Sweet Deception (13 page)

“Richard,” I began.

“Yes, Charlotte.”

It was then that I saw it—the wicked glint in his eye. The penny suddenly dropped. I drew back, stunned.

“You're winding me up, aren't you?”

Richard grinned. “Took you long enough to catch on.”

He lifted his hands from the desk, straightening up a little so I was no longer physically trapped, but he was still close enough that I couldn't simply slip away.

He shook his head in mock disapproval. “You seriously thought I'd fall for that old seduction routine?”

“Yeah, well.” I tried to shrug it off, not wanting him to realise how foolish I felt—along with something else, too . . . a sinking feeling, akin to disappointment. But disappointment at what? Being bested by him? “It was just a joke.”

“One that happened to misfire.”

I didn't bother to answer, and instead slid from the desk, and busied myself straightening my clothes. I could feel
Richard's eyes on me, and knew this wasn't over yet.

“You know what your problem is?” he said.

“No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me,” I fired back, deliberately echoing his earlier words.

“I am.” He smiled coolly, maddeningly in control. “You see, you think you're worldly and experienced, but in fact you're totally clueless. You're used to sleeping with worthless little boys, who don't present any challenge. But you'd have no idea how to handle a real man.”

“You mean someone like you?”

“Precisely.”

The word hung in the air between us. I felt suddenly acutely aware of just how close we were standing. Richard's dark eyes held mine, silently challenging me. I had a strange urge to look away, and it took all my strength to hold his gaze. This conversation . . . it was oddly unnerving, in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. I just knew I wanted it to end.

“You're such a sanctimonious jerk.” It wasn't my best comeback, but it was all I had right now. Annoyingly, it just made Richard's smile widen, as if he sensed my frustration.

“Oh, don't be such a sore loser, Charlotte,
darling.
” He emphasised the final word, knowing how much it would irritate me. “It doesn't suit you.”

With that, he finally stepped back, allowing me to escape. I ducked by him, and headed for the door, desperate to get
away from this whole embarrassing episode. I was almost there, when Richard spoke.

“Oh, and Charlotte?” I came to a halt. I paused to take a deep, cleansing breath. Then I turned back to find him smiling sweetly at me.

“What?”

He held out his hand. “Don't forget this.”

I saw then that he had the psychologist's card that I'd accidentally left on his desk. I stalked over and snatched it from him. Then with one final glare I swept from the room, pretending not to hear his laughter.

The therapist's office was located on Harley Street, of course—only the best for Richard Davenport. It was within walking distance of the office, so after work, I headed along the back lanes off Oxford Street to where the practice was located.

The fine Georgian terraces all looked alike, but I found the right number, and walked up the stone steps to the black double-door. I was buzzed into a discreet reception area, where someone took my name.

I'd looked up the practice, and I knew that there were three psychologists working out of the lower floors of the building. As I sat in the waiting room, I cast a glance at the other people, wondering why exactly they were there. There was a middle-aged guy in a dark suit, who looked like he worked at a large investment bank, and a teenage girl in her school uniform. They looked normal enough—a regular
cross-section of London residents—but who could tell?

At six on the dot, the receptionist directed me up to the first floor. Dr. Margaret Milton's office was the second door down. I gave a brief knock, and a clear voice called out for me to come in.

As I went inside, a petite woman rose to greet me. The first thing that struck me was how attractive Dr. Milton was. I knew from my research that she was in her mid-forties, but she looked a lot younger. Small and slender, with a perfectly symmetrical face framed by dark blonde hair, she wore a tailored black dress, with a black-and-white suit jacket on top. She was the kind of therapist who'd get invited onto the couches of the morning news as a guest expert, and end up with her own programme.

She smiled warmly at me. “Make yourself comfortable, Charlotte.”

I glanced around her office. It had the grand academic feel of an Oxbridge don's set—mahogany furniture, crammed bookcases, and heavy velvet curtains framing the bay window that overlooked the street below. Two comfy armchairs had been arranged by the fire. I sat on the one closer to the door, in case I wanted to make a quick escape, and Dr. Milton took the other. Once we were settled, she smiled encouragingly at me.

“So why don't we begin with you telling me why you decided to start seeing me?”

“I didn't,” I said flatly.

“Oh.” She blinked a couple of times, clearly taken aback by my admission. But she seemed to quickly recover. “Then why don't you tell me why you're here?”

My eyes went to the notebook resting on her knee. I chewed at my inner lip, trying to decide how to play this. On my way here, I'd resolved to keep mute—after all, Richard could insist on me coming to Dr Milton, but he wouldn't know what I did or didn't say during the session. But now I was here, it didn't really feel feasible to remain silent for the next hour.

“I'm only here because I'm being blackmailed into it,” I said after a moment.

I'd been hoping to shock her, but I guess her profession made that impossible. She regarded me with mild interest, nothing more.

“And how did that happen?”

Despite my resolution to say as little as possible, I found myself telling Dr. Milton all about Richard and the events that had led my ending up in her office. She didn't make any comment as I talked, and only stopped me once or twice to clarify a point. Once I'd finished, I'd been expecting her to show some reaction—shock, surprise, a sense of
Wow, I've never heard anything like that in all my years.
But instead she remained impassive.

“So what you're saying is that this friend of your family,
Richard, thinks you're engaging in self-destructive behaviour, and he believes coming here will help you with that. So he has—from what I understand—coerced you into it with this threat to reveal information to your parents. Is that right?”

“Pretty much.”

“And do you feel that your behaviour is a problem?”

“God, no. It's just . . . how I choose to live my life.”

“I see.” She made a little notation on a piece of paper, and then looked back up at me. “Well, now I've heard a bit about you, why don't you let me tell you about how I work?”

