Then they left, their blue hats under their arms, their guns in their holsters. My heart was still hammering three hours later.
"Knitting is how I met Lance," said Kate. "He sat next to me on a bus and he said, 'What are you knitting?'"
"Great pickup line."
"I know. So creative," said Kate. "What about you? You're single, right?"
I said, "I haven't been in a relationship for three years, but I guess I haven't really felt single for that time."
"What do you mean?" Kate glanced up. Her needles kept moving.
I wasn't going to say anything, I barely knew the girl. I had the right to remain silent, but all of a sudden the words came pouring, tumbling out.
He's early, thought Ellen, as she went to the door.
Her father was coming to take her out. They were going, bizarrely, to some event in Parramatta called the Festival of the Olive.
It was David's idea. "Might be interesting," he'd said when he rang to suggest it. "It's at Elizabeth Farm. Don't know if you've been there. It's Australia's oldest surviving European dwelling." He was obviously reading aloud from something. He cleared his throat. "Sounds like a bit of fun. Something different."
She wished she could stop comparing her meetings with her father to Internet dating (it was so inappropriate), but she couldn't help being reminded of a certain type of needy man, one who was overly eager to impress and tried too hard to think of "different, interesting" dates.
It broke her heart a little to think of her father looking up "events" on the Internet, searching for something that would appeal to his thirty-five-year-old daughter, in the same way that he probably would have taken her off to an amusement park and bought her a stuffed toy if they'd met thirty years earlier. "We don't need to do anything, we can just talk," she wanted to say to him, but actually, she wasn't sure what they would talk about. Damn her mother to hell.
She opened the door with a fond, daughterly smile on her face, to be greeted by a woman wearing oversized sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes.
"Quick," said the woman. "Let me in."
"Sorry?"
The woman tipped her glasses down to reveal familiar round blue eyes. "Sorry to be so dramatic. It's me, Rosie. I've had photographers chasing me all day."
Ellen opened the screen door. She hadn't heard anything from Ian Roman since his visit two weeks earlier or from the journalist, and she'd given up leaving messages for Rosie.
"Why are there photographers chasing you?" asked Ellen.
"You haven't seen today's paper?" Rosie pulled off her cap and sunglasses. She looked tanned and pretty, happier than Ellen had ever seen her.
"No," said Ellen. Her heart rate picked up. Mary-Kate had said the newspaper story had been dropped, but Ellen still felt sick each time she turned the pages of a newspaper, imagining how it would feel to be confronted by her own face and name under some horrible headline. She had a newfound empathy for anyone who had ever borne the brunt of bad press. It was funny how she'd always thought she had ample supplies of empathy; it turned out that to be truly empathetic she had to experience it.
Rosie pulled out a tabloid paper from her bag, folded in half. She held it up and tapped a finger on the front page.
It was a black-and-white photo of Ian Roman with a tall, leggy woman leaving what looked like a hotel lobby. The implication was obvious even without the headline, which read: "Roman Is Roaming!"
Ellen read the first paragraph:
High-profile media magnate Ian Roman was married only three months ago, but the honeymoon appears to be well and truly over.
"Ian is having an affair with some supermodel," said Rosie. "They need a photo of me looking heartbroken and dowdy."
"I'm so sorry," said Ellen.
"It's fine," said Rosie dismissively. "He's just saving face. He thought I was about to break up with him, so he wanted to get in first. He would have tipped off the photographers. But listen. Ian told me he visited you."
"I did have the pleasure of his company," said Ellen in her mother's dry, cool voice. It came in useful sometimes. She led Rosie into the living room. "Tea? Coffee? Cold drink?"
"No, no, I'm not staying. I'm sorry for turning up out of the blue." Rosie sat down in front of Ellen on her grandfather's leather chair. Her legs were so short the tips of her ballet shoes only just reached the floor. She leaned forward, her hands clasped together as if begging for forgiveness. "I just wanted to talk to you face-to-face and apologize for what I've put you through. I've been away, you see, and I didn't take my mobile with me. I only just got your messages this morning and I drove straight here."
