A Game to Love Page 8

  This should have scared me, but instead it added up to the inescapable fact I couldn’t wait until tomorrow and our next session.

  I’ve always been emotionally detached, and although I was well within my rights to blame mummy issues, that would have been way too easy and too trite.

  I could also blame Anastasia, in particular, for bruising my heart back in Melbourne. The fact she didn’t share my strength of feelings was one thing, and being closeted was another. However, when the photos of her and me together emerged, she’d been quick to call in damage control and I was painted as a lesbian stalker who tormented the innocent Russian superstar.

  Yeah that didn’t break me. Much.

  It killed me even more that my mother had come to my rescue and, basically, threatened to reveal the truth to the world if Ana did not pull her claws in. Some of the texts and emails sent to me from Ana had been pretty raunchy and definitely would have outed her.

  I think that was the point when I realised love was not for me. I never subscribed to the ‘it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all’ propaganda. I thought that was bollocks. So my slightly skewed reasoning was that if no one held my heart, then it could never be broken.

  The thing is, the more time I spent with Emma, the more I was growing to realise that by denying myself the chance of love, I was ultimately breaking my own heart.

  ***

  It was Saturday and Julia ‘suggested’ going into Cambridge. It was the end of the month and her wage was apparently burning a hole in the back pocket of the new designer jeans she hadn’t yet bought.

  She was such a clothes horse.

  The journey began the same as any other with Julia; she began endlessly music flicking. We’d been travelling for twenty minutes and I still hadn’t heard a song the whole way through. Normally this didn’t bother me, but today it annoyed the fuck out of me.

  “Just choose a song, Ryan. One song. Please. Even if it’s the God awful Cranberries.”

  “Sense of humour failure?” Julia said softly.

  “Something like that.” I agreed. This was a saying we’d agreed to when we were younger and living in an all-girls boarding school. Hormones flew faster than a peregrine falcon around the corridors, so we’d come up with a simple phrase to use as a buffer between us.

  Sense of humour failure.

  It wasn’t inflammatory or condescending. It was a simple statement and when asked, and answered, would gauge the mood.

  “You always do this,” Julia declared.

  Okay, so Jules hadn’t actually gauged my mood very well on this particular occasion and decided that instead of flicking through songs, she was going to flick her middle finger up at my pathetic relationship history. “Hmm? I always do what?” I really had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Develop feelings for totally unattainable women. It’s your way of making sure you don’t get attached.”

  This was utterly true but something I’d never admit. “That’s crap, Jules. Name one person that I’ve fallen for recently, never mind one who was unattainable.”

  “Emma Myers.” Julia raised her eyebrows. We’d been friends our whole lives and she knew the signs. “Don’t try to deny it.”

  “I may have a little crush, I wouldn’t say I’ve developed feelings for her.” I put on my best poker face and hoped that Jules would fall for my bluff. “We get on, I can talk to her without feeling as if I’m being judged or pitied.”

  “That’s her job, Georgy.” Julia said calmly, yet I took it as slightly patronizing.

  “I know that, I’m not an idiot. Look I’m not going to lie, if I’d met her in a pub somewhere would I have hit on her? Yes, possibly, but I didn’t, so I won’t.”

  “But-”

  “Jesus, Jules, just drop it will you? It’s bad enough David’s insisting I attend these sessions without you psychoanalyzing me!”

  “Whoa, easy there tiger!” Julia held her hands up. “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m nagging, Georgy, but she’s a hooked drive down the fairway – so far out of bounds you’d need four penalty strokes just to get near the hole.” I sniggered, I really couldn’t help it. Julia was partial to sport’s analogies, but I don’t think she meant this one to be quite so fitting. And if she did, serious kudos. Jules gave me a ‘what the hell?’ look, then continued, “She’s your therapist, you even said it yourself.”

  Apparently, Julia couldn’t drop it.

  “And I suppose you’ve never had any inappropriate relationships?” I said coldly, my good humour temporarily frozen.

  “Not cool, Georgy, so not cool.”

