‘Once or twice I’ve thought about Helen Mirren.’
‘Well, you’re only human.’
‘And Will Young.’
‘The singer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting choice.’
‘And Mark from Westlife.’
‘We’re moving into much more male territory now.’
‘And Emma Stone.’
‘And the closet doors are re-opening to usher you back inside. Look,’ she said. ‘If you trust Dr Oristo, and Dr Oristo trusts this other doctor, then perhaps you should just give her a chance. What’s her name anyway?’
Nelson reached into his pocket and extracted a card. ‘Dr Angela Gosebourne,’ he said, standing up and wandering around the room, picking up some of his sister’s knick-knacks and examining them before putting them down again. The closer he got to her laptop, however, the more anxious Elizabeth became, particularly when he sat down in front of it, staring at the black screen.
‘Do you mind if I look her up online?’ he asked. ‘Dr Gosebourne, I mean. Just to see what she looks like?’
‘Can’t you do it in your own room?’
But he was already fiddling with the trackpad and the screen had come to life. To Elizabeth’s relief, Safari had been closed, but she hadn’t cleared her search history and dreaded to think what might pop up once he started tapping letters into Google.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said, typing away, but she jumped off the bed and, using her hip, knocked him out of the chair, sending him sprawling to the floor.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘What was that for?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, sitting down. ‘But it really only responds to my loving touch. What did you say her name was again? Gosebourne? Spell it for me.’
‘G-O-S-E-B-O-U-R-N-E.’
Elizabeth typed in the name and a website called Psychology Today popped up.
‘There are two Angela Gosebournes, if you can believe it,’ said Elizabeth as Nelson returned to the bed. ‘One is in Melbourne and one is in London.’
‘I think we can safely assume that she’s the London option.’
Elizabeth clicked on the icon and an image of an attractive blonde woman appeared on the screen.
‘Holy moly,’ said Nelson as she turned the laptop to face him.
‘Indeed,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She’s quite the looker. For such an old woman.’
‘Read what it says about her.’
Elizabeth scrolled down. ‘I work in a person-centred way, drawing from various modalities, depending on your needs. Being human is difficult for all of us. Life is tough and we are often faced with challenges that seem difficult to surmount. My goal is to help you to explore your difficulties and develop a new outlook on life. I offer a safe and non-judgemental environment, a dialogue between you and me. And then there’s a lot more, but it all looks like a bunch of hippy-dippy shit. Oh, and it says she’s currently expecting her first child, so maybe she’s not a good choice.’
‘Why not?’ asked Nelson.
‘Maternity leave. You don’t want a therapist who’s going to bugger off for six months while you’re swinging from a lamp-post, do you?’
‘She really is very beautiful,’ he muttered, staring at the screen.
‘And presumably taken, if she’s having a baby.’
‘I don’t want to have sex with her,’ replied Nelson. ‘But if I can talk to her, then maybe that will help me talk to other women. Dr Oristo is nearly seventy, after all. Maybe the reason I wasn’t getting any better was because I wasn’t intimidated by her. Dr Gosebourne looks much more daunting.’
‘So give her a try,’ said Elizabeth, stepping away from the laptop but clearing her history this time. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
A BUSINESSMAN
A television was on in the pub, its sound muted, showing a repeat of the previous weekend’s episode of Cleverley. Achilles glanced up at it and saw his father in conversation with Mick Jagger, both of them laughing like a couple of puffed-up old peacocks who knew they were richer, more famous and had far brighter plumage than any of the mere mortals watching them.
When he was a child, his father’s celebrity had confused Achilles. By the time he was twelve, people had stopped wanting autographs and were brandishing smartphones instead. He’d always hoped that George would tell them to leave him alone, that this was his private time with his son, but he never did, maintaining a broad façade of bonhomie in the face of these unsolicited intrusions.
‘It’s important to keep the punters happy,’ he said whenever Achilles complained. ‘To you, I’m just Dad. But to them, I’m George Cleverley off the telly. Without them, there’d be no fancy houses, no expensive schools and no luxury holidays.’
Achilles liked the first, tolerated the second but could have done without the third. When he was thirteen, the entire family had been photographed by a paparazzo on a beach in Spain and one of the tabloids had run pictures of a nearly naked Achilles, who, already feeling awkward with the onset of puberty, had felt utterly humiliated when he saw his scrawny body, clad in a pair of ill-advised yellow Speedos, spread across several pages of the paper. He’d been bullied mercilessly for it at school, but the embarrassment had provoked him into joining a gym, where, with very little effort, he’d put on some muscle and developed a six-pack. Within a few months, he’d grown into his looks and the teasing ended as a succession of girlfriends began showing up at his front door.
‘I happen to know that man,’ said Jeremy, following Achilles’ gaze towards the television set.
‘Mick Jagger?’
‘No, George Cleverley.’
Achilles glanced across the table, intrigued.
‘Oh yes?’ he asked. ‘He’s famous, right? Well, I suppose he must be if he’s on TV.’
‘He’s very famous. Has been for decades. Started out as a journalist but quickly made it on to the Beeb. Has an opinion on everything, of course. Loves the sound of his own voice. You know, the amount of times he’s—’
He paused for a moment before making the zip sign across his mouth.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Achilles, giving him his most flirtatious smile. ‘You can’t tease me like that.’
‘No, Nick, I shouldn’t. It’s a private matter.’
‘Who am I going to tell? It’s not like I move in those circles.’
‘I can’t, I’m sorry,’ said Jeremy. ‘It’s a confidentiality issue. I’d get into a lot of trouble at work if anything was to get out.’
Achilles sat back and considered his options. He’d been playing this game long enough to know that it was pointless trying to push anyone to reveal anything that they’d prefer to keep private.
‘Speaking of which,’ he said, ‘you didn’t tell me what it is you do. For a living, I mean.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Jeremy. ‘I’m, you know, in business.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘I suppose you could call me a businessman.’
‘That’s very broad.’