Read Online The Hypnotist's Love Story by Liane Moriarty - Free Book Online Page A

listening to it?”
    Many clients didn’t get around to listening to her CDs, and they always told her this with guilty, defiant looks, as if they were admitting they hadn’t done their homework but knew they couldn’t really get into trouble because they were grown-ups and were
paying
for this.
    Rosie shrugged. “I don’t know. I just can’t seem to think of anything else besides the wedding. Like, for example, I despise the color I picked for the bridesmaid dresses. Apricot! It was like I was suffering temporary insanity.”
    She lifted a chocolate out of the bowl and then dropped it again.
    “My fiancé gave up smoking years ago. He just decided one day when he was driving along the F3. He wound down his window, threw out the half-full packet of cigarettes and never smoked again.”
    “Litterbug,” said Ellen.
    Rosie looked at her with surprise and giggled. “Yes.” Then her smile vanished abruptly, as if she’d been caught out.
    There was something not quite right here. Ellen had a feeling that Rosie was lying to her about something. People were always lying, of course, whether consciously or not.
    “Do you want to give up smoking?” said Ellen.
    Rosie widened her eyes. “Of course!”
    “Well, sometimes there are unconscious blocks to letting go of a habit. I’m thinking we might do something a bit different and explore that today.”
    “Sure,” sighed Rosie. “Although I can tell you, there’s nothing mysterious about it. I just need more willpower.”
    “Well, let’s see.” Ellen paused, trying to decide on what induction to use. Then she knew the perfect metaphor. “What color do you wish you’d chosen for your bridesmaids?”
    “Blue,” said Rosie immediately.
    “OK, would you like to choose a spot on the wall to focus on? Anywhere you like.”
    Rosie sighed and shrugged and looked around the room. She kept her eyes fixed on the same spot in the far right-hand corner that almost everyone chose and said, “OK.”
    “Soon you will blink.”
    Rosie blinked.
    “That’s right,” said Ellen warmly. “And sooner or later your eyes are going to close. It might happen straightaway or it might take a little longer.”
    Rosie closed her eyes.
    Ellen watched Rosie’s chest rise and fall and let her own breathing fall into the same rhythm. She spoke rapidly and smoothly, imagining her words pouring into Rosie’s mind like liquid from a jar.
    “I’m wondering if you can visualize a wall. And I’m sorry to tell you that it’s painted apricot. But the good news is you’re repainting it an exquisite blue. Your paintbrush is moving up and down in rhythmic strokes. Up … and … down. Up … and … down.”
    Too complicated?
Ellen had found she needed to be careful with her metaphors. Men often got too literal. A man might say afterward, “You should have had me paint an undercoat first.” Women tended to go off on tangents. One of her earliest clients had said that she loved to sunbake, so Ellen did what she thought was a pretty safe induction about lying on a tropical beach. Afterward, the client admitted that she’d spent the whole time trying to choose which swimsuit to visualize herself wearing.
    Ellen watched Rosie’s eyes move rapidly behind her eyelids and noted the tension in her body: her shoulders up, her hands gripping the sides of the chair, her fingers pressing hard into the leather. A cloud moved across the sun outside the window and a beam of light caught the diamonds of Rosie’s chunky engagement ring.
    “Each time you see that paintbrush move, notice your body sink into a deeper feeling of relaxation. You’ll probably find your breathing is starting to flow in rhythm with the paintbrush. Up … Down … In … Out. Up … and … down. In … and … out.”
    She watched Rosie’s tiny, pixielike black boots fall outward in a V-shape. “Watch their feet,” her mentor, Flynn, used to tell her. “That’s the giveaway.”
    “The wall is nearly finished. By the time