The Therapist

A wife's bid to curb her husband's intellectual arrogance results in a surprising outcome

Therapy
By Dunstan Whitethorn


Chapter 1
Ben is almost unforgivably handsome. Strongly sculpted features, a nobly aquiline nose, and glittering, intelligent blue eyes. A year-round tan sets off the whiteness of his perfect, even teeth as he deploys that charmingly lopsided smile. His lustrous dark hair, permanent five o’clock shadow, and generously thick eyebrows add a further layer of mysterious masculine appeal, endowing him with a heroic, Bondesque sexiness.
Blah, blah, blah.
But, you’ll be pleased to know, he's a bit of a dick, and I mean that in the most loving way possible. I knew this when I married him, but of course, there's much more to him than his looks and his dickishness. There's his genuine desire to help people, his generosity of spirit, his optimism, and his inherent kindness.
His dickishness isn't about his appearance. He acknowledges that he's unusually good-looking; that's not vanity, it's honesty. He would be disingenuous to pretend that he isn't aware. The way people, especially women, look at him makes it obvious. No, it's about his brain. His cleverness means he's been able to get a good job as a cognitive behavioral therapist, but he's got this frustrating way of assuming he's the smartest person in any room and that everyone needs to know it. It's actually sad to witness, because it puts people off, but he doesn't see it. For him, the ultimate goal is being right, winning the argument—even about things that don't actually matter.
“Pol, have you seen my green shirt?” he called from upstairs.
“What green shirt?”
“The one I bought on Amazon.”
“You mean the turquoise one?”
“Never mind, I've found it.”
Five minutes later he came down wearing the shirt and carrying one of my bracelets, which he held next to the fabric so that I could see that the shirt didn't match the color of the turquoise stones in the bracelet.
“Hmm, I still wouldn't call it green,” I said.
He slipped his phone from his pocket and presented the screen to my face. It showed the shirt on Amazon.
“Read the color,” he urged.
“Jade green.”
Satisfied, he put his phone away and returned to the bedroom. The doorbell rang. It was Lauren and Dean.
“Hiya, darling,” said Lauren, hugging and air-kissing. “We're not early, are we? You've met Dean, right? Where's Ben?”
“No, right on time. Lovely to see you both. Come on in. He's still upstairs. Oh, here he comes.”
Ben trotted downstairs smiling, hugged Lauren, and fist-bumped Dean, who handed him a bottle of wine.
“Oh, lovely,” said Ben, looking at the label. “Thanks, not necessary, but much appreciated. Who doesn't love a fruity Italian?”
“A fruity Italian sounds like just what I need right now,” I joked. “Shall we start as we mean to go on?”
Ben opened the bottle and poured us all a glass. “Were you working today, Lol?” he asked Lauren as he handed her a glass.
She nodded and took a sip. “I'm off tomorrow, though. Just as well,” she said, holding up the wine glass. “Oh, that reminds me, Anton wants a team meeting first thing Friday, so you'd better make sure your case notes are all up to date.”
“That guy and his meetings,” said Ben, shaking his head. “Another morning wasted when we could actually be helping people. We're all professionals, why don't they just let us get on with the job?”
Lauren shrugged. “I guess they've got their jobs to do too,” she said.
“Talking of jobs,” I said, “What is it you do, Dean?”
Dean smiled. “I'm on the bins,” he said casually.
There was a slightly awkward silence before Ben came in with, “Where would we be without people like you?”
“Sorry?” said Dean quickly. “People like me? What do you mean?”
Ben's hands went up apologetically. “I mean binmen. Up to our necks in rubbish, right? So…”
Dean laughed. “It's alright, mate,” he said. “It's perfectly normal to judge a person by their occupation. Everyone does it. No offense taken. I was yanking your chain. But you know, the money's not bad, and I enjoy the physicality of it, being outside, and I really like the guys I work with; they're hilarious. The hours aren't bad either. It leaves me enough time for study, which is what I really like.”
Ben nodded approvingly. “What are you studying?” he asked.
“I'm doing a PhD in philosophy at the Open University.”
“Oh!” said Ben. “Wow, cool! Philosophy. Where will that take you?”