Ellen winced as she remembered that awful day. "I probably sounded hysterical--"
"Oh, God, you had reason! I can just imagine the things he said. He acts like, I don't know, Rambo, or Tony Soprano."
"He was quite ... intimidating. He said he was going to 'bring me down.'"
"What a jerk." Rosie took some gum out of her bag, unwrapped it and began chewing rapidly. She pointed at her mouth. "Nicotine gum. I'm finally off the cigarettes."
"Well, as your husband made clear, I wasn't much help there."
"Are you kidding? I would recommend you to anyone!" Rosie chewed vigorously and looked off into the distance, presumably trying to think of a good reason as to why she'd recommend Ellen.
"So Ian overheard you talking to your sister about me," prompted Ellen.
"I had no idea." Rosie leaned back; now her feet didn't reach the floor. "I would have thought eavesdropping on my trivial conversations was beneath him. And he got it wrong, of course. I was just telling my sister how I'd asked you to hypnotize me into falling in love with him, and she was telling me I was an idiot.
"Anyway, then she convinced me to go and join her on a family holiday in Queensland. It was wonderful. Just your average beach holiday, building sandcastles with my nieces. Prawn sandwiches. Ian would have hated it. It just sort of confirmed everything that is different between us. I'm just so ... average."
"Nobody is average," said Ellen automatically.
"I am," said Rosie. "I'm extremely average. I don't know why he even showed an interest in a hobbit like me. I'm not his type. That supermodel in the paper. That's his type. She'll look good on his yacht."
"I don't know, Rosie," said Ellen. "I think he really loved you. That's why he was so angry."
"No," said Rosie. "It was just his pride. Anyway, it's over. It was a big mistake on both our parts. I never really loved him. You know that. You helped me work that out."
"I think," said Ellen, "that you never even let yourself love him, or like him, or even know him at all because you were so busy wondering why he chose you. I think you were blinded by the Ian Roman image. The money. The power. His big tycoon act. He might love an average beach holiday."
Rosie blinked. Chewed some more.
"He chose you," said Ellen. "A man in his position could have any sort of trophy wife. He didn't choose a supermodel, he chose you."
She was trying to say: The fact that he chose someone ordinary-looking like you means that he saw something extraordinary in you, and that means maybe there is more to him than you think.
She thought of Patrick's words: You think love is black and white. All women think that.
Rosie frowned. Something flickered in her eyes. She looked down at her hands and kicked her legs. Then Ellen saw her face close down as she made her decision. No. She lacked the self-esteem or the courage or the something; her marriage to Ian Roman died in that instant.
"Whatever," said Rosie. "He's cheated on me now anyway. We're done. Don't worry about it. I'm not. As I said, I came here to apologize and to let you know that he won't be coming after you. I told him that if I ever saw anything negative about you in the papers, I'd do a tell-all interview about my marriage to Ian Roman and that I could probably come up with some really interesting sexual fetishe she'd never live down. You're safe."
"Thank you," said Ellen.
<
br /> "He doesn't have any strange sexual fetishes, by the way," said Rosie, as she stood and picked up her bag. "Actually, the sex was quite good."
It was illogical that Ellen felt sad about the end of this marriage. Rosie didn't love Ian Roman, and the horrible Ian Roman was probably out on his yacht right now, drinking champagne with his supermodel. Except that maybe Rosie and Ian could have been happy together if it wasn't for their pride.
Rosie held out her hand. She smiled. She really did have a very pretty smile. "Back to my average life."
As Rosie was leaving, Ellen's father was coming down the footpath. He stopped to hold the gate open for her.
"Patient?" he said, as Ellen ushered him in.
"Client," Ellen corrected him. "We don't call them patients." She watched Rosie walking off, and said, "With hindsight I would have treated her completely differently."
"Hindsight," said her father. "It's always just a fraction too late."
"Well," said Kate. She paused, looked around the room for inspiration. Her eyes didn't meet mine. "Holy shit."
