The Hypnotist’s Love Story

by Liane Moriarty

  If you ever wanted proof that hypnosis worked ...

  "Sorry about that," said Ellen. "My, ah, fiance is having a clean-out."

  "Oh, yes, I heard that you were getting married." Luisa dabbed at her nose with a soggy-looking tissue. She was the very essence of a woman with a cold, as if she'd been cast for the role in a TV commercial for cold and flu tablets. Her nose was red and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Ellen felt her own sinuses block up in sympathy.

  "You heard I was getting married?" said Ellen, as she led Luisa up the stairs. For some reason she thought of Saskia. Was she passing on the news to all of her clients?

  "Patricia Bradbury," said Luisa shortly.

  Julia's mother. Ellen had forgotten that Luisa was the daughter of one of Julia's mother's friends.

  If Luisa knew about the engagement, did she know about the pregnancy too? Surely people knew better than to pass on random pregnancy news to a woman who was desperately trying to have a baby.

  "Would you like me to make you a cup of herbal tea?" she asked Luisa, as she gestured toward the client chair. "I could make you one with lemon and honey for your cold?"

  "So I'm not pregnant," said Luisa. "But apparently you are."

  It appeared people did not know better.

  "Well, yes, actually. It's only early days--" began Ellen.

  "I heard it was an accident," said Luisa. She sniffed and grabbed a handful of Ellen's tissues. She wiped her nose aggressively.

  "It's true that it wasn't planned," said Ellen carefully. She sat down and picked up Luisa's file, which she had taken out beforehand and placed on the coffee table ready for her session.

  "Maybe you accidentally hypnotized yourself when you were meant to be hypnotizing me." Luisa gave a bitter little laugh that turned into a spluttering cough.

  "This must seem very unfair to you," said Ellen.

  "You said you could get me pregnant," said Luisa.

  "I did not!" said Ellen. She would never have said that. Although it was true that she did have high hopes for her success with Luisa. Over the years she had helped a number of women with similar case histories. They had sent her effusive letters and photos of their babies; one had even named her baby Ellen in her honor.

  "I want my money back," said Luisa. "That's the only reason I came today. You're a fraud. You take advantage of people when they're suffering, when they're at their most vulnerable. I can't believe you were recommended to me."

  Ellen felt a rush of prickly heat flood her whole body like an instant allergic reaction. "Luisa," she said. "I'm so sorry--"

  "Just give me my money back."

  Never ever give a client a refund. Flynn had drummed that into her. This is a professional service you're offering. Professionals do not give a refund for no reason. Respect yourself. Respect what you do.

  "You're a quack," said Luisa. Her voice quivered on the edge of tears. "Why should I help fund stuff for your baby? Your baby's clothes, your baby's nappies. Do you think with all the money we're spending on IVF that we need this extra expense? My husband told me, he said all this alternative stuff is a load of crap, and he was right."

  She was sobbing now, rocking back and forth as though she was wracked with pain. Ellen's eyes filled with sympathetic tears. What to say, what to say?

  "Luisa, I really believe that we could still--"

  "Just give me my money back."

  "All right," said Ellen. "I will. Just give me a minute. I'll write you a check."

  This was a first. Nobody had ever asked for a refund before. She'd always known that if they did, she would ignore Flynn's instructions.

  She took her checkbook from the drawer of her desk and watched her hand shake slightly as she wrote Luisa's name. All her pregnancy symptoms suddenly intensified: Her breasts hardened and burned and her mouth filled with metal; her body obviously wanted to make her feel even guiltier for being pregnant when Luisa wasn't.

  "It better not bounce." Luisa stuffed the check into her handbag.

  "It won't," said Ellen. One part of her wanted to slap the woman and the other part wanted to hug her.

  "Right, well, I'll be..." Luisa sneezed three times in a row. She pressed her sodden tissue to her nose and looked at Ellen with streaming eyes.

  "Bless you," said Ellen. Her hand went out involuntarily to touch Luisa's arm in a gesture of sympathy. The poor woman looked so pitiful.