“I'll probably stay on the bins,” said Dean. “It's not a vocational thing. It's just something I find interesting.”
The doorbell chimed again.
“That’ll be Marcus and Sasha,” I said. “Excuse me. Ben, a little music would be nice.”
I hadn't met my brother Marcus’s girlfriend before. “Hiya, Marcus, and you must be Sasha. Lovely to meet you. You look fabulous!”
Her perfect figure was cling-wrapped in a red latex mini-dress; her bleached blonde hair had been meticulously set into a perfect cascade, and her false eyelashes fluttered like moths under her graphically designed eyebrows.
“Thank you; so do you. I thought I'd make the effort. I hope I haven't overdone it,” she said, laughing and snapping at the scarlet rubber with matching talons.
“Gotta make the right impression when you first visit the family.”
“You're Irish?” I said, noticing her accent. “Whereabouts?”
“County Cork,” she said. “A little town nobody’s heard of. I say town, it's more of a bog, really.”
“Come through and meet everyone. Everyone, this is my brother Marcus and his girlfriend, Sasha. This is my husband, Ben, and this is his work friend, Lauren, and her partner, Dean.”
“Well, he's a handsome devil, your husband,” said Sasha loudly. “I mean, we've got three fine lookin’ fellas here, but fuck me, he's bloody gorgeous!”
Ben looked startled for a second, composed himself, and said, “Nice to meet you too.”
“She's a bit unfiltered,” Marcus apologized. “You'll get used to it.”
I laughed.
“Oh, don't worry, she's just open. I like that. Besides, she's only stating the obvious. What's this music, Ben?”
“The Penguin Café Orchestra,” he said. “Would you rather something else?”
“It's a bit highbrow for me, Babe. I made a playlist for tonight; would you mind putting that on after this track?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Is everyone ready to eat?” I asked. “It's ready now, but no problem if you want to wait a bit.”
“I could eat a feckin’ horse,” said Sasha.
“Ready to eat, but happy to wait,” said Lauren.
“What about you, Dean?”
“Yeah, I could eat,” said Dean.
“Okay,” I said. “Well, I know Marcus is hungry, because he always is, so if you'd like to go on through to the dining room, I'll serve the starter. Ben, you're in charge of keeping everyone topped up, okay?”
To accompany the pâté, I'd made my own chutney.
“You should try this chutney, Sash,” said Marcus. “It's beautiful.”
“I don't think I can have it,” she said. “Anything with grapes, like raisins or sultanas, will give me the squits.”
“What about currants?” I said.
She shook her head. “No, nothing made with grapes.”
“Currants aren't made from grapes,” scoffed Ben. “They're made from currants. The clue’s in the name!”
Sasha raised a sharply defined eyebrow. “Currants are grapes,” she said.
“No, they're not!” he chuckled. “They're completely different things!”
Sasha was unphased by his bluntness. “Well, FYI, Mr. Smarty-pants, the dried currants used in cooking are dried Corinth grapes, not actual currants. I think I'd be the one to know, being the one with the feckin’ allergy.”
Ben froze; a microsecond of irritation flashed across his face.
“That's interesting,” I intervened. “I didn't know that. I always thought they were really currants. Every day’s a school day, isn't it? Did anyone else know that?”
Marcus shook his head.
“I didn't know,” said Dean.
“Me, either,” said Lauren.
“But you're drinking wine!” blurted Ben. “What do you think that's made from?”
Sasha shot him a look that said, “What's your problem?” and raised her glass in a toast.
“Your arse,” she said.
“Sash!” reprimanded Marcus.
She laughed. “Aw, we're just having a craic, for feck sake. Right, Benny? A bit of banter to get to know each other.” She grinned at me mischievously. “Is this his way of flirting?”
With supreme confidence, she was telling everyone she was here to enjoy herself, and I felt she was inviting me to join her.
I laughed. “Hard to say,” I said. “Perhaps he just has strong opinions on dried fruits.”
Ben joined in with the laughter. He kind of knows when he's been a dick and can laugh at himself. What he can't do is stop himself from being one.
