“Please take a seat.”
Curly and I sit down on the cheap blue foam chairs. It turns out Dr Nutfixer wasn’t our couples therapist after all. She was just an intermediary, and having assessed us, she has now referred us on to Dr Gordon.
I am far from delighted at this development. Dr Nutfixer may have been stern but she was at least wise, and female. She was exactly how I had pictured a therapist. Not only is Dr Gordon a man, but his face is strangely immobile. I definitely don’t look at him and think “emotional intelligence”. I look at him and think “fish on a slab.”
I’m sure there is a deep-seated psychological explanation for the overwhelming hostility I am feeling towards him. But right now I feel like it has more to do with his trousers, which are hitched up and tightly belted way above his waist. I genuinely don’t know if I can accept advice from a man who seemingly takes his fashion cues from Simon Cowell, but having got this far I feel obliged to give him a chance.
“So. Would either of you like to tell me why you are here, what you would like to get out of these sessions?”
The following silence seems to drag on for light years. I have no idea where to begin. I glance hopefully at Curly, who is examining a picture on the wall with intense concentration. It is a still life, a vase of flowers in pastel shades, the kind of mock-art you might find on the wall of a cheap hotel room. I hate it almost as much as the trousers. Almost as much as giving a glib summary of my most intimate life to a wall-eyed stranger.
The irony is that after months of waiting for the couples-counselling appointment with a desperation bordering on despair, we have actually been getting on pretty well lately. And now here we are having to stir up the whole hornets’ nest again. I muster all the enthusiasm I can and start waffling something or other about how we need to lay a firm foundation for our family in the future. Dr Gordon does not look impressed. In fact, he looks bored. When I have finished he turns to Curly.
“So, a great result the other day.” What is he on about? It takes a moment before I realise that Curly is wearing his Aston Villa T-shirt. The man is talking football! In time that we are paying for! Is this some kind of trick to get us to relax? If so, it’s not working on me. I don’t feel relaxed, I feel furious.
“Erm. Yeah.” Curly laughs nervously. There is another long pause. I have slumped down in my seat like Kevin the Teenager.
Suffice to say, the session is a disaster. Curly is delighted. He never wanted to go to therapy anyway. “You should have seen your face,” he says afterwards, wiping away a tear of pure hilarity.
“Who did he remind me of? His eyes were so weird. Blank.”
“That one from the Addams Family. Lurch.”
I’ll say one thing for Dr Gordon. We haven’t laughed like that in quite a while.