  "Don't touch me," said Luisa. She turned and walked down the stairs, blowing her nose the whole way. Patrick looked up from the hallway, where he was in the process of straightening up while he hefted two giant garbage bags over his shoulders like a weight lifter. He smiled politely at Luisa, and then his smile vanished as he saw her clearly unhappy demeanor. His eyes moved questioningly to Ellen's and she silently shrugged.

  Ellen opened the door for Luisa and she left without saying a word, walking briskly down the path, her chin jutting forward, arms swinging, as if she was on her way to put a stop to something.

  "What's her problem?" asked Patrick, coming to stand beside her at the door.

  "She's mad at me for being pregnant when she's not," said Ellen. "She-- Who's that?"

  Luisa had stopped near the top of the path to talk to a tall man in dark sunglasses and a stylish suit.

  "Do you know him?" asked Patrick.

  "I don't think so," said Ellen.

  She had a strong sense of foreboding as she watched Luisa fling back her arm toward the house while the man bent toward her, listening with his whole body. He was far too interested in what Luisa was saying; whoever he was, Ellen didn't want him talking to Luisa right now.

  "It's not a new client, is it?" said Patrick. "Because it looks like she's giving him an earful."

  "I'm not expecting anyone," said Ellen. She squinted. The man turned so she could see his face in profile. He had a big, beaky nose. There was something familiar about him.

  "I feel like I know him from somewhere." Patrick shifted the garbage bags more comfortably on his shoulders.

  "Me too," said Ellen. "Is he a newsreader or something? An actor?"

  They watched as Luisa reached into her handbag and held something up to the man.

  "I think she's showing him the check I gave her," said Ellen.

  "Why did you give her a check?"

  "It's a refund," said Ellen.

  "A refund? You gave her a refund because you're pregnant?"

  "I'll explain later. What's he doing now?"

  The man reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out something that appeared to be a business card. Luisa glanced at it and then smiled.

  "Oh, God," said Ellen. "Who is this man?"

  "I'll go and find out," said Patrick. "They can't just stand there chatting on your property."

  "No, wait." Ellen chewed a fingernail and watched Luisa carefully put the man's card in her bag, like she was filing away an important document, before walking off. The man lifted a hand to wave good-bye, and then came striding down the footpath, smoothly removing his sunglasses with one hand. He looked angry and determined, as if he was walking straight to the lost luggage counter at the airport.

  "Right," said Patrick. He set down the garbage bags and opened the screen door. "Can I help you, mate?"

  There was an aggressive edge to his voice. Ellen tugged at the back of his T-shirt. "Patrick, don't--"

  "I'm here to see Ellen O'Farrell," said the man. He didn't smile. Most people couldn't help but give at least a perfunctory smile when they walked to the door of a strange house.

  "Have you got an appointment?" Patrick squared his shoulders.

  "Nope." The man lifted his chin as if to say, What if I don't?

  Patrick puffed out his chest, and Ellen thought, Look at him being all chivalrous. He said, "Why don't you come back when you've got one?"

  This was getting out of hand. Ellen stepped forward. "I'm Ellen. Can I--" The man turned to her with such hatred in his eyes, Ellen faltered. "Can I help you?" she said.

  "
I'm Ian Roman. My wife is a 'patient' of yours. Rosie. Remember her? You were helping her stop smoking, although funnily enough, she's still going through a pack a day."

  That's why she recognized him. Rosie's wealthy husband. A "bigwig." That's how Rosie had described him. He was in real estate, wasn't he? Or some sort of media tycoon? Ellen couldn't remember which. She just knew she'd seen his face in the papers.

  "I don't care who you are," said Patrick, although Ellen could tell by the subtle change of tone in his voice that he knew exactly who Ian Roman was and where he sat on the social hierarchy. "You can't come barging in here without an appointment."

  "It's fine," said Ellen. "I have a few minutes." She stepped in between the two men and gave Patrick a look that was meant to say, Thank you, my darling, but you can back off now. "My office is this way, Ian." She put deliberate emphasis on his name. "I can see you for ten minutes or so."