Lauren had been studying the watercolor on the wall behind me. “I like your picture,” she said.
“It has a lovely feeling, sort of quiet and reflective.”
“Aw, thanks, Lauren. It's one I did during lockdown. I thought I might use the time to do something mindful.”
“Did you paint that? Wow! It's really good! I wish I could do that.”
“Art was the only subject I enjoyed at school,” I said, “probably because I'm dyslexic and you don't have to write in art. It's a nice hobby, I think. Does anyone else have a hobby?”
“Dean's a keen angler,” said Lauren. “Have you ever tried it, Ben?”
“To be honest, I don't think I'd get a sense of achievement from outwitting a fish,” said Ben.
Dean laughed so suddenly he spat a mouthful of wine back into his glass and raised his hand to high-five Ben.
“Killer burn, dude. Love that!”
Ben slapped his hand, and I could see he was both delighted and surprised by Dean's reaction.
“Sasha’s got a weird hobby,” said Marcus, grinning.
“Oh?” said Lauren. “Do tell.”
He looked at Sasha. “Tell ’em,” he encouraged her.
Sasha finished a mouthful and rolled her eyes. “It's not weird—well, it is a bit, I suppose, and you're all gonna judge me, but what the heck, I read the tarot.”
My heart sank. This would be irresistible, low-hanging fruit for Ben.
“More risotto, anyone?” I asked.
“That's interesting,” said Ben, ignoring my attempt at changing the subject. “You don't actually believe in that tosh, do you?”
She smiled patiently. “Well now, Benny, that depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you mean by ‘believe.’ If you're asking if I believe in magical divination, then the answer—because I'm not a feckin' idiot—would be no. If you're asking whether I believe a five-hundred-year-old deck of cards can be a useful psychological tool, then the answer is yes, definitely. You know how when you shuffle a normal deck of cards, you can be almost certain that you've created a configuration that's never been shuffled before, yeah?”
Ben nodded. “I've heard it said.”
“Now, imagine a deck of seventy-two cards, each one representing a different facet of human life, experience, development. Imagine the stories it could tell if you allow it to. If you are free to interpret the profound meanings encoded there as you see fit. Wouldn't that be an interesting lens to look through? I'm telling you, Pol’s got her painting, Dean’s got fishing; this is my portable pack of mindfulness.”
She pulled a pack from her voluminous bag and held it up.
“Here's half a millennium of psychology and philosophy that I'll wager will outlive a simple, fairly straightforward psychological trick like CBT.”
There was a pause.
“Mic drop,” said Dean.
Ben’s jaw dropped. “Simple trick?” he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “I think that shows how much you know about cognitive behavioral therapy.”
Sasha shrugged. “Don't get me wrong. I'm not denigrating your job. I know you really help people, and what I know about is only from the patient’s side, but that's my impression. I mean, it doesn't really address the root cause, does it? It's like you pick up the lemmings from the cliff edge, turn them around, and send them on their way. But you've not given them a better sense of direction, so they're still likely to end up back at the cliff.”
“I'm going for a smoke,” said Ben sharply.
“Sounds good to me,” said Sasha. “I'll join you.”
I tried not to make it obvious, but I was watching them closely through the patio doors as they stood together smoking outside. Not that I don't trust Ben with a sexy, flirtatious woman. He's a dick, but he's not that kind of dick. I was concerned that his ego had taken a couple of knocks and that can sometimes make him sullen and withdrawn, a mood he struggles to pull himself out of. But the body language between them was positive. She was chatting away, now and then, touching his arm. He smiled, nodded, and laughed.
“Relax, Pol,” said Marcus.
“He's fine.”
“Yes,” I said. “He's not been too bad, has he, Lauren?”
She smiled. “Same old Ben,” she said affectionately. “Stop worrying. He's among friends.”
“I just want it to go well, for his sake. Do you think we're doing the right thing?” I said.
“It's gotta be done,” said Marcus firmly. “You can't spend the rest of your life compensating for him. It's not fair on you.”

Chapter 2
A sharp cry of pain, and Sasha crashed to the living room floor.
“Oh my God! Are you all right? What happened?” I said, rushing in from the dining room. Lauren, Dean, and Marcus followed.