She hadn't said a word the whole time I'd been talking. She just kept knitting, nodding her head occasionally and sometimes lifting her eyebrows. I had no idea what she was thinking. I told her everything that had happened and everything I'd done. I didn't try to mitigate myself in any way. If only I'd had a terrible childhood, I could have put it down to that, but I couldn't actually blame anyone or anything. My guilt, I told her, was absolute.
"You didn't know you were visiting a crazy person," I said at last.
It had felt so good telling her. I couldn't stop. It was like I was tearing away at a horrible scab with my fingernails, but now I'd done it, and I was sitting in front of her, red-raw and exposed, I was filled with regret and a terrible sense of loss. I'd really liked her. We could have been friends. Now I'd ruined everything.
"Oh, well," said Kate. "I've done some pretty crazy things."
"Really?"
Kate put her head to one side, considered. "Well, no, not really. Not compared to that. I was just trying to make you feel better."
"Thank you."
She kept knitting.
"I bet you're a Scorpio, hey?" she said without looking up.
"Well, yes, actually, but I don't--"
"You don't believe in astrology. Scorpios never do. But anyway, you're very passionate, you Scorpios. All brooding and mysterious. I always wished I was a Scorpio. Or a Leo. I'm a Libra. We're indecisive." She kept knitting. "I don't really believe in any of it either."
She unwound some wool around her wrist. "You must have really loved him," she said. "And the little boy."
"Yes," I said. "But I guess if I really loved them I should have 'set them free,' or whatever that stupid line is. Loving them is no excuse."
Ever since that night I kept seeing a recurring image of Patrick's face when he saw me standing at the end of his bed. It wasn't just that there was someone standing there, it was that it was me. I was his nightmare. I'd made myself his nightmare.
"You know what I think you should do?" said Kate.
"You think I should get counseling," I said tiredly. She and the hypnotist were right, of course. "Professional help" was required.
"I guess, if you want," said Kate. "But I was just going to say, I think you should stop it."
"Stop it."
"Yes, that's my extremely wise advice. Stop it."
"Just ... stop it."
Kate began to giggle. "That's what I'd say if I was your therapist. Saskia, just stop it. Take up knitting instead."
I picked up my needles again. Kate smiled. "That's it. See, you're cured. That'll be two hundred dollars please."
It seemed that the universe had seen fit to send me a brand-new friend. I wondered if my mother had arranged it. I imagined her in the afterlife, dancing with my father in a starry ballroom. Maybe they'd been talking about me, shaking their heads at my shocking behavior. Maybe after Jack and I went crashing down the stairs, my Mum said, "I told you she wasn't going to grow out it! What she needs is a brand-new friend." Then she'd had an inspiration: "I know! A knitter! I always wanted her to learn to knit." And she'd rushed off to fill out the appropriate paperwork.
"Knit, don't stalk," murmured Kate. "Repeat after me: Knit, don't stalk."
The Festival of the Olive was unexpectedly delightful.
Of course it was; Ellen couldn't think why it was unexpected. She'd always enjoyed this sort of thing: school fetes, craft shows, outdoor markets. She loved the little stalls and the gentle, earnest people who presented their organic, homegrown wares on white tablecloths: honey, jam, chutney, wine, or in this case olives and olive oil. She loved the sound of wind chimes and the smells of essential oils. These were her people; this was her thing. ("Hippies with money," Julia would say.)
She and her father walked through rows of white tents, the white canvas flapping gently in the breeze, breathing in the Mediterranean fragrances of garlic, fresh bread and wisteria while the spring sunshine gently caressed their shoulders. Ellen was filled with a deep, sleepy feeling of contentment.
Partly it was because it had gradually dawned on her that this wasn't in fact a date, and there was no danger at all (presumably) of her father suddenly trying to kiss her. Partly it was because her nausea had seemingly gone for good, and the relief was as glorious as waving good-bye to an annoying houseguest.
