Rising to the Occasion

Over the next few weeks they explored Ben’s dreams, his childhood, his relationships with his father and then his mother. They examined the causes of stress in Ben’s life – none, other than a dysfunctional penis. At last Jane told him that she could do no more. “I cannot find any root cause,” she said. The magnified eyes conveyed concern. “I could refer you to a colleague, someone more experienced?” Ben shook his head. In all their sessions, he had tried hard for that illuminating flash, that moment of insight. It had eluded them both. He shrugged; his worst fears had been confirmed. The problem was intractable.

“Jane, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Go ahead”

“Have you ever considered contact lenses? Oh God, that sounded all wrong. I mean I was wondering why you hide your face behind those huge specs. That sounds wrong too. I just think that you’re really pretty but you seem to want to hide it.”

To his relief she burst out laughing. Her sincere, unaffected laughter was infectious. He found himself chuckling and grinning for the first time in weeks.

“OK, Doctor, “ she said, “What’s your diagnosis?” Ben smiled. He half shut one eye, raised the opposite eyebrow and leered at her before replying in a fake German accent:

“Vell, I sink ve haff a classical case of sormvun who vishes to be taken seriously. Sormvun who sinks zey are too Jung!”

She groaned at his pun.

“You could be right, Herr Doctor, but on the other hand it could just be that my eyesight is terrible – as bad as your accent in fact! Not that it’s any of your business, but I do wear lenses sometimes. My eyes are quite sensitive, as it happens, so I can’t wear them often. Can you imagine the effect on my patients if they thought their therapist was constantly in floods of tears?”

“Good point! You’d get their sympathy, though. Take their minds off their own problems.”

“Hmm, I never though of that. Sort of displacement therapy.”

And they both laughed.

She saw him to the door. He hesitated, his hand upon the handle. “Look,” he said, “I expect there’s some deep and binding laws against it, but could I phone you sometime? I mean I’d like to see you again, but not, er, professionally, if you know what I mean.” She almost laughed at the look on his face. Like a guilty schoolboy looking for mercy but expecting none. “Mr Farmer!” she said, and thought she saw him wince, “ It’s 818213. Can you remember that or shall I write it down?” But Ben had beaten her to it, scrawling the number on the back of his hand. “I think I can manage, ” he replied, and left with a smile and a lighter heart.

They met six times over the next two months. A few drinks in a fashionable Tapas Bar, a trip to the Cinema and dinner, twice. They had been wary of each other at first. Ben couldn’t get over the nagging feeling that she might analyse everything he said while Jane thought that he was editing every utterance carefully, choosing his words so as to keep all conversations on neutral ground. She found herself growing frustrated with him. She recognised this behaviour. Other men in her life had displayed the same symptoms. It was as if they believed she could hold up a mirror to their innermost thoughts and secrets. She decided to tackle it head-on.

“Ben, how much do you know about clinical psychology?”

“Not a lot, other than what I’ve experienced. Why?”

“You seem to think it’s like some sort of witchcraft. Mostly what I do is to get to people to recognise things they already knew about themselves. In the old days, people had family and priests and what-have-you with whom to discuss their problems. Today, those supports have gone. They talk to me instead. I’m a sort of surrogate granny!”

“Some granny!”

“Ok, there is more to it. I have to be able to recognise those serious cases, but mostly it’s true. People know they have a problem. They often know the solution, too, but are afraid to implement it. I help them come to terms with doing what’s good for them. I can’t read minds, I don’t try to analyse my friends and I definitely don’t make judgements!”

“Ouch! Was I that obvious?”

“Yes, Ben, you were. Now, can we start again and can you stop being so bloody careful and defensive when you talk to me?

“I’ll try. I won’t make excuses. It’s just the thought of someone interpreting everything one says that is a bit, well, off-putting. I know you wouldn’t do it intentionally, but what if I let something slip that made you think ‘psycho’? I’ll make you a deal, you lose the scary specs and I’ll lose the paranoia. How about that?”

“If that’s what it’ll take, it’s a deal.”

Things got better after that. When next they met, Jane, true to her word, was wearing her lenses. Ben was taken aback. Without the visual impediment of those huge frames, her face was elfin. The short blonde hair framed her small, regular features perfectly. It was like seeing her for the first time. “You look utterly fabulous,” He said. In fact, she looked so different; he had no trouble in forgetting that she had been his ‘shrink’.

They drifted into those small intimacies that stand as landmarks on the way to love. Holding hands, finishing each other’s sentences, finding little private jokes. Finally, one evening, Ben kissed her goodnight. It seemed the natural thing to do. Her face angled towards him as he moved towards to her. There was no self-consciousness. It was as if they had arrived at the same point of the journey simultaneously. They broke the kiss and smiled deep into each other’s eyes, storing away the moment in memory. His heart sang as he walked back to his car.

His euphoria continued until the weekend. Then he was gripped by the terror of knowing that, sooner or later, they would go to bed and he would have to perform. There had been no women in his life after Sarah and until Jane. What if he still couldn’t do it? How would she react? When next they met she sensed his sombre mood. She guessed the reason and resolved to take matters into her own hands.

When he walked her to her door that evening she took his hand and drew him inside. He started to say something but she hushed him with a finger softly placed upon his lips. “Ben, it’s all right. I just want to be with you. You don’t have to do anything,” she said. Ben nodded but his face was like that of man facing the hangman.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Uh, not really. I mean we talked about it lots before, didn’t we?”

“I don’t mean like that. I mean like friends, more than friends, perhaps?”

“Oh yes, more than friends. OK.” He took a deep breath. “The thing is, Jane, I think I’m falling for you in big way. Now, it’s suddenly really important to me that everything’s right. I want it to be perfect for you. And I’m scared I’ll be a disappointment.”

She smiled. “You won’t disappoint me, Ben. Don’t you think that every time two people make love for the first time at least one of them is nervous? Usually it’s the woman: ‘will he like me? Will he find me attractive? Will he think my breasts are too small or my bum’s too big?’ Well this time, it’s you. You’re worrying about nothing; putting pressure on yourself. I don’t care if it’s perfect. In fact, I’d be disappointed if it was, the first time. It would give us no reason to practice!”

At this he smiled and she saw him begin to relax.

When they moved into the bedroom it was easy. Just a normal thing for a normal couple to do. Jane went into the shower while Ben undressed. He slipped under the duvet and waited for her. She returned, wrapped in a towel. She saw there was still a hint of anxiety in his face and prepared herself. She dropped the towel and stood in front of him, arms above her head, one leg drawn back slightly like a dancer in a show. “Well then, Mr Farmer, like what you see?”

Ben gazed at her in wonder. Her legs seemed to go on forever. She was arrow-slim with smallish breasts perched high on her ribcage, the nipples pointing slightly upwards. She exuded confidence. Her smile was tender but slightly mischievous. He thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She saw the frank admiration in his eyes and felt her heart jump a little.