  It was a cheap shot and I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth. Jules had hit a nerve but she didn’t deserve that. I knew she was still smarting, nine years later, over a relationship with an Aussie gap student, Toni, who acted as a junior housemistress when Jules was in the upper sixth at boarding school. By then I was on the tennis circuit full time…

  Was that when I first started pulling away from her?

  Luckily for both of them the school didn’t find out, but it was a lesson learned on inappropriate liaisons. What doesn’t kill ya makes ya stronger. Jules nearly threw away her uni place to follow Toni back to Oz; thankfully she didn’t, because Toni was only home a few days when she emailed to say she was going travelling in south east Asia with her ex… who was actually no longer her ex.

  “I’m sorry, Jules, that was way out of line. You’re right, it is stupid to have a crush on Emma. The thing is, therapy’s weird. You’re in a bubble with this person baring your soul; it’s intense and can be quite intimate, but I would never cross that line. I know you’re worried but honestly you don’t have to be.”

  “I’m sorry too. What am I, the crush police?” Julia apologised.

  The rest of the journey was completed in relative silence, only the beeping of Julia’s phone sporadically interrupting the hush.

  ***

  “Can we start in the Lion Yard?” Jules asked as we rode the escalator down from the heavens, which was where the last parking spaces were located.

  “Yeah whatever, I’m easy.” I replied. Shopping wasn’t my cup of tea but it was Julia’s and I didn’t mind keeping her company. However, three hours later after watching her try on clothes in Selfridges, French Connection, Gap, Mango and Oasis, I’d totally lost the will to live.

  “Julia please can we get a coffee. I’m knackered.” I pleaded plaintively as she dragged me into Marks and Spencer and yet another crazed Saturday shopper barged into my shoulder. If one more person invades my personal space I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions!

  “Yeah sure. I must admit I’m pretty parched,” Jules said cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the press of harried bodies that surrounded us. “Hey, how about we treat ourselves?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We could be ladies who lunch. Let’s live a little and see if there’s room at Browns?”

  “Sounds good to me.” And it did. I could really do with a little pampering and whilst shopping didn’t do it for me, lunch at Browns certainly did. It was an amazing restaurant in Cambridge and one we visited when in the mood for a more sedate meal. The entrance was framed with Virginia creeper and it was in a converted wing of the old Addenbrooke’s hospital right in the heart of the city.

  Okay, that made it sound a bit grotty but trust me, it wasn’t.

  The interior reminded me of Raffles in Singapore and I half expected to see Poirot tottering in his wingtip shoes, or a flutter of flapper girls hurrying by to do the Charleston. Leather chairs and brass rails added an opulence and the potted ferns and other greenery added a hint of colour to what could have otherwise been a very bland and neutral palette.

  And the cocktails, especially the Bloody Mary’s, were to die for.

  ***

  Suitably sated, I groaned and pulled on the waist of my jeans; the lemon posset had been exceptional as usual and I didn’t care if I had to run twice as long in t
he morning to make up for my indulgence. Julia tried the old ‘we must have walked ten miles this morning shopping’ but sadly that wouldn’t cut it for me.

  We were still arguing over the merits of shopping versus the gym when I nearly knocked the poor woman coming through the door back into the street. I began with stuttered apologies, and then stopped, startled. “Emma?” I almost didn’t recognise her. She looked like she belonged on a cat walk in Milan not in Cambridge shopping. She was wearing a beautiful pale pink print dress which fused with her body, and the just above the knee length allowed her calves to be displayed like a statue of a Greek goddess in a museum. A cream jacket finished of the outfit; the stunning effort was obviously worn in honour of the glorious weather returning.

  Or not, I thought as I glanced at the woman standing just behind her. She wasn’t as tall as Emma, and her very short black hair was flecked with grey at the temples. Her navy chinos were topped with a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show tanned arms decorated with a silver Breitling watch. There was also the hint of a tattoo just under the cuff of her sleeve. It looked like the tail of a dragon. C’mon Georgy, focus here, you’re looking stupid. “It is you. Hi, small world.”

  “George. Hello.” Emma remained totally cool, calm and collected, despite the potential awkwardness of the situation. “I see you’re doing a completely different kind of therapy today.” She looked down at the bags I was carrying for Julia.

