it! Why didn’t I see this before? It makes so much sense. Oh my god! That’s who it is!”
“What?! Diane, what is it? What!?”
“It’s her!”
“Who?”
“She’s found out about me.”
“Who?”
“Jessica Dunnant.”
“What do you mean? That was decades ago. Jessica Dunnant was decades ago.”
Diane was piecing it all together. “Yes. Yes, I know. She’s no longer Jessica Dunnant.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Veronica, it all fits.”
“What all fits?”
“She’s married.”
“So?” And suddenly Veronica knew what Diane was thinking. Her horror at what this might mean was impossible to keep from her face and her look was misinterpreted by Diane as confirmation that she was right.
“You see it too, don’t you? That’s it!”
“Diane, you…” Veronica couldn’t find the words; and anyway what was the point anymore?
Diane’s torso slowly gained a straightness, her face slowly adopted a calmness, and her shoulders sank back to their normal position. It was all so clear to her that when she spoke it was with a soft acceptance of the obvious truth: “Jessica Dunnant is Mrs. Swan, Max’s wife.”
4
Among Veronica’s patients, mainly female, Veronica had had one male client of many years, Mr. Pyne. His problem was simple, he could not be physically touched, but its legacy was complex and debilitating. He lived alone, he worked alone, online; he had no friends, no family, well none that Veronica knew about, and he rarely went out of his small apartment. After many years of regular sessions, all of which were about finding ways of touching him, Veronica focused diligently on making it seem that she was doing something completely different: not touching him. On this day a hurdle was about to be jumped, or so Veronica hoped. She understood that it all had to do with his mother, who, although she had died three years ago, still had a powerful hold over him, a hold Veronica was hoping to break.
She let herself into her small city bedsit, her office, dumped her bag on the bed, and booted her computer. She kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket, t-shirt and jeans and laid them on the bed. She went into the bathroom and washed her face of what little make-up she had on. Once dry she applied a very thin layer of pale foundation cream giving her face a matt mask-like look, pale and wan. She checked her computer schedule, times, address, and further appointments for the week, and was pleased there were no surprises. From the small closet she chose a bluish plaid skirt, well below the knee, and a white long-sleeved blouse with a high lace buttoned-up collar, which for the moment, she left undone. The skirt was tight and for a brief moment she thought about a vanilla slice: Veronica loves vanilla slices. She slicked back her hair and pinned it tight to the back of her head. From one of the antique wooden wig stands on the top shelf she chose a short mouse-coloured wig, boyish and unkempt. She put this on, tugged and pulled it into place. Without stockings or socks she put on a pair of brown lace-up walking shoes. She inspected herself in a full-length mirror and considered herself ready. From the bottom of the closet she took out a small, ready packed, suitcase, looked at herself one last time, buttoned up her lace collar, picked up the suitcase and left the apartment.
Two hours later she parked her car outside a small block of flats all well hidden behind a wall of neglected greenery on a quiet street in an obscure suburb called Pemulwuy. Mr. Pyne’s flat was upstairs at the back, at the far end of a shared balcony.
She sat in the car and rehearsed her voice. “It’s Susan, Mr. Pyne. It’s awful outside. You’re lucky to be home.” Her voice was high, clipped, and expressionless but she needed it to be more child-like, with no hint of a threat. “It’s Susan, Mr. Pyne. It’s awful outside. You’re lucky to be home. It’s Susan, Mr. Pyne. It’s awful outside. You’re lucky to be home.”
With the suitcase at her feet she knocked quietly on the door, “It’s Susan, Mr. Pyne,” she said. “It’s awful outside. You’re lucky to be home.” She waited. She always had to wait because Mr. Pyne took a long time to gather the courage needed to open the door even to someone he knew and was expecting. He also had a series of absolutely necessary manoeuvres to perform: one tour of the room, three full-circled pirouettes, and one wide-armed open-palmed stretched appeal to the heavens. It was only then could he feel able to open his front door.
“Hello, Mr. Pyne. It’s nice to see you again,” she says passing him as if nothing is unusual. Mr. Pyne is wearing a red and blue turban, a long silk kaftan in bright blue and gold over dark blue Turkish pants and a stick-on moustache. He lets her pass, furtively checks the balcony for prying eyes, closes the door firmly and reattaches three latches.
Veronica, Susan, had put the little suitcase on a small table in the small but incredibly neat apartment and is now undoing the multiple zips as Mr. Pyne sheds his middle eastern disguise and emerges in a white shirt, a loose school tie, duff-grey school shorts, long white socks and no shoes.
“Well, that was close. Did you see all the slightly open doors along the balcony? Bloody cheek! They won’t let up you know.”
“Mr. Pyne what could they possibly want with you and what could you possibly want with them?”
“Exactly.”
She opens the suitcase and takes a step towards him. He takes a step back. Susan ignores this. ”Now, Mr. Pyne, are you ready for another fitting?”
“No! Absolutely not.” He stands rigidly with his eyes closed.
“Oh! OK, you’re the boss.” Susan returns to her suitcase, closes the lid and multiple zips, picks up the suitcase and heads for the door.
“OK, OK, OK!” says Mr. Pyne with head averted as if expecting disgusting medicine.
“Oh! Alright then.” Susan returns to the little table, puts the suitcase on it, opens all the zips, and then the lid. ”Now, Mr. Pyne, are you ready for your fitting?”
“...yes,” he says in a little voice that sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else.
“Good,” says Susan. “Now first let’s get you out of your day clothes.” Susan starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, being very careful not to touch his flesh. Mr. Pyne is rigid and holding his breath. “Breathing out, two three four, breathing in two three four.” Susan stops and looks. “Mr Pyne?”
“mm.” The voice is high and squeaky like air escaping a balloon.
“Breathing out two three four, breathing in two three four. Breathing out two three four, breathing in two three ...”
Mr. Pyne, now with a red face, explodes the air out of his body,” A-a-a-h! Twothreefour!”
“Very good, Mr. Pyne. Breathing in two three four, breathing out two three four,” continues Susan casually undoing all his shirt buttons as Mr. Pyne accustoms himself to Susan’s breathing rhythm.
“Breathing in two three four, breathing out two three four,” repeats Mr. Pyne.
Susan peels the shirt off him revealing a white singlet underneath, folds the shirt neatly, and lays it on the sofa. With two fingers of each hand she takes hold carefully of a little fold of singlet at Mr. Pyne’s waist and continues her chant, “Breathing in two three four, arms up two three four,” and Mr. Pyne obeys like a good little boy and Susan whips the singlet off and lays it neatly next to his shirt.
“And now Mr. Pyne ... Oh, did I tell you that in just a little while I’m going to touch you? Just a little bit ... you’re going to have to help me a bit here...Open your eyes. Open...open.”
Mr. Pyne opens his eyes and Susan gently and slowly puts her hands,