Dating Game полностью

“No, but other people have survived it. I'm serious, you may wind up with a guy ten times nicer than he is. People lose their husbands, they die, or walk out on them, they find other people, they remarry, they have good lives. You're forty-six years old, you can't give up on your life now. That's just plain stupid. And wrong. And not fair to you or your kids, or any of the people who love you. Don't give Peter that satisfaction. He has a new life. You deserve to have one too.”

“I don't want one.”

“Call Anne. Or I'm going to tie you up and drop you on her doorstep. Will you see her once? Just once? If you hate her, you don't have to go back. Just try it.”

“All right. I'll try it. Once. But it's not going to make a difference,” Paris insisted.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Virginia said, and poured herself another cup of coffee. She stayed until nearly four o'clock, and by the time she left, Paris looked tired, but better. And she had promised Virginia again before she left that she would call Anne Smythe in the morning. She couldn't imagine what difference it would make, and was sure it would make none, but if only to get Virginia off her back, she said she would call her.

Chapter 5

The waiting room looked like a library, full of books and comfortable leather chairs, and a small fireplace that Paris sensed would keep the room warm and cozy in winter. But on a warm June day, the windows were open, and down below, Paris could see a manicured well-kept garden. The address Virginia had given her turned out to be a pretty little wood-frame house painted white, with yellow trim, and quaint-looking blue shutters. The word that came to mind as soon as you walked in was cozy. And the woman who greeted Paris minutes after she sat down and thumbed through a magazine was nothing like what she'd expected. She had somehow expected to see Anna Freud come through the door, or someone cold and stern and intellectual. Instead, the doctor was a good-looking, well-dressed, fairly sophisticated woman in her mid-fifties. Her hair was well cut, she had makeup on, and the khaki pantsuit she wore was impeccable and looked expensive. She looked like a well-heeled matron, or the wife of an important executive. She was someone you'd expect to see at a dinner party, and not at all Paris's idea of a psychiatrist.

“Is something wrong?” She smiled at Paris as they walked into her inner sanctum, which was a well-decorated airy room, done in beige and white with handsome windows, and some very interesting modern paintings. “You look startled.”

“I just expected all this to be different,” Paris admitted.

“Different how?” The doctor was intrigued, as she looked warmly at Paris.

“More serious,” she said honestly. “This is very pretty.”

“Thank you.” She laughed and shared a piece of her history. “I worked for a decorator while I was in med school. I always figure if everything falls apart, I can go back to that. I loved it.” Paris didn't want to, but she already liked her. There was a straightforwardness and honesty about her, and a lack of pretension, that was very appealing. She could easily imagine being friends with her, if she hadn't met her for this purpose. “So what can I do to help you?”

“My son just left for Europe.” Even to Paris, it seemed an odd thing to start with, given everything else that had happened. But it was what had come out of her head first. And the words were out of her mouth before she thought about them.

“To live there? How old is he?” She had been assessing Paris since she walked in and guessed her to be in her early forties. In spite of the agonies of the past month, she looked no older than she had before it happened, just sadder. And still pretty, despite a certain lackluster quality the doctor correctly recognized as depression.

“He's eighteen. And no, he's only going for two months. But I miss him.” She could feel tears sting her eyes just talking to her, and was relieved to see a box of tissues sitting near them. She wondered if people cried there often, and could guess easily they must have.

“Is he your only child?”

“No, I have a daughter. She lives in California, in Los Angeles. She works in the film industry as a production assistant. She's twenty-three.”

“Is your son in college, Paris?” the doctor asked personably, trying to gather the pieces of the puzzle Paris was presenting to her somewhat piecemeal. Anne Smythe was used to that, it was her business, and she was good at it.

“My son Wim is starting Berkeley at the end of August.”

“And that leaves you … alone at home? Are you married?”

“I…no…yes…I was… until five weeks ago… my husband left me for another woman.” Bingo. Anne Smythe sat quietly with a sympathetic look on her face as Paris started to cry, and she handed her the box of tissues.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Did you know about the other woman before that?”

“No, I didn't.”

“That's an awful shock. Had there been problems in the marriage before?”