  “Oh no these belong to my friend, this is Julia, Julia this is Emma, Dr Myers.”

  Emma turned to Jules and produced one of her perfect Hollywood smiles. “Hello, Julia, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Hi, George has told me lots about you.” Julia replied politely and then both she and I looked at Emma’s companion.

  And that was when it grew awkward.

  “Okay, well it was nice to meet you, Julia. George, have a nice day.” With that abrupt dismissal, Emma and her mystery woman headed to a table.

  “Yeah, bye.”

  We watched them disappear into a corner booth. “So that was Emma Myers. Bloody hell, Georgy, she’s Amazonian and stunning. No wonder you have a crush on her, I think I do too!” Julia chuckled. “And as I’m not her patient, she’s fair game. Who do you think that woman was with her? If it turns out your therapist does play for our team, and that was her partner, you’re out of luck I’m afraid. Seems she likes ‘em butcher than you, even with your new hairdo.”

  “Yeah and you’re the expert on the lesser known species of lesbianus butchus.”

  “What can I say? I like my women with short hair and in checked flannel.” Julia laughed at the stereotypical image she was painting. She did usually date women who were, not necessarily ‘butch’, but more androgynous looking and certainly wasn’t into high maintenance girlie girls.

  “Don’t you think it was a bit weird though, that she didn’t introduce her friend?” I tried not to be too obvious, but I quickly glanced back through Browns large windows. The two women looked to be in deep discussion, but nothing screamed lovers.

  “Well her friend was definitely a lesbian and more my type. Can you get her number for me?” Jules waggled her eyebrows and I slapped her arm.

  But of all a sudden I was as giddy as a twelve year old girl meeting the Beibs.

  Chapter 18

  Emma

  “So,” Dana kept quiet until we ordered our lunch, a miracle in itself, because I could tell she was dying to ask who George was and why I had been so… uncomfortable… for want of a better word.

  Shocked worked just as well.

  “So?” I asked innocently. Georgia Maskel was confusing me and that was something I didn’t like. I liked my life to be orderly and in neat little boxes. Work. Family. Friends. Relationships. Sure, sometimes the boxes might merge a little, but never the work and relationship box.

  No, those two I’d always kept well away from each other; one on the top shelf in the garage, the other in a galaxy far, far away.

  I had been single for the last few years after an eight year relationship went south. Nothing drastic happened, nothing beyond the usual, we simply fizzled out and ended up as roommates rather than lovers. It wasn’t Fiona’s fault, it wasn’t mine; it just wasn’t meant to be. It’s true it had been quiet in the bedroom department recently, my libido seemed to be hiding with my relationship box in that far away galaxy, but I was slowly dipping my toes back into the dating pool. The attractive articulate women sent my way never caught either my eye or my mind, I was too focussed on the clinic and my son.

  That was until Georgia Maskel walked through my door looking like the four horseman of the apocalypse were hitching a ride on her shoulders.

  “So she’s the reason for this shopping trip?” Dana was too intuitive for her own good.

  “Georgia Maskel is my new client.” I bit my lip nervously. Damn. For some unknown reason my equilibrium was shot. Dana and I would often discuss clients, usually over a stiff drink, keeping their names secret to preserve patient/doctor confidentiality. We generally used codenames… nervous tickman, flakey fun runner and my slip was enough of a prompt to stop Dana’s perusal of the other customers in the restaurant (an occupational hazard, she would suggest, more like being a nosy parker, I would argue) and focus intently on me.

  “I see.” Dana looked up, smiled her one hundred and fifty watt smile and thanked the waitress who’d served our lunches. “So, Maskel… Maskel…” she tapped a finger to her lip, “That name sounds familiar…” Dana initially ignored her steak, never a good sign as food was her second favourite thing in the world.

  Forget the twenty questions, I knew I was in for an interrogation. Dana was a huge tennis fan. The first thing she did when she made enough money from her practice was not buy a house or a car as most of us did. No. She bought debenture Wimbledon tickets and went every year without fail. She even took the fortnight off as annual leave, she was that fanatical. I teased her once that we should dress her up like the Aussie fanatics that toured the world.

