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Dr. Q. puts down his yellow legal pad and looks out. “Is that a problem?” he asks. “You’ve been here for—what?—a year and a half now, Cecelia, and you’ve never mentioned it before.”
Like I never mentioned Hubert’s affair with Constance. Until a few days ago. Right after I told Hubert I was going to the Cannes Film Festival with Dianna.
“Maybe I’m getting paranoid,” I say, half attempting a joke.
“You are paranoid,” Dr.Q. says, looking down at his legal pad. “We all know that’s why you’re here.”
“‘We?’ Who’s ‘we’? What is this? Some kind of conspiracy?”
“Me, your husband, the press, or should I say ‘the media,’ and probably this D.W. character you’re talking about all the time . . . should I go on?” Dr. Q. says in kind of a bored voice, so I say no, and then add suddenly, “Maybe I use my paranoia as a sort of weapon. Did you ever think about that, Dr. Q.?”
“Do you?” he says. “Use your paranoia as a weapon?”
Shit. I don’t KNOW.
Dr. Q. sits staring at me, the way Hubert stared at me when I told him I was going away. Without him. But he couldn’t say anything about it, just as he couldn’t say anything about the four pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage I purchased after a boozy afternoon with Dianna, not to mention the several pairs of shoes, handbags, and dresses. “I need to get away,” I had said. “I have to think.”
“I need to get away,” I say to Dr. Q.
“What will,” he says, “going away do for you?”
“Nothing,” I say. “But it will get me away from my husband. Did I mention that I think he’s having an affair?”
“You mentioned that”—Dr. Q. flips through his legal pad—”months ago. Along with that te
ll-all book.”
“So?”
“So the point is . . . all of this is probably in your imagination.”
“I think I can distinguish between fantasy and reality.”
“Can you?” he says.
“I SAW him with her.”
“Were they . . .”
“WHAT? Doing it? No. But I could tell. By the way they acted.”
“What does he say?”
“Nothing,” I say, swinging my foot. “But he doesn’t deny it.”
“Why won’t you at least DENY it?” I had screamed. “Cecelia,” Hubert said coldly, “that kind of assertion doesn’t merit a response.”
He can be so cold, my husband. Underneath the beautiful manners is absolutely . . . nothing.
“He’s definitely having an affair,” Dianna said later. “Otherwise, he would have denied it.”
Well, we ALL know that, don’t we?
I can tell this session is going absolutely nowhere, so I say, pretty much out of the blue, “I have a new . . . friend,” suddenly realizing how PITIFUL this sounds, just like when I was four years old and I told everyone I had a friend, but it was only an imaginary friend named Winston. I’d tell everyone I was going to play with Winston, but in reality I was going to my favorite mud puddle where I tried to float bugs on matchstick covers.
“And this friend . . .”
“Is real,” I counter, realizing that this, too, sounds insane, so I quickly cover it up with, “I mean, I think we’re going to be friends. We’re friends now, but who knows how long it will last.”