And perhaps it was really because before they left this morning, Patrick had shown her father the ultrasound photos and he'd got tears in his eyes and then he'd been embarrassed, and at that moment he'd become a real person, not the punch line of a joke about Ellen's life. All the way here in the car, as she sat in the passenger seat and watched her father drive (capably, casually--like Patrick), she'd felt something softening in the very core of her body. Why not be sentimental about this, she thought. He's your father. It's allowed. You can like him if you want. You can let yourself feel fond of him.
They stopped in front of a stall and a small, intense woman immediately launched into a passionate explanation of the Australian Olive Association's criteria for extra virgin olive oil status. She spoke in such meticulous detail, it was as if she believed they were about to apply for extra virgin olive oil status and probably wouldn't get it.
"Right!" said David, when she finally finished. "Well, that's ... Ellen, why don't we try some?"
Ellen dipped a piece of bread into a small square of golden olive oil.
"Fantastic." She rolled her eyes heavenward with exaggerated pleasure. And it was fantastic, although she knew from past experience that everything always seemed to taste particularly delicious at these sorts of things, and then once she got back home it would probably taste much the same as the mass-produced stuff she got from the supermarket. It was the fresh air and the power of suggestion at work. She was being gently hypnotized.
"Let me buy you a bottle." David pulled a fifty-dollar note out of his wallet.
"What a nice dad," said the woman.
David coughed into his fist, and Ellen smiled sympathetically at him.
The woman frowned. "Oh, I'm sorry, you're not father and daughter?"
"No, you're right, we are," said Ellen.
"Well, I knew it," said the woman, in a tone of mild rebuke, as if they'd tried to put one over on her. She handed back David his change and the olive oil in a white paper bag. "You've got identical chins."
Ellen and her father simultaneously touched their chins with the tips of their fingers and then dropped their hands.
They ate spaghetti sitting at a white plastic table under a big marquee. The conversation was pleasant but a bit of an effort, as if they were two strangers who had struck up a conversation at a bus stop, and now the bus was taking too long to arrive and they felt obliged to keep talking.
"I'm sorry about you and Mum breaking up," said Ellen, after a long discussion about spring in Australia as compared to spring in the UK.
"So am I," said David. "It was probably m
y fault. I shouldn't have rushed into a relationship when I was still a bit battered and bruised."
"Battered and bruised," repeated Ellen, confused.
"Well, my wife left me after thirty years of marriage," said David. "It threw me for a loop. There wasn't even another man. She said she'd 'forgotten how to be herself.' I said, 'Be yourself. I'm not stopping you!' But apparently I was." He looped his spaghetti expertly around his fork and contemplated it sadly.
"I'm sorry," said Ellen. She was struggling to readjust her perceptions. "I think I was under the impression that you'd left your wife, or that it was mutual."
"It certainly wasn't mutual."
"Mum didn't say," began Ellen.
"I sort of played down the 'I'm so heartbroken about my wife' side of things," said David.
"She said you'd been thinking about her throughout your marriage." She hoped he didn't notice the sound of accusation in her voice.
Her father gave her a rueful look. "She told you that." He pushed his plate away from him and settled his arms on the sides of his chair. "I wasn't lying. Over the years I did think about your mother occasionally, and even dreamed about her, but that doesn't mean I didn't love Jane."
Ellen pushed her own plate away.
"Although, of course, you did cheat on her when you were engaged," she said briskly but jokily to show she wasn't judging. She gestured at herself to indicate the results of his infidelity. "More than once, I hear."
"Yes," said David. "I was young and stupid and your mother was gorgeous. Those eyes of hers!" He gave a boyish, "Awww, shucks" shrug. "Lucky I did, hey?"
Ellen couldn't decide whether to be charmed or not.
These were the muddled, imprecise facts of her conception: not quite a great love story, not quite a seedy indiscretion, not quite a brave feminist act.
"Anyway," said David. "Your mother and I are still friends, and just between you and me, I'm not giving up hope yet."
"Really?" said Ellen. She wondered if she should tell him that she didn't think he had a chance at all, but then what did she know? Over the last few months she'd learned that anything she thought she knew to be true could shift and change in an instant. Nothing was permanent: The Buddhists knew what they were talking about.
The Hypnotist’s Love Story Page 38