  She actually took the suggestion quite seriously.

  “Possibly,” I hedged.

  “Oh… oh my God, yes.” Now that didn’t sound dodgy. I quickly looked around and thankfully no one seemed to notice my friend’s ‘When Harry Met Sally’ moment. “I remember watching her on one of the outside courts at Wimbledon once, I think it might have been her first year on the senior tour. Bloody hell was she good. She owned a forehand like a rocket and could run for miles.” Dana chewed her piece of filet mignon slowly and then pointed her knife at me, “She imploded and was caught using cocaine and tried it on with Ana Kerberov. Mind I can’t blame her for that.” Dana frowned when she saw me scowl. “Or something. She gave up anyway, didn’t fight the ban, didn’t offer any excuses.”

  “And of course we believe everything we read in the papers! She only did it once, for God’s sake.” Dana raised her eyebrows at my sarcastic retort. I knew I was jumping a little too vehemently to George’s defence; for a psychologist I wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding my emotions.

  “I see.” Dana’s drawled two word code for, ‘you’ve got my attention, and please continue.’

  “She’s trying to make a comeback but is having some difficulty, hence the need for my help.”

  “So how’s it going?” She resumed eating but I knew her whole focus was on me and my answers. It was quite disconcerting and I started having some sympathy for my clients.

  “You know I can’t discuss the particulars, Dana.”

  Even if I wanted to.

  “In general?”

  “I’ve only seen her a few times.”

  “What gives, Em?” She’d obviously had enough pussy footing around and went straight for the figurative jugular. “There’s something troubling you. You’ve bumped into clients in the real world before and yes, granted, it can cause awkwardness on occasion, but I’ve never known you to be rude.”

  “There’s something about her, about her vulnerability I gue
ss. I’m… I don’t know… confused? I’m normally impervious to…” I hesitated. “Yes she’s pretty, but honestly, I’ve worked with absolutely stunning women before and they’ve never…” I broke down and stared at the congealing risotto on my plate. I had been starving thirty minutes ago, now not so much.

  “Em,” Dana put her knife and fork down and took a hold of my hand. “If you can’t deal with her professionally you have to walk away, hell you have to run away, sweetie. Don’t throw your career away for a pretty face. It’s not worth it. You’d ruin your reputation, possibly be looking at a malpractice suit… maybe even be up in front of a competency board, for what?”

  I swirled the water round in my glass. “I know that, Dana, but I guess I needed to hear it from someone else, from you.”

  “I’m not saying having the thoughts is wrong, I mean we’ve all been there, we’re only human after all. It’s a hazard of the job, just as long as the thoughts don’t take a right turn into the realms of reality.”

  I suddenly grinned. “But you have to admit, if I were to cross the line, she wouldn’t be a bad one to do it with.”

  “If that’s your thing.” Dana shrugged, “The friend is more my type. Hey, do you think you could get her number for me?” I shook my head, a knowing grin on my face. “What? She isn’t a client, I have no conflict of interest,” she protested.

  “No but after everything you’ve just said about being professional how would it look if in our next session I said to George, ‘oh and by the way, my friend wants your friend’s number.’ Yeah. That would look ultra professional. What are we, twelve?”

  Chapter 19

  Georgia

  Julia and I were sitting between the first and second floors of the multi storey car park and were going nowhere fast. I thanked God and all of his angels that Kermie’s brakes were holding firm; I had visions of finding ourselves at the start of a downhill crush when we’d first got stuck.

  Only one exit barrier was working, and intermittingly at that, and a malfunction caused the other two to chop up and down quickly like one of those toy robots from the fifties. It also reminded me of a childhood game I used to play, oranges and lemons, which involved rushing under the outstretched arms of your friends to avoid your head being chopped off. It’s weird just how many children’s nurseries rhymes owned a macabre element to them… ring a ring a rosies - the bubonic plague; rock a bye baby - cradle crashes from a tree, presumably killing said baby; oranges and lemons – rumoured to be about child sacrifice… the list is, actually endless.