stood up and moved away to sit somewhere else. She must have thought I was mad but I didn’t care.

  Three days later I received a letter from Jason. It said he recognised how upset I was and apologised for being ‘wrong-footed’ and that he’d see me at the usual time. I couldn’t have cared less. My feelings for him had changed. I looked cynically at what he’d written. It was what I call, ‘therapese’. It said the right things but there was no emotion. I was sure he wouldn’t care if he never saw me again, and the thought of going back to where he worked and sitting in that waiting room and seeing Ifan’s girlfriend was excruciatingly embarrassing.

  I didn’t know whether to return or not, but the comment he’d made about running when there was a problem had got to me. Maybe he was right. Then I had an idea. He worked in other parts of London so I emailed him and asked if it was possible to meet elsewhere. That way, I could avoid Ifan’s girlfriend and still check out more about what he’d said. Otherwise I wrote, I’d look for another therapist. It wasn’t an idle threat. I meant it.

  He emailed me back. He said that was fine. He worked near Hackney Downs Station and gave me two possible dates and times.

  I chose Tuesdays at seven. Although Hackney isn’t so far from Stroud Green, I wasn’t familiar with the area so I was there early and I ended up loitering outside. It was a basement flat and totally different from the elegant and professional place in Wigmore Street where I’d seen him before. I wondered if he lived there so I walked up the steps to the front door to look at the flat name plates. There were three flats but none with his name.

  I went back down to the basement, rang the bell and stood waiting. A safety light snapped on. When he opened the door he didn’t greet me or smile, just stood aside and gestured towards an open door inside the flat. The heat hit me. I looked around the room. It was painted white and either he or his partner must have been to Ikea because I recognised the style of the two tub chairs. They were covered in that bold flowered pattern the Scandinavians love. The blinds at the window were a subtle violet colour. On the walls were some Chagall prints and the carpet was rough sisal. It was all new and very tasteful in a modern kind of way. I liked its simplicity.

  I sat down. I had no idea what I was going to talk about but I felt indifferent and a little contemptuous. I’d thought more about the last session and disapproved of what he’d said. It had been unprofessional and it was this which was on my mind. But I covered these thoughts up.

  ‘I like your room. Very Ikea. I didn’t know Ikea sold

  Chagall prints.’

  ‘They don’t. I got them elsewhere.’

  He was leaning back in his chair with his fingers pressed together, studying me closely. My eye was caught by a bed along the wall.

  ‘Why have you got a bed in here? Is it a spare guest room?’

  ‘It’s not a bed. It’s a couch. Some people prefer to lie on the couch as they talk.’

  ‘How peculiar. That’s weird. And where do you sit?’

  ‘Behind them.’

  ‘Behind them? But they couldn’t see you. You never had a couch in the other place.’

  He didn’t answer. We were staring at each other.

  I said, ‘Did you see that staring cat on YouTube? It out stared its owner.’

  He said, ‘A battle of wills.’ He remained unsmiling.

  I ignored that. I was now reminded of that woman therapist I’d seen, the one who didn’t like me. The atmosphere was similar. Hostile. I began drumming my fingers on the arm of the chair. I looked in my bag for my oyster card for something to do and wondered how much longer I could stand the silence. I smiled uncertainly at him. I was regretting coming.

  ‘I could do with some tea, but I know you won’t get me one.’ Silence. ‘I just thought I’d say something. You know, to break the silence.’

  ‘You seem jumpy.’

  ‘Not surprising, is it? The Silence of the Lambs, did you ever see it?’

  ‘You fear being slaughtered?’

  I gave him one of my looks. The type of look that wound my mother up. A quick glance, purse my lips, look away, then up to the ceiling. Contempt. I was good at it. He didn’t react.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say. I didn’t know whether to come or not, and now I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘But you have come.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Of what?’

  I sighed, ‘What’s the point of coming here?’

  ‘Maybe there was something drawing you here.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I think we both know that.’

  I didn’t answer immediately. Then I said sarcastically, ‘Are you a mind reader? You seem to know something I don’t. Perhaps you can enlighten me.’

  He said, ‘The couch. It attracts you, doesn’t it? But it’s difficult for you to speak of your desire; you dream but even in a dream, you wake. You’re frightened. You must be in control.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about desire between men and women and your difficulties in acknowledging your own.’

  He stopped. He was watching me carefully. He was monitoring my reaction but I was out of my depth. I didn’t know what was going on or what he was talking about, but something wasn’t right.

  ‘Anya. At some point you need to let go. You need to give in and stop fighting. Until you can do this you’ll remain in a childlike state, conflicted, unhappy, isolated… Your nightmares reveal your true feelings. You’re desperate for love and affection.’

  I glanced at him and looked away. What he’d said had got to me. I saw myself as he saw me. He felt sorry for me. He saw me as pathetic and screwed up.

  Images of me as a child, searching for my mother, her shouting, Harry sexually excited, lurching drunk across Gareth’s room, and Ifan– even he no longer wanted me.

  I was alone in the world, a nobody, a failure, a total failure. I fought back tears. The estuary at dusk came to me. I wanted to go back to those times when I played with Ifan, to how it used to be, when life se
emed safe and easy, but that was the past and I was frightened. I didn’t understand what was going on. I didn’t know who I was or what life was about. I wished I hadn’t come. I began crying. I turned away to hide my face from Jason. Through my tears I heard him speaking softly.

  ‘Anya, let me help you. I know what you want. You must trust me. I won’t hurt you. Let me help you. Please.’

  I didn’t answer. He was getting up out of his chair, slowly walking towards me. He’s standing over me, gesturing towards the couch. I did what he wanted. I lay on the couch, looking up at him. My mind is empty. I’m mesmerised by his voice.

  I trust him. I want him to make me feel better. Neither of us speak. I wait for him to sit in the chair behind me. But he doesn’t. He crouches on the floor. He’s close to me. He’s smiling. He slowly pulls up my jumper, fondles my breasts, he puts his hand up my skirt, then into my pants. His fingers explore my body. He’s breathing heavily. But I can’t move. My body is inert, my mind blank. I allow him to do what he wants. Everything that follows is in slow motion. I can hear him talking but not what he says. I’m staring at the ceiling until the room spins round and round. My body isn’t mine. I feel a searing pain. I pass out.

  When I come to, he’s gone. I’m sleepwalking. I get off the couch. My pants lie blooded on the floor. I pick them up. I put them in my bag. I’m shaking. I want to leave his flat. I walk to the door. Open it. Look back over my shoulder. He’s standing in the hall. He has a mug of tea.

  I hear him say, ‘You’re not leaving yet, are you? I’ve made some tea for you.’ Everything normal. Except it’s not. I look at him. Who is he? I feel nothing. I leave. I make my way across the Downs. It’s dark. I stop under a tree and retch. Then I vomit. I stay there until there’s nothing left inside my body to spew out. I catch a cab back to my mother’s flat. She’s not in. I remove my clothes and stand in the shower. I let the water cascade over me but I can’t get clean. I don’t know how long I’m there. I sleepwalk my way to my bed and lie for hours, half-awake, half-asleep. I don’t cry.