Isobel and Armand would be amused if they knew that I had been seeing a 'shrink'. They always used to think me such a strait-laced, even bourgeois little girl: a perfect English rose. But they shouldn't be so surprised because it was they who set me on the path that led to Dr Damon's door. And often, as I'm lying on his couch, sharing with him my innermost feelings about life and love and relating to him my dreams and fantasies, I often say a silent prayer of thanks to them.
It is three months since the doctor and I first met. Our meeting resulted from a recommendation by a mutual acquaintance. Such is the doctor's esteem and so distinguished are his clients – he abhors the term 'patients' – that I was surprised that he wanted to see me. But he did, and soon each Wednesday's visit had become the keystone around which I built my week.
I always arrive early for my session with the doctor. A visit to his consulting rooms is a joy in itself: the building is a sumptuous homage to an earlier age. The drawing room, which serves as the clients' waiting room, has a high vaulted ceiling, a magnificent fireplace, fine furniture and chairs so soft that one sinks into them. Impressionist paintings adorn the walls and hand-woven silk curtains fringe the windows that look out onto a delightful courtyard. But more importantly than these comforts, I like to take a few minutes before my appointment to compose myself.
Yesterday that proved especially difficult. The doctor had recruited a new receptionist: a delectable young woman of maybe nineteen or so. I could barely tear my eyes from her. Silvery blonde waves of hair lapped against her cheeks and framed her innocent, child-like face. Her eyes were deep pools of blue and her mouth ..... Oh, her full, red mouth yearned to be tutored in the giving of delights that only a woman can enjoy.
Glancing up from an old copy of Vogue, I caught her gaze upon me and gave her my prettiest smile. She looked down guiltily but, smiling to herself, slowly wetted her lip with her tongue tip. I wonder if she wants to play, I thought.
From the neck down, there was nothing child-like about her beauty. A tight, V-necked sweater revealed a graceful throat, an even lovelier, fulsome bosom and two stiffening nipples that peeked tantalisingly through the thin fabric. Her left breast bore a badge that said 'Juliet'. Mischievously I speculated what her right breast was called. Romeo?
I closed my eyes and imagined suckling and nibbling her strawberry-tinted nipples. First Romeo and then Juliet. Romeo and Juliet. I could feel my own nipples hardening at the prospect.
Luckily, the purring of her telephone roused me from my daydream.
'Miss Warwick, Dr Damon will see you now,' Juliet called over to me.
She led me to his door, opened it and, as I passed, we brushed against each other. I turned to thank her and held her gaze for a moment longer than was necessary.
Later, I promised myself. Later.
The doctor rose to meet me.
'Good to see you again, Eve.'
'What a charming girl,' I said.
'Juliet? Yes, she's delightful. She's covering for Ruth. Her mother's an old friend. Juliet's interested in studying psychology – so she's come up from Cornwall for a couple of weeks to see what it's all about.'
He took my jacket. 'Chair or couch?'
'Couch. Thank you.' I slipped off my shoes, rested my head on the cushion and stretched out. If Doctor Damon, ever the true professional, had any interest in my stockinged calves, his face didn't betray it.
'How have you been, Eve?' asked the doctor, taking his seat beside the couch.
'Good,' I said hesitantly.
'You don't sound certain. What about those dreams? Any more of them lately?'
'One. Last night. It was very vivid.'
'Did it disturb you?'
'Not disturb, exactly. It unsettled me.'
The doctor crossed his legs and reached for his notepad. 'Why don't you tell me about it?' The sight of Juliet had distracted me, but I placed my hands on my stomach, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate.
'First I need to tell you about a period in my past.'
'You know the rules, Eve. You can tell me whatever you want.'
I settled back and began to disinter the past – that fateful summer.
'It all goes back to when I was about 18. I was travelling round France with my boyfriend, Jamie. We got to Cannes, and then we had the most appalling row. It was all about something and nothing, but in truth we should never have gone together. Anyway, I stormed off with all my gear. It was only later that I discovered that I'd left my travellers' cheques with him. I had only the cash in my pocket. I needed to get home. The only grace was that at least I spoke good French.'
'Yes, your mother's Belgian, isn't she?' asked the doctor.
'Yes,' I said, for some reason ridiculously pleased that he remembered the fact.
'I started hitchhiking. Eventually a young woman in an old Renault van picked me up. She must have been in her thirties. She was lovely, very exotic. We stopped and she bought me a meal. I told her about my predicament and she decided, there and then, that I must stay with her and her husband. The plan was that I would phone home and my parents could send me money to their address. Then I'd continue on my journey by train. I suppose I figured this would take a week or so. As things worked out, I stayed for nearly a month.
'The woman was called Isobel. She was married to Armand, a painter, and lived in a huge rambling chateau, just north of Aix.'
'What were they like, this couple?' Doctor D asked.
'Isobel was beautiful, like a young Jane Birkin, but darker, with shorter, lighter hair. Long brown legs and twinkling, acorn eyes. She was a real free spirit but tough too. I heard her once negotiating on the phone with an art gallery and she made mincemeat of them.
