Same Time Next Week

“Same time next week. Take care now.”

Five minutes until the next client. I close my office door and indulge in a quick lie-down on the chaise lounge. The recliner has been worth every exorbitant penny. It is a cliché, yes, for a therapist to have this piece, but it works – its supple Italian leather seems to draw clients in, soften their defences, convince them to bare their souls.

I sigh and close my eyes. I am weary; today has been one challenging client after the other, and my tank of empathetic comments and gentle prods is nearly empty. Admittedly, my stamina isn’t what it used to be. I’ll have to have a word with Rachel before leaving. Re-booking cancellations into an already busy day is not a good idea, moving forward.

I open my eyes. The sun’s falling rays provide a soft, ambient light through the California shutters, illuminating the chartreuse leaves of the manicured ferns. My degrees hang proudly behind my mahogany desk - another expensive indulgence, but I’ve earned it. Deirdre Campbell, Doctor of Psychiatry, University of Toronto, 1995. The walls are a soft gray – a neutral colour that instills a calm tone. I’d sought Rachel’s approval on that choice. Would younger generations find the hue soothing? Or fusty? She’d assured me it was the right “vibe.” In fact, she and her boyfriend had just painted their new condo the same colour!

Hard to believe I’m coming up on my 30th anniversary of practice. The plan is to retire in five years, go out at the top of my game, content in the service I’ve provided to hundreds of clients over the years. Stuart and I have a one-month Mediterranean cruise planned. He’ll be retired from the bank by then too. Five years away still, but I’m already excited.

I stand and press the button on my desk.

“You can send the next client in, Rachel.”

Not ideal, having my last appointment of the day be a new client. But easier in a way, just laying the groundwork, not yet delving deep into the real issues.

The woman enters the room. Fleetingly, I feel a flash of familiarity. Then it passes.

She is nervous, I can see. A tentative handshake, a slight inward turn of the body. Providing therapy calls for a strong intuitive sense, an ability to read all forms of communication. In fact, it’s often the unspoken signs – the facial expressions, the posture – that truly reveal a person’s emotional state. Not to be arrogant, but it is my strong suit, picking up on those subtle breadcrumbs, seeing things others can’t.

“Hello, Vivienne,” I say with a hint of warmth. Maintaining a sliver of detachment is key; it reinforces that this is a professional at work, one who is trained to tidy people’s messy emotional predicaments. “Or do you prefer Viv?”

“Vivienne is fine,” she says quickly.

She looks to be about my age. Her auburn hair has a few grey roots that need frequent touch ups. There is a slight bulge around her mid-section, and two rather deep crevasses converging above her eyes. They appear to be permanent wrinkles, a product of years of angry scowls. Unfortunate.

“Please, have a seat.” I do a sweeping gesture with my arm, indicating a choice. She takes the chair, as expected, and sits quickly, grasping her purse tightly in her lap.

“I see here,” I consult my notes, “that you would like to discuss a relationship, and some issues you’re experiencing around it.”

She certainly has a deer-in-the-headlights look about her. I swallow a yawn. I do a slight head tilt to the left; it’s effective at drawing out hesitant clients, I’ve found. Makes it seem like I’m literally lending a sympathetic ear.

“Yes,” she says tentatively. I wait. Clients almost always fill in the uncomfortable conversational gaps.

She dives in, as expected. “My colleague is having an affair, and I don’t know what to do about it,” she blurts. “I mean, I want to give her some advice, to, you know, cause the least amount of harm to everyone involved. I’d hate to see her ruin her life, her career over this.”

Ah, the colleague. The classic, vague third-person reference. In therapy, it’s almost always a stand-in for themselves. Typically, people aren’t so overwrought about their colleagues’ issues that they seek counselling. Vivienne’s white knuckles and stiff posture confirm she’s talking about herself.

She continues. “I know it’s not my job necessarily to get, uh, involved, but I’d hate for it to become the talk at the office. That would be so humiliating. For everyone.”

So, you’re looking to me to resolve this mess that you created? Trying to pass yourself off as the altruistic do-gooder? I hope my annoyance doesn’t show on my face.

“It’s very kind that you’re thinking of your colleague’s best interests. Is she married?”

A nod.

“How long has she been married?”

“Close to 25 years. About the same as my husband and I.”

Naturally.

“Children?”

“No.” A pause. “Fortunately.”

Well, that was one intelligent decision her “friend” had made. Early on in our marriage, Stuart and I had discussed children, but we’d both agreed they were a liability in the cost-benefit equation. They certainly would’ve hampered my career trajectory. Inwardly, I smugly note how in synch Stuart and I are, still to this day, coming up on our silver wedding anniversary.

“Tell me a bit about her.”

Vivienne crosses one leg over the other and turns her feet inward. The classic position of someone withholding information.

“Well, she’s about my age. Well-read, intelligent, very accomplished in her career.”

“I see.” A tad too favourable a self-portrait, I think. Vivienne seems intelligent, but I wouldn’t peg her as a career woman. Her clothes look to be from Marshall’s. Maybe her career is behind the till at Marshall’s.