  "I'll be just down here," said Patrick warningly.

  "So this is where you supposedly hypnotize people," said Ian Roman, after she led him upstairs. He glanced around her lovely office and his nostrils flared as though he was seeing something unhygienic and unsavory.

  "Have a seat." Ellen indicated the green recliner, and for some reason, perhaps fear, she said flippantly, "Have a chocolate too."

  Ian took a seat and didn't even bother to glance at the chocolates. He pulled on his trouser legs. Ellen sat down in front of him. She was mentally replaying her last session with Rosie.

  Ian suddenly leaned forward. "So, Rosie has her sister over the other night. I come home early and I stop in the hallway to look at some mail and I can hear them talking. I'm not really listening, but then it starts to register, and you know what I hear?"

  He didn't wait for an answer.

  "I hear my wife say that she discovered under hypnosis that she doesn't really love me. Great! But you know what, that's OK, that's no problem, because now she's being hypnotized into loving me. One hundred and fifty dollars a pop! Let's forget about helping you stop smoking, that's too hard, let's help you love your husband. The one you married five fucking minutes ago!"

  Ellen took a deep, shaky breath. What was in the air today? She tried to keep her voice detached and professional yet caring and empathetic. "Obviously, it would be unethical of me to discuss your wife's treatment with you, however I do understand--"

  "Oh, obviously, because you're so very ethical."

  There was a thump and a crash from downstairs. It sounded like Patrick had dropped one of the boxes. Ellen's cheeks felt hot.

  I am not a quack. I have nothing to feel guilty about.

  Except maybe she did.

  "Have you spoken to Rosie about this?" she said.

  "I have nothing to say to her," said Ian. "Clearly our marriage is over. I don't need a woman who needs to be hypnotized into loving me. For Christ's sake. What a joke. What an absolute joke."

  His mask of controlled fury slipped for a fleeting second and that was all it took for Ellen to understand everything. He loved Rosie and he was desperately hurt, but overriding everything else was his shattered pride. That was what was driving him. His ego had taken a violent blow, and he was going to fight back until it stopped hurting.

  "Never hurt their pride," Ellen's grandmother had once told her. "A man with hurt pride is like a wounded bear thrashing about in the forest."

  Ellen massaged her stomach. Before she saw Luisa, she'd drunk two glasses of water in preparation for this morning's ultrasound. She desperately needed to empty her bladder.

  "I had the pleasure of meeting another one of your satisfied clients on the way in," said Ian. "Great little operation you've got going here. Regularly hand out refunds, do you?"

  "You really need to talk to your wife about this," said Ellen. She floundered; her professional identity suddenly seemed slippery and tenuous. She saw her mother's face all those years ago: "Ellen, you can't seriously be considering a career in this." She thought of all the jokes and the sneers and the doubts she'd ever endured. It suddenly felt like she was a quack, a charlatan. "This is not the way it seems."

  "I bet you're involved with these idiotic hypno-parties, aren't you?" said Ian. "I guess it makes it easier to rip people off en masse."

  Oh, God, if he knew her connection to Danny. How would he handle this sort of attack? Or Flynn? Both of them would do a better job than she was doing now.

  "I expect you cure cancer, do you?" said Ian. "Forget chemo. Just use the power of your mind."

  "I have never, ever made unsubstantiated claims," said Ellen. "Look, for heaven's sake, I'm not a faith healer. I'm a fully qualified clinical hypnotherapist and counselor. Hypnotherapy has been recognized by the Australian Medical Association. Doctors refer their patients to me."

  (Although not my own mother.)

  "I expect you give them a nice little kickback for that."

  "I don't actually."

  (Although she had sent Lena Peterson a nice box of chocolates for Christmas last year. Was that wrong?)

  Ian stood up and went to the window. He tapped the glass as if he was testing its strength. "Ocean view. This is a great house. Business is obviously good."

  "This was actually my grandparents' house--" began Ellen. She could hear Flynn: You do not need to explain your financial situation to him.

