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“You better have.” I sigh with exasperation; his flippancy drives me up the wall.
Eight months ago, my father was hospitalised due to his high blood pressure and the doctors told him to ditch the marijuana or face an early grave. Since then, he’s been prescribed a combination of six tablets to take every day for the rest of his life to keep his condition stable. Frustratingly, he’s somehow convinced himself he doesn’t need conventional medicine and forever scours the Internet in search of alternative treatments to allow him to ‘think himself’ better. All well and fine, but why the hell take chances?
“Okay,” I say, getting up, “I’m going upstairs to get changed and inspect this Amazon parcel. By the way, what’s for dinner?”
“I’ve made chickpea curry and rice, or should I sayattemptedto. I’m warning you now, it’s not the greatest. I think I may have used too much paprika, but it’s edible. Your half just needs to be warmed up. I left it in the yellow pot on the stove.”
“Thanks. I’m sure it’ll be great.”
And I mean it. Out of the two of us, Dad’s the better cook by far. If it wasn’t for his hit-and-miss ‘experiments,’ I’d probably be eating take-outs and Marks and Sparks ready meals every single night.
As soon as I get to my room, I tear open the parcel and scrutinise the box set meticulously to make sure it arrived in perfect condition. Then I collapse on the bed and take a few minutes to pull myself together. Looking around, it’s like I’ve never seen the place before. Everything seems strange, twisted out of shape. Pink and pristine, my bedroom is a palace compared with the chaos downstairs. Nothing much has changed in twenty years. Stacks of books and DVDs line the walls, as do expensive display cabinets containing my precious Disney memorabilia. Stuffed toys from theMuppet Showdominate the bed. Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwald’s eternally youthful faces gaze down at me fromThe Breakfast Clubposter, along with images from all of my favourite movies:The Goonies,Princess Bride,Labyrinth, andThe Neverending Story.
At last, I get up and cross to the window, throw it open and shiver as a blast of cold air filters in. I light a cigarette and exhale a couple of puffs into the dark night. Then I cough, and a wave of self-disgust washes through me.
This has to stop! I need to do something about this before it’s too late.
Fired up, I crush out my half-finished cigarette and crumble the butt to shreds in the ashtray. Returning to the bed, I pick up my scuffed old laptop. Plugging in the charger, I flip up the lid and listen to the familiar hum as it boots up. The keyboard is covered with bits of chocolate and clumps of dust and I remind myself to find those bloody surface wipes to give the thing a damn good clean.
The laptop screen comes to life and I click on the Explorer icon to start the Internet. Within seconds, the Google homepage flashes up and I run a search for ‘ways to quit smoking.’ I’ve been here many times before, and for the first two or three results pages, I’m unimpressed with my options: chewing gum, Nicorette patches, everything that came to a big, fat nothing. Mentally, I tick each one off as a tried-and-tested failure. I’m about to give up when suddenly, one hyperlink catches my eye: ‘Quit smoking for good at the London Hypnotherapy Clinic. We promise permanent results or your money back.’
I arch an eyebrow.Hypnotherapy?
The term conjures up sepia-toned images of Victorian confidence tricksters bilking money from a theatre of gullible people. As treatments go, hypnotherapy sounds a little out there, but I decide it merits further investigation. Plus, what have I got to lose? I’ve tried everything else so …what the hell.
With mounting curiosity, I click on the link and am taken to an expensive-looking website. The homepage features photos of a formerly obese reality TV star claiming she lost two stone through hypnosis. Her before and after shots are very impressive, but I’ll need something more solid than that to be convinced. Doubtfully, I click the ‘Featured’ link and browse through various other testimonials from what I consider to be legitimate sources: sound bites from popular women’s magazines such asCloserandCosmopolitan.
Satisfied that this place is the real deal, I scroll to the ‘About’ page to find out more. ‘…The London Hypnotherapy Clinic is the private practice of Dr Nick Craven, one of the country's leading hypnotherapists.Offering multiple fields of specialization,Dr Craven is proud to have personally treated some of the U.K’s top politicians, CEOs and celebrities.Hypnotherapy is the most effective way to stop smoking for good, statistically five times more effective than all other methods. Book an appointment with Dr Craven today to beat your addiction permanently…’
There’s no picture of Dr Craven, but his credentials certainly sound impressive. I navigate to the next page where Craven’s short biography is followed by a bullet-pointed list of the health issues he treats, including stress, migraines, insomnia and depression. At the bottom of the list is a landline number next to the clinic’s opening hours. I glance at my watch.
Seven twenty-five.
I’ve still got time. The clinic doesn’t close until eight on a Tuesday, so I figure I may as well give the number a call. I’m not going to commit to anything yet, just get an idea of prices.
Carrying my phone to the window, I dial the number and wait for the call to connect.
“London Hypnotherapy Clinic, how can I help?” greets a female voice.
I stop the phone against my chest, and then raise it back to my ear. “Er, hello, I’m making enquiries about hypnosis for quitting smoking. I saw some stuff on your website but couldn’t see a price list anywhere. I just wondered … well, I just wanted to know a bit more about the treatment.”
“Certainly. Did you want me to give you the price for a single session or for the full treatment?”
“Er, just the single session, please.”
She gives me the price and I stiffen. It’s far more than I expected and certainly not something I can afford on my meagre salary. I’m about to make my excuses and hang up, when the lady does a U-turn and tells me they’re running a limited fifty percent discount on the first session.
I think for a second. “All right, I’ll book it. What’s the earliest appointment available?”
The line goes quiet while she checks Dr Craven’s schedule. “Someone just cancelled, so we’ve got a free slot this Friday at six-thirty.”
“Perfect.”
She takes down my name and telephone number and before I know it, she’s booked me in. As the call disconnects, I shake my head ruefully, overwhelmed by a mixture of excitement and unease.Carly Singleton, what the hell are you doing? You know you can’t afford this.
Snapping the phone shut, I return to bed and rest the laptop on my knees. For a second-long eternity, I stare dumbly at the screen, wondering whether to open Pandora’s Box. Then taking a deep breath, I log onto Facebook. I’ve never registered as myself, but a year ago I set up a dummy account under an alias to allow me access to Andrew’s profile. I know it’s sad to keep tabs on your ex, but I’m only human. I know it’s self-destructive and wrong, know I’m setting myself up for heartbreak, but I just can’t help it.I need to know.
I wait a moment as Facebook loads up.