Sasha was clutching her ankle and rocking.
“I think she caught her heel in the drainage grid by the door,” said Ben. “Let me see.”
He examined her ankle, gently pressing to feel for damage.
“I don't think it's broken,” he said.
“No, no. It's fine,” said Sasha. “It's just twisted. It'll be like a feckin' balloon tomorrow. I'm sorry; what an eejit I am. I'm fine, honestly. Don't worry. It's my own silly fault for wearing heels like daggers. Just give me a hand up, Ben, would you?”
Carefully, he pulled her up and assisted her to the recliner, which he adjusted to raise her leg.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “A compress? Paracetamol?”
“A packet of frozen peas and a whisky should do it,” she said.
Lauren tapped my back. “You get her whisky, I'll grab the peas.”
“Don't you think you've had enough?” asked Marcus.
“Pshh,” she said. “I'm Irish.”
“I'm glad to see you've resolved your differences about CBT,” said Lauren, handing her peas from the freezer.
“Not really,” said Sasha. “But we've agreed to disagree. That reminds me. Ben, would you be a gent and fetch me my cards from the table? We're going to play a little party game.”
“Oh no,” said Ben, waving a dismissive hand. “You're not going to read my cards, are you?”
“No, nothing like that, just a little thought experiment I want to show you.”
As he returned with the pack, she said, “Give them a shuffle, would you?”
After obliging, he handed her the cards, pulled up a footstool, and sat facing her. Dean, Lauren, and Marcus went back to the table to finish their ice cream. She downed half of the whisky I'd given her in a single gulp.
“Okay,” she said. “Imagine, for the sake of the experiment, that these aren't just pieces of cardboard with pictures on them, but theories people might have about you. Not necessarily correct theories, but theories you have to evaluate. So I'll tell you what the theory is and tell me whether it applies to you. Okay? Wanna play?”
Ben smiled and shook his head as if exasperated by her persistence.
“Okay, whatever. Go for it. Oh, but how will I know you're giving me the real meaning of the card, not just making shit up?”
She feigned a look of shock. “As if I'd do that!” she said.
“Look them up on your phone if you don't believe me. Take a feckin' card.”
“The eight of swords,” he said, turning the card over.
“What's on the card? What does it show?”
“A blindfolded woman surrounded by big swords stuck into the ground.”
“What do you think it means?” she teased.
“You tell me,” he said impatiently.
Her voice took on the confidential, dramatic quality of a storyteller.
“A figure is trapped among the swords. There is a clear way out, but she can't see it. If she were to remove the blindfold, she could walk free of the swords, but she doesn't. She is paralyzed, held captive by her own fear. This card is about self-limitation. About being unnecessarily restricted by your own thoughts and feelings. Does that fit?”
Ben thought for a moment. “No, not particularly, and anyway, it doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't she just take it off?”
“That's a great question. Maybe she doesn't know how. Or maybe she doesn't even know she's wearing it.”
Ben sniffed and wrinkled his nose in disapproval. “No, sorry, this is just pseudo-psychology. I can't see any value in this approach.”
She necked the rest of her whisky and murmured, “An interesting turn of phrase in the circumstances.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ben.
“You said you can't see, and we're talking about a person in a blindfold,” she said, smiling sweetly.
Ben huffed. “You're impossible,” he said. “Try your mumbo jumbo on someone else.”
“You can do me,” I volunteered.
Ben stood up, handed me the cards, and fixed himself another drink. I shuffled them and laid the pack face down on the occasional table next to Sasha.
“How's your ankle?” I asked.
“Not too bad. A bit sore, but the whisky's helping, thanks. Just flip the top card,” she said, tapping the pile.
It was the Ten of Wands: a man carrying a load of wooden sticks so heavy that his back bent under its weight.
“Ring any bells?” she asked.
I was so shocked by the pertinence of the card and the clarity of its meaning that I momentarily forgot to maintain the pretense.
“No, that's not fair,” I said. “He's not that—”
“Not that what?” Ben's voice came from behind me.