  Ian turned around to look at her. He spoke gently, almost kindly, as though he was paying her a nice compliment. "I'm bringing you down."

  "I beg your pardon?" She nearly laughed out loud. It just sounded so melodramatic. What was he talking about?

  He smiled sweetly. "I'm putting you out of business."

  Chapter 20

  All that we are is a result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him.

  --Buddhist quote on Ellen O'Farrell's refrigerator

  I was driving back to the office from an on-site meeting when it occurred to me that I was only a few minutes away from the hypnotist's house.

  Don't do it, I thought. You've got that meeting with Steve later. A million e-mails waiting for you. You're in a good mood. Why do you always do this when you're in a good mood?

  But I was already turning left instead of right, as if I had no choice in the matter, as if her house had some sort of irresistible magnetic force.

  I'd been feeling a bit strange about what I did on Sunday. I kept thinking about it and feeling amazed at myself: that I could go into someone else's house and make biscuits. I imagine how that sort of behavior would sound to someone else. Like the people I just met at that development site. One of the women told me that she'd spent last weekend in Mudgee, and I thought: Imagine if you knew what I did on Sunday. How your face would change, how you'd take a careful step away, how I'd be instantly transformed from fellow professional to strange, crazy woman.

  It never really felt like I was doing anything wrong when I went into Patrick's house, because it never stopped feeling like home. That's where I spent the happiest years of my life. I scrubbed that bathroom every Saturday morning. I painted Jack's room. I chose the rug for the dining room. It never felt illegal or wrong; I felt like I had a right to be there, even if nobody else would agree.

  But going into Ellen's house and cooking biscuits, and opening the door to angry visitors like I lived there--I feel like I've possibly crossed a line.

  I woke up at three a.m. on Monday morning with this thought clear in my head: I have to get help. Therapy. Proper therapy. I have to stop. I even went and looked up counseling services in the white pages on the Internet. I wrote down names and numbers. It was the responsible thing to do.

  And then I woke up a few hours later to go to work, and everything seemed so ordinary in the daylight, and I thought, Oh, look, I don't really need therapy. I hold down a job. I'm not suicidal or bulimic or hearing voices. I'll just stop. The biscuits will be my last hurrah. My au revoir gift.r />
  That feeling lasted all through yesterday, and I felt great last night. I even went next door and reminded the happy Labrador family that it was garbage night. Which was a caring, neighborly thing to do, not the act of someone who needs therapy. They bounced about, all grateful because they'd forgotten that it was garbage night, and they had so much rubbish from the move, and oh, by the way, how was Sunday? For a moment I completely forgot the mythical fortieth birthday party, but then I did a completely believable act of remembering it, and saying how it was a great party, and the weekend already seemed like such a long time ago, even though it was only Monday, that's what work did to you, and oh, ha ha ha, and tra la la la, isn't life a hoot.

  And today I went to work without thinking about Patrick or Jack or Ellen or the new baby at all. I enjoyed the meeting.

  It was for a new shopping complex. It's in a great spot high up with views of the ocean, and I thought of Ellen's office with those big glass windows and the way the sun reflects off the water, and I told the developers that we need an area like a village square, with big glass windows, somewhere you could sit and have a cup of coffee and see the sky, with enough space for your toddler to run around in circles and pretend to be an airplane. It would be the sort of place I had needed when Jack was a toddler and I took him shopping. It's strange how I still feel like I'm the mother of a toddler, even though he's a schoolboy now and he doesn't belong to me anymore. It's like I'm frozen in time. The developers said, OK, chuckle, chuckle, we'll call it Saskia's Serenity Spot, with just a touch of that condescending but flirtatious yes-dear tone they get, as if the little lady was asking for a bigger kitchen, but I'm going to fight tooth and nail to make sure it stays there. I'm doing it for the mothers.

  So I was filled with vigorous professional satisfaction, and remembering what I loved about town planning, and when I got in the car I had a phone call, and it was Tammy.

  My old friend Tammy Cook. The one who let me stay in her spare room after Patrick said, "It's over."