“All right,” I said guardedly.

She sat back in her chair, and began what I guessed was her normal spiel. “I presume this is your first time to see a therapist?”

“That's right.” And hopefully my last, I added silently.

“Well, my sessions run for fifty minutes, and I like to see my patients on a weekly basis. Usually we meet for at least twelve weeks, and then we can reassess what progress is being made, and if we feel it's worth continuing. I'm not here to give you advice, or comment on how you live your life. My job is more to help you understand yourself and why you're making the decisions that you do, and if you're happy with that—and if you're not, then to find a different approach. Does that make sense?”

I gave a nod.

“Good.” She regarded me for a moment. I sensed a “but” coming up. “Now, I'm happy to take you on as a client, but”—there it was—“my one reservation is that I do feel it's most beneficial if these sessions are voluntary. I don't like the idea that you're being forced to come here. If you don't believe that you need to be here, then you're going to be hostile towards the whole process, and you won't get anything out of it.”

It took me a moment to work out what she was saying. She was giving me an out—a way to avoid therapy.

“So I don't have to come back next week?” I said.

She smiled a little. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I think the question you need to go away and consider this week is if you believe that coming here would benefit you in any way. If you can honestly answer no, then you really shouldn't come back.” I was too stunned to say anything. I hadn't thought it would be this easy to get out of. “So what I'll do is keep your appointment for the same day and time next week, and it'll be up to you whether you come or not.”

I sat there for a moment, expecting her to say more. She didn't.

“Is that it?” I said eventually.

“Time's up for today.” She nodded over at the clock on the wall, and I saw that she was right—the fifty minutes had already passed.

I got to my feet, and she rose to see me out.

I paused at the door. I wasn't entirely sure what to say to her. “Well . . . uh . . . thanks for everything.” I wasn't sure if it was appropriate to show gratitude, but if nothing else, the experience had been less painful than I'd imagined.

She gave a brief, professional smile. “That's quite all right. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Charlotte.”

With that, she closed the door behind me.

I was left standing alone in the corridor, feeling confused. Was that really it? Somehow I'd been expecting her to give me the hard sell at the end—to tell me in a solemn tone that while it was my decision whether to be here or not, in her opinion it would be worth my while. But she seemed, well, really not bothered if I came back or not.

I should have felt relieved about that—after all, that was exactly what I'd wanted—but for some reason it left me feeling strangely empty.

*  *  *

The following morning, I made an appointment to see Richard, so I could give him the news that his therapist refused to see me because of his blackmail. I was still a little freaked out by the memory of what had happened between us last time. It had felt too close to flirtation for my liking, so I was determined to keep things strictly business.

I'd worried about how he'd react to finding out that I
wouldn't be seeing Dr. Milton—after all, seeing a psychologist had been part of the deal for him not telling my parents. Would he view this as me breaking our pact?

But when I'd finished telling him what Margaret had said, he simply shrugged.

“Fair enough. I suppose you won't be able to do the therapy, then.”

I blinked. “
Fair enough?
” I repeated. “That's all you've got to say?”

“Well, how else should I react?”

“I thought you'd try to force me to go back. Or see someone else.”

“Like Margaret said, there's no point doing the therapy if you aren't open to the idea.”

“Well, then, why did you send me in the first place? You knew I didn't want to go. Wouldn't it have saved us all a lot of time and effort if you'd told me it was optional?”

“I suppose. But I had hoped that once you got there you might warm to the idea.” He paused to let this sink in. “You don't seem to realise, Charlotte, that I'm not doing this to inconvenience you. I'm doing this because I think it's in your best interests. I'm doing it because I care.”

His eyes held mine, his sincerity clear. The intensity of his gaze unnerved me, so I cut my eyes away.

“Yeah, well.” I cleared my throat, trying to think of a way to lighten the mood. “Maybe next time you could show
how much you care by letting me get on with my life. Or by sending me on an all-expenses trip to Thailand. Either works for me.” I stood abruptly. “So, if there's nothing else, I better get going.”

With that, I hurried from the room.

The next ten days dragged by with a routine predictability that made me want to scream. By the following Friday, I was feeling thoroughly fed up. As usual I collected Helena and Rex's lunch, and brought it to their office. Neither of them was at their desks as I came back in—with a sushi and sashimi selection for Rex, who was constantly on a diet, and a Big Mac meal for Helena, who seemed to eat loads and never put on an ounce of weight.

As I placed the burger, fries and large Coke on Helena's desk, I happened to glance down at what she'd been working on. It was the sketches for a print and TV campaign for the celebrity perfume that she'd had me leafing through magazines for. The perfume was called “Star,” and the advert featured an ordinary girl who turns into a rock star after she spritzes on the perfume, with the caption saying: “So every girl can feel like a star.” It was cheesy, but that wasn't what
was bothering me—the drawings themselves just weren't very good.

“Well, you don't look very impressed.” Helena's amused voice came from behind me. I looked up, embarrassed to have been caught going through her stuff. But luckily she didn't appear to mind. She walked over and slipped into her seat. “So what's with the face? You don't like the idea? I know it probably seems simplistic, but those are often the most effective campaigns for a product like this.”

“It's not that . . . The idea's fine. Just the drawings are a bit . . . well . . .”

“Rudimentary?” Helena filled in.

“Yes.” I felt embarrassed admitting that that's what I'd thought. “I thought you were the art director.”

She laughed a little. “That doesn't mean I draw. My job is just to get something down that's good enough to communicate the basic idea. Then, once we have the agreement of the creative directors and account executives, we have a team of sketch artists who'll put together something more professional to present to the client.”