My mind blanked. I felt exposed. In a panic, I scrambled for an escape, but nothing came to me but a sinking feeling that the truth was unavoidable. Sasha's green eyes watched me squirm, impassive as a cat’s.
“Come on, Pol, what are you saying?” he demanded. “I'm not that what? You're obviously talking about me. Not that bad? Not that much of a burden? Is that how you see me?”
He was more shocked than angry.
“No, Ben, of course not,” I insisted. “Don't take it so seriously. It's just a game. I didn't say that, did I?”
He turned away from me as he muttered, “The card said it, and you agreed.”
Sasha said nothing but quietly slid the cards back into their box, which she dropped into her bag. Ben went into the dining room, slamming the door behind him.
Suddenly I felt cheated. I looked at her overdone makeup, her slutty little dress, and her ridiculously high heels. Her detached aloofness was making me angry.
“I don't think you know what you're doing!” I hissed at her.
She stood up and helped herself to another whisky from the sideboard.
“It's understandable that you feel that way right now, Polly,” she said, returning to her chair with no sign of a limp, “but honestly, that went really well.”
“You're supposed to be helping, not making things worse!” I said, pouring myself a stiff vodka and Coke.
“Omelettes and eggs, my darling,” she said, reapplying her lipstick in a little mirror from her bag, her Irish brogue noticeably absent.

Chapter 3
The accident had been planned for nine o'clock. Sasha tapped her watch.
“Everything ready?” she asked.
“We need to get Ben back in here, and I'm not sure he's speaking to me now,” I said.
“Just go in there and tell him I want to apologize,” she said. “You stay with the others.”
In the dining room, Ben was sitting at the table drinking with Marcus, Lauren, and Dean, who were discussing a writer I'd never read. He didn't look at me but took a swig.
“Everything all right?” I asked breezily. “Ben, Sasha's asked if you wouldn't mind popping in to see her. She's feeling bad about what happened. Says she wants to apologize.”
Still, he didn't look at me, but muttered something inaudible as he went back into the living room. We all looked at our watches at the same time.
“Five minutes,” said Marcus. “Better get ready.”
He stood up and went into the kitchen, and I followed. I took a clean tea towel from the drawer and Marcus pulled a small brown vape liquid bottle from his pocket.
“Let me,” I said, taking the bottle.
He rolled up his left shirt sleeve and presented me with his upturned hand. I removed the cap and dripped a few drops of the red liquid onto his wrist.
“A bit more,” he said. “Make it look like I really need stitches. Put enough on to soak through the towel a bit.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s real blood from the butcher's,” he said proudly.
I wrapped the tea towel around his wrist tightly and added a couple of extra drops to complete the effect.
“I forgot the glass,” he said.
I fetched his glass from the dining room table. Lauren and Dean watched me anxiously. Back in the kitchen, Marcus was dropping blood into the sink.
“Here,” I said, handing him the glass. “It's time.”
He took it and smashed it against the tap. Shattered fragments tinkled in the sink. I added a couple of drops to the shards, capped the bottle, and shoved it into Marcus’s pocket.
“Give it a minute,” he said.
I nodded. We stood looking at each other uncertainly.
“I'm not sure,” I said.
He put his unbound hand on my shoulder.
“I am,” he said.
“Are you all right in there?” Ben's voice came from the living room.
“Yeah, sorry mate. I just broke one of your glasses,” shouted Marcus.
“Don't worry about it,” said Ben, coming into the kitchen. “Oh my God, mate! Are you all right?” he asked, seeing the blood-stained tea towel around his wrist. “Let me look.”
“He'll be fine,” I said. “I've wrapped it up and slowed the bleeding. Leave the towel on. I'll nip him up to A&E. I think it'll probably need a stitch or two.”
“I'll take him, you're over the limit,” he said.
“I think we both are.”
“I'm not,” said Dean from the dining room. “I've only had one glass of wine.”
“Yes, we'll take him,” said Lauren. “No problem.”
“Would you? Thanks. I really appreciate it. Do you mind if I come? Just to check my little brother's okay?”
“Would that be okay, Ben?” asked Marcus. “You don't mind looking after Sash while we get this sorted, do you?”
