Jilly Cooper - Octavia

Every night I fell into bed long after midnight, too knackered to allow myself more than a second to dream about him. But his face still haunted my dreams and every morning I would wake up crying, with the sun beating through the thin curtains, and the little mongrel Monkey, curled up on my bed, looking at me with sorrowful dark eyes, trying to lick away my tears. He was a great comfort. I couldn’t understand why Mrs Lonsdale-Taylor preferred her fat Pekineses. I realized now how much my mother had deprived me of, never letting me have animals.

August gave way to September; the drought grew worse; it hadn’t rained for three months; the common was like a cinder; the leaves on the chestnut tree shrivelled and turned brown. People were ordered not to use their hosepipes. Mrs L-T panted back and forth with buckets of water, grumbling.

On the Tuesday of my eighth week, Jakey Bartholomew sent for me. I went in quaking.

‘You can’t send this out,’ he said.

He handed me a photograph of a girl with very elaborate frizzled curls, one of the dreadful styles created by our hairdressing client, Roger of Kensington. Turning it over I saw I’d captioned it:

‘Sweet and sour pigs’ trotters’ — one of the Pig Industry’s equally dreadful recipes.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ I said.

Jakey started to laugh.

‘I thought it was quite funny. Have a beer, get one out of the fridge.’

I helped myself and sat down.

Jakey leaned back. ‘Our advertising associates want to borrow your legs on Friday week.’

‘They what?’

‘They’re pitching for a stocking account. All the guys reckon you’ve got the best pair of legs in either office. They want you to model the tights for them during the presentation.’

I felt myself blushing scarlet. I never realized any of the men in the office had even noticed me; they’d certainly kept their distance.

‘They want to take some photographs this afternoon,’ said Jakey, ‘and get them blown up by next week.’ I said that was OK by me. ‘If they land the account, we’ll probably get the PR side. And if the client likes the idea, they may use you in ads, which could make you quite a lot of bread.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I stammered. I felt I had conquered Everest.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ he said, as I went out. ‘You’re looking knackered.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said quickly.

‘Well bring me the Roger of Kensington file then.’

He was right of course. Gradually I was coming apart at the seams. In the last week or so I had noticed a growing inability in myself to make decisions, even small ones. The problem of where to find the file suddenly began to swell like a balloon in my head. The familiar panic began to surge inside me. I’m going crazy, I whimpered. I put my hands on my forehead and waited. Keep calm, it’ll go in a minute, don’t panic.

I felt as if I were trying to get out of a dark slimy cavern, and my nails kept grating down the inside. My mind raced from one fear to the other, in search of a grip to secure myself from the blind horror that swirled around me. I leant against the wall, trying to take deep breaths, praying no one would come out into the passage. Gradually the panic ebbed away. I went into the general office. It was empty. With shaking hands I dialled the number of the psychiatrist who’d been recommended to me in the old days. I made an appointment for Thursday lunchtime.

The first visit wasn’t a conspicuous success. The analyst was middle-aged, handsome, well-dressed, with teeth as white as his shirt-cuffs, a soothing deliberate manner, and a photograph of a beautiful wife and child on the desk. I was too uptight to tell him very much, but he gave me enough tranquillizers to last a week, on condition that I returned again next Thursday lunchtime.

‘It’s very kind, but I can’t afford it,’ I muttered.

I felt a totally doglike gratitude when he waved my protestations airily away and said:

‘Don’t give it a thought, Miss Brennen. In exceptional circumstances I take National Health patients, and your case interests me very much.’

The tranquillizers got me through another week. My legs were photographed in every conceivable type of stocking, and the advertising department professed themselves delighted with the result.

The following Thursday morning, just as I was setting out for the doctor, Xander rang, just back from the Middle East, and absolutely raving over his trip. He and Gareth had pulled off some fantastic deals he said, and Gareth was a star.

‘I simply adore him,’ he went on. ‘I’m thinking of divorcing Pammie and asking him to wait for me, and darling, he can sell absolutely anything, even a pregnant rabbit to an Australian sheep farmer, if he felt so inclined. We had a terrible time to begin with. I didn’t realize the Middle East was dry. For twenty-four hours we didn’t have a drink, then the pink elephants started trooping into my bedroom, and Gareth had a quiet word with the resident Sheik. From then on we had whisky pouring out of our ears.’

‘Was it terribly hot?’ I said.

‘Terrible, and if I see another belly dancer, I’ll go bananas.’

‘Did Gareth have lots of birds out there?’ I said, suddenly feeling my voice coming out like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

‘No, actually he didn’t. I think he’s got some bird in England he’s hooked on.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘Well, this ravishing redhead met him at the airport, bubbling over with excitement, flinging her arms round him.’

‘Mrs Smith?’ I said in a frozen whisper.

‘No, much younger. Laura, I think she was called.’

‘Lorna Hamilton?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Gareth was supposed to be giving me a lift into London, but I left them to it.’

Almost sleep-walking, I got myself to the analyst. On the way I passed a church; the gutter outside was choked with confetti. Gareth and Lorna, Gareth and Lorna, a voice intoned inside me — they sounded like a couple by Tennyson.

The analyst had darkened his waiting room. After the searching sunlight it was beautifully cool. His receptionist got me a glass of iced water, and then I heard him telling her to go to lunch. I lay down on the grey velvet sofa. This time I found myself able to talk. I didn’t tell him about Gareth, but raved on about my childhood.

‘I wasn’t allowed to be loving as a child,’ I sobbed. ‘My mother didn’t love me. She never kissed me goodnight or tucked me up. Neither of my parents loved me, they fought like cats to have custody of my brother, Xander, but they fought equally hard not to have me. .’

‘Go on,’ said the analyst noncommitally. I could feel his pale blue eyes watching me, smell the lavender tang of his aftershave.

‘I know what happens to people who aren’t loved enough,’ I went on. ‘They just close up, and love or hate themselves too much. They’re incapable of getting it together with anyone else. .’

After three-quarters of an hour of my ramblings, he glanced at his watch.

I got up to go.

‘I’m sorry, I must have bored you to death. You can’t possibly put me on the National Health.’

‘I thought we’d dispensed with all that,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll come again next week?’

‘Oh please, if you can spare the time.’

He scribbled out a prescription. ‘Here’s another week’s supply of Valium.’

He turned towards me, the prescription suddenly trembling in his hand. He was trying to smile; his blue eyes glazed, his face pale, he was sweating and there was a tic in his cheek. Then he walked round the table, stood in front of me and put a wet hand on my arm.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, that tic was going again, ‘if I might see you — outside consulting hours. I am sure I could show you there was no need to be so lonely.’