Geoff Nicholson - The City Under the Skin

“Tell me you don’t mean any of this,” said Billy gloomily.

Her attempts to cheer him had been a conspicuous failure.

“You really think you need some life coaching?” she asked.

“Nah,” said Billy. “I just need a life.”

* * *

Akim had set up the appointment for late in the afternoon. That allowed Billy to pick up Carla from school and take her home before doing the job, though Akim had surely not taken that into account when making the arrangement. The doctor’s office was on the ground floor of a grand, red-brick, three-story house in one of the leafiest, safest, most expensive parts of town. Access to the office was via a side entrance, and Billy guessed that the doctor lived in the house upstairs, presumably not alone, given the size of the house. For now, however, there was just one car in the drive, and that promised to make things easier. He parked the Cadillac in front of it, boxing it in.

Billy tapped on the office door and tried the handle. It was unlocked, and he stepped into a tiny reception area where Carol Fermor, looking rather less confident and sleek than on her website, was hammering at a keyboard and scowling at a computer screen.

“I’m looking for Dr. Fermor,” Billy Moore said, though he knew he’d found her. “Dr. Carol Fermor.”

“That’s me.”

“Oh, okay. I thought you might be the receptionist.”

“I don’t have a receptionist,” she said, and it sounded like a complaint. “And this computer is killing me.”

“I’m your five-thirty,” he said.

“Right, of course. Hello, Mr. Smith. William Smith, is it?”

So Akim had made the appointment using half of Billy’s real name. He tried to calculate the degree of insult and the degree of risk.

“Sounds like a fake name, doesn’t it?” he said.

The doctor simply replied, “Go on through and take a seat in my office. I’ll be right with you.”

Billy moved through the reception area and, via a frosted-glass door, into a large, bright room that looked out onto a trim but lush square of garden. To the limited extent that Billy had any preconceptions of what a life coach’s office would be like, he had imagined something between a hospital room and a hotel gym. This place was homely: worn rugs, unmatching furniture, a huge flabby couch. There were table lamps in the shape of ballerinas that looked like they revolved and a shelf displaying a row of Minnie Mouse figurines. And although there were framed certificates on the wall, there were also pieces of children’s art and a photograph of a younger Carol Fermor standing thigh-deep in a trench, with Egyptian ruins in the cloudy yellow distance behind her. Billy was still looking at that picture when she came into the room, but he pretended he was looking at the certificates, examining her professional credentials.

“Are you a real doctor?” he asked.

“I’m not a medical doctor, no. My doctorate was actually in archaeology and anthropology. Then I had a long career in human resources. I’ve been a life coach for a decade or so. And you?”

“No, I’m not a real doctor either.”

She offered a wintry smile.

“Why don’t you sit down?” she said.

Billy selected a plain, straight chair that had its back to the window. Carol Fermor sat down on a chair just like the one he’d chosen, angled at a careful 45 degrees to his. She balanced a yellow legal pad on her knee, took out a slender gold mechanical pencil. Very old-school, Billy thought, though he had no idea what new-school would have looked like.

“Well, Mr. Smith, how are you? You sounded a little anxious on the phone.”

“Yes,” he said. What point was there in saying it hadn’t been him who’d made the call?

“So, Mr. Smith, William, what do you think I can do for you?”

“Tough questions first, eh?”

There was no smile from her this time, and nothing at all from Billy.

“All right,” she said, “let me tell you how this usually works. At a first session like this neither of us should expect too much. We’ll talk. I’ll ask you a few questions. You’ll ask me a few questions. I’ll explain what I do. You’ll explain what you hope I can do. And if we decide to move forward, there are various personality tests and questionnaires we might find useful as a starting point.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Billy.

“We should both come without fixed ideas, but there is one very simple thing I’d say: you must be ready for change. Are you?”

“Fuck yes,” said Billy. “Oh sorry. Yes, yes, I’m ready for change.”

“Good.”

She allowed him to sit in an awkward silence for a while, until he felt obliged to say, “I feel like a bit of a fraud coming here really.”

“It’s not unusual to feel that way. That’s often part of the problem. There’s no need for those feelings.”

They sat in silence for an even longer spell, and this time she cracked first.

“Well,” she said, “Freud — though you won’t find many Freudians around these days — tells us that love and work are the only therapies.”

“Smart guy,” said Billy.

“He had his moments, yes. So, William, how’s work?”

“Hard,” he said. “Too hard.”

“How so?”

He was only briefly tempted to describe the stresses of the parking business. Instead, he said, “My boss is the real problem.”

“Bosses so often are. What line of business are you in, exactly?”

“Well, that’s part of the problem. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure what business you’re in?”

“I work for a guy,” said Billy. “I do what he tells me to do. He isn’t a guy you can ask a lot of questions, not about what business he’s in or anything else.”

“That must make your work very difficult.”

“You think?”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Worse and worse.”

“That’s why you’re ready for change.”

“You got it.”

Billy knew he should have made his move already, and yet he couldn’t help feeling that this woman might be pretty good at what she did. In some absurd way he’d taken an immediate liking to her. He wanted to talk to her, almost as much as he wanted this to be over. He was also finding it hard to believe that her back was covered in tattoos. He knew it was a dumb thought, but she just didn’t look the type.

“And what’s preventing you from simply quitting your job?” she said.

“I think I won’t be allowed to.”

She looked away, kept her head and eyes down, inviting him to say more.

“My boss is a crook, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, though she didn’t sound as though she thought it was okay at all.

“A real crook. I mean, he isn’t some guy who cheats on his taxes or buys and sells things that fall off the back of a truck. The guy’s … the real deal.”

“And you’ve been assisting him with this?”

“Well, part of it, yeah, but only a really small part. Do you want to know exactly what I’ve been doing?”

“Do you want to tell?”

Billy opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out.

“You know,” said the doctor, “in the circumstances, it might be better if I don’t know. It might create certain professional difficulties for me.”

“Maybe you could meet my boss,” Billy said, “use some of your counseling on him. I could take you there now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how this process works.”

The sun had gone down appreciably, so that it now shone from directly behind Billy, turning him into a substantial, gloomy silhouette. Carol Fermor got up and lowered the blind a foot and a half. She didn’t return to her seat.

“Mr. Smith, I’m going to be honest with you, I think I’m out of my depth here. I can see that your situation is very difficult, and your desire for change seems sincere, but I’m not qualified to deal with the situation you find yourself in. I’m sorry.”