“No, of course, it's fine,” said Ben. He'd probably be glad of some time away from me, I thought.
Sasha showed only mild concern when Marcus showed her the tea towel and explained that she was to be left alone with Ben.
“It's probably best for you to stay off that foot for a while,” he said.
The four of us got into Dean's car.
“We'll be as quick as we can,” I said to Ben, “but you know what A&E can be like. We'll give you a ring to let you know what's happening.”
He nodded and waved us off as we drove away.
I directed Dean to drive us into the countryside to a remote farm track where I knew it would be quiet. When Dean cut the engine and turned on the interior light, we looked at each other, the silence ringing in our ears.
Marcus phoned Sasha. “Hiya, we've just got to A&E. It's pretty busy, probably about a three-and-a-half-hour wait before they can see me. Don't wait up, you two.”
Sasha's voice came back on speaker. “Aw, that's a pain. Poor you. Don't worry about us.”
“Okay, well, we'll keep you updated if anything happens sooner, but it doesn't look hopeful.”
“Okay, baby, I'll talk to you later. Bye.”
There was a short rustling sound as she dropped her phone into her bag without ending the call.
“They'll be at least three and a half hours,” we heard her say to Ben. “What a way to spend the night, poor things.”
“You know what?” said Ben. “It's okay, I could do with a bit of time out, to be honest.”
“I know what you mean, but like I was saying, I feel awful about the tarot thing. I didn't mean to cause a problem between you two. I get carried away, you know? My problem is, I can't let things lie. I have to push things too far.”
“No, it's fine, honestly. I mean, it's better that I know how she feels about me. It's a shock, obviously. I had no idea—”
“It was an awful thing she said about you,” Sasha sympathized. “You don't deserve that. I don't think she realizes how lucky she is to have you.”
Marcus clamped his hand over my mouth.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I've got something for you: a peace offering.”
More bag rustling followed.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Ben.
“Moroccan resin,” she said. “Light her up; you deserve it after what you've been through.”
“Maybe just a little, to ease the stress.”
We heard the unmistakable sound of a Zippo lighter.
“I know what'll relax you,” her voice sounded more distant, like she'd moved away from her bag.
“Ooh, you're all knotted up back here,” she said. “How does that feel?”
“Really good.”
“You've got lovely, broad shoulders.”
It was heartbreaking. Tears rolled onto Marcus’s hand, still clamped across my mouth. I couldn't bear to listen; I jabbed the end call button on his upturned phone and let out a wail of misery.
Marcus put his arms around me. “I'm so sorry, Sis,” he said.
An hour later, I felt strong enough to go home and face the wreckage of my marriage. Marcus, Lauren, and Dean stayed in the car as I reluctantly entered the house. A strange woman was sitting upright at the kitchen table: short, dark hair, conservatively dressed, wearing no makeup.
“Sasha?” I said, so stunned by the transformation that I could hardly believe it was her.
“It's Professor Bernadette Keane, actually,” she corrected.
“Did you fuck him?” I demanded.
She looked surprised.
“No, of course not. Weren't you listening? But I could have. That's more the point, I think.”
“Where is he now?”
“He's in the bedroom,” she said. “I think you'll find he has a new sense of direction. The therapy was completely successful.”
She handed me an envelope.
“It's up to you now, but before you make your decision, let me say: take your time. Like all men, he is flawed and has his weaknesses, but he's basically a good person.”
I was dumbfounded and for a moment just stood there with my mouth open.
“Are you even qualified in psychology?” I asked.
“Qualified in psychology?” she repeated. Then, reverting to Sasha's brogue, she said, “I'm the Mary feckin' Poppins of it.”
And with that, she left, leaving me with the envelope in my hand. I tore it open. Inside was an invoice for two thousand, five hundred pounds.
Still stunned by the woman's audacity, I went to the bedroom. Ben was lying naked on the bed like a starfish, blindfolded, with his hands and feet bound by cords to the legs of the bed. He was crying. On his belly, a tarot card was lying face down.
“Pol? Is that you?” he sobbed.
“Yeah, it's me,” I said, picking up the card.
“It's the Fool, isn't it?” he asked.