Read Online Dating Game by Danielle Steel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Danielle Steel
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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?”
“No, it was perfect. Or I thought so at least. He told me when he left that he felt like he was dead living with me. He told me on a Friday night, after a dinner party we gave, that he was leaving me the next morning. I thought everything was fine before that.” She stopped to blow her nose, and then, much to her own surprise, Paris repeated everything he had said to her that night verbatim. She told her about Wim going off to school, the MBA degree she had never used, and the feelings of panic she had been getting, about who would be there for her now? What was she going to do with the rest of her life? And she told her as much as she knew about Rachel. The hour spilled into two, which was what the doctor had planned for. She liked starting with long sessions so she knew what they were going to try to do together. And Paris was shocked to see how the time had flown when the doctor asked her if she'd like to make another appointment.
“I don't know. Should I? What difference is it going to make? It's not going to change what happened.” She had cried a lot in the two hours, but for once she felt neither drained nor exhausted. She felt relieved after talking to this woman.
“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?”
“No, it was perfect. Or I thought so at least. He told me when he left that he felt like he was dead living with me. He told me on a Friday night, after a dinner party we gave, that he was leaving me the next morning. I thought everything was fine before that.” She stopped to blow her nose, and then, much to her own surprise, Paris repeated everything he had said to her that night verbatim. She told her about Wim going off to school, the MBA degree she had never used, and the feelings of panic she had been getting, about who would be there for her now? What was she going to do with the rest of her life? And she told her as much as she knew about Rachel. The hour spilled into two, which was what the doctor had planned for. She liked starting with long sessions so she knew what they were going to try to do together. And Paris was shocked to see how the time had flown when the doctor asked her if she'd like to make another appointment.
“I don't know. Should I? What difference is it going to make? It's not going to change what happened.” She had cried a lot in the two hours, but for once she felt neither drained nor exhausted. She felt relieved after talking to this woman.
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