Vivienne looks down, her face contorting in an effort to staunch tears. I notice her empty ring finger. Clearly, she forgot to put it back on after her latest tryst.

“Has her marriage generally been strong, up to this point? As far as you can tell, that is.”

“Yes, I think so,” Vivienne surmises. “Nothing comes to mind, though I guess you never really know what goes on inside someone’s marriage.”

Still maintaining the third-party façade. A classic case of disassociation. I’d have to gently steer her towards reality, to accepting that this is her own narrative, and that she has the power to control it.

“Have you broached the subject with her? Does she have any idea that you know?” (I can play this game).

“No. I – no.”

Of course not. Because there is no “she.” But someone in this classic tale of infidelity is being deceived, unfortunately. It never ceases to amaze me how people can be so oblivious to the moral failings of those closest to them. It’s as if they choose blissful denial, until the evidence simply can’t be ignored.

“I commend you for seeking help on behalf of your co-worker. Not everyone would do that.” Baby steps. “The key question in my mind, is do you think your colleague really loves this man? It is a man, correct?”

You never knew these days.

“Um … yes. And yes.”

“Do you think she would risk her career and her friendships over this? Does she plan to run away, so to speak, with this man?”

Vivienne’s eyes flick about the room, brimming with tears. “I don’t know. I mean, he hasn’t left his wife yet. He may not be capable of that kind of betrayal.”

You’d be surprised what people are capable of. The stories I’ve heard over the years – I could write a bestseller, if it weren’t for confidentiality restrictions.

“I mean,” she elaborates, “I would hate to open the can of worms, cause trouble … you know, who knows if their relationship is the real deal? The affair I mean, not the marriage…” She was rambling now. “Her career would be affected, his career would be affected…”

We’re nearly out of time, but she seems to be heading somewhere. Goodness, my back is stiff. I stretch and snatch a subtle look at my watch.

“What jobs do they do?” I ask offhandedly. Almost five. Must wrap this up.

“Um, they both work in … finance.” She looks me in the eye for the first time.

Again, a surprise. Vivienne in finance? Wonders never cease.

“That’s our time for today, I’m afraid,” I say. “For your ‘homework,’ take some time to reflect. Consider your choices. If you confront your colleague, you must be sure to have solid evidence.” (I’ll keep up the ruse for now.) “How would it impact your relationship? Are you prepared to help her in the aftermath? I suggest you go somewhere quiet to think deeply about this. I find walks in nature helpful.”

With that, I stand, and Vivienne picks up on the cue. For a few uncomfortable seconds, she stares at me, appears to want to say something. I move towards the door and extend my hand.

“Same time next week. Take care now.” The door closes.

A sad story, but not an unusual one. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll probe deeper next week and encourage her to face the truth, take responsibility for her actions, as hard as that will be.

Rachel is typing furiously on her computer. I grab my shawl.

“Goodbye Rachel, have a nice weekend,” I say.

“You too, Dr. Campbell! See you on Monday!” Rachel grins at me and returns her focus to her computer. Such a cheerful little thing. If Rachel was a character in a play, all her dialogue would end with exclamation marks.

Friday is our night for Indian takeout. It goes well with the Merlot, which thankfully I’d remembered to chill in the wine cellar last night. I glide the BMW into our driveway and note that Stuart isn’t home yet. Another late meeting. His dedication to his clients is commendable. Not many bankers work beyond 3 p.m. on Fridays. He was probably helping some young couple apply for a mortgage. A couple like Rachel and … is it Matt? It’s yet another way Stuart and I are in synch. Such dedication to our careers. Admirable in an age when there seemed to be so much focus on oneself.It was all self-empowerment this, self-care that … all very tiresome and selfish, really.

I wander into our front room and sink into the chaise lounge, savouring the quiet after a day of talking. How do people my age have energy for an affair? Especially in a profession as demanding as finance. Clearly they’ve allowed the current cult of “me first” to dictate their behaviour. I’m suddenly weary of it all – all the intimate, embarrassing outpourings of feelings I have to deal with from my clients, day in and day out. Retirement can’t come soon enough.

Still no Stuart. I may as well get started on the Merlot. I rise, and notice the framed photos on our mantle have been moved. I had organized them by size for better symmetry. Now, some are moved forward, blocking ones behind. Why would Stuart move them? For that matter, when was the last time either of us had looked at them?

I lift one of the hidden photos, to put it back in its proper place. Ah yes, the picture of Stuart winning his award a year ago. He’s definitely pleased with himself, as he should be; he’d outperformed everyone else at the bank, after all. Probably a bit tipsy as well, what with the way he’s grinning, his arm around a woman wearing a rather revealing dress.

I peer closer. His fingers are latched tight to her waist, in a possessive pose. Oddly, she isn’t facing the camera. She is smiling rapturously at Stuart. And I can’t be sure – photos play tricks, and people change over time – but the woman standing on the other side of Stuart has auburn hair with touches of gray, and a slight midriff bulge. There are two distinct creases above her eyes, from a lifetime of concern and worry.

I slowly lower myself onto the chaise lounge.