Read Online The Maestro's Mistress by Angela Dracup - Free Book Online
Authors: Angela Dracup
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your dreams when
you were a child?’ he asked, wondering if she might at long last be persuaded
to speak of her childhood. Usually his patients were only too eager to delve
into their past. After all in this, fast-moving, wealth acquiring society it
was a luxury to be granted the licence to talk at length about oneself.
Especially to someone who listened without interrupting, but seemed to care.
In the four years of his practice
as a psychoanalyst (leaning more towards the theories of Carl Jung than those
of Sigmund Freud) Dr Denton had heard countless stories of childhood – most of
them unhappy and brutal. This was hardly surprising as his patients came to him
because they had problems, the underlying causes of which were inevitably
rooted in their childish past. The problems which rose to the surface –
alcoholism, drug abuse, anorexia, depression, poor sexual performance - were
merely symptoms of something far deeper. It was his job to discover the demons
in the hidden caverns of their unconscious and gently reveal them to the
patient in an attempt to purge their power. He judged that his degree of
success was satisfactory and steadily improving.
‘Just sometimes I would dream,’
she said suddenly. ‘I used to see my parents’ faces. They would be smiling at
me, just as they did when I was awake. They were the gentlest parents, the most
loving. We were all so happy.’
Dr Denton looked across at the
winking red light on his tape recorder on the desk. He would be interested to
listen to those words played back when she had gone. Statements of that kind
were simply too good to be true. What was she concealing from him – or from
herself?
‘My mother was very beautiful.
Golden-skinned, lovely ash blonde hair. Not as tall as me, but everyone said we
were unmistakably mother and child.’ She smiled, taking obvious pleasure in the
memory, closing her eyes like a cat responding to a soft caress.
Dr Denton directed his attention
to her face. She was indeed beautiful with her firm jaw-line, her high
cheek-bones and her fashion model’s straight nose. Beneath her bronze-shadowed
lids were eyes as blue as a summer sky and her baby soft hair was a thick,
creamy shade which he assumed must be entirely natural.
‘She’s still alive,’ Georgiana
continued. ‘In her late sixties now and still very lovely.’ Another smile.
So the daughter need have no
undue fears about the ravages of the ageing process, Dr Denton thought. ‘You
seem to have a great affection for your mother,’ he suggested.
Georgiana gave a long low murmur
of assent. ‘Yes, oh yes. And for my father, of course. He was a wonderful man.’
‘He’s dead now?’
‘Two years ago. Poor Daddy. He
used to call me his own lovely darling.’
‘And what did he call your
mother?’
‘His own precious darling. They
were so very loving to each other – and to me. They used to say I was their
world.’
Dr Denton leaned forward
slightly, clasping his manicured hands loosely together. He considered how to
frame the next question which he hoped would stimulate Georgiana to make a
start on the intimate biography of her past.
He was an excellent listener:
concerned, sincere and calmly accepting of anything he was told, however
shocking.
‘So that was your family? Your parents
and you. Anyone else?
‘Just the three of us. The
perfect family.’ Georgiana allowed her mind to drift away into the idyllic lost
world of her childhood. As she began to translate her thoughts and images into
words for the handsome, personable Dr Denton she felt a warm glow of well-being
suffuse her body. Suddenly there was licence to be a cherished little girl all
over again.
Dr Denton listened to the flat, faintly
metallic voice with growing pleasure. Georgiana Xavier was beginning to have an
appeal for him which none of his other women clients had evoked.
And now at last she was opening
up. Another few sessions like this and he would have enough information to
begin to
you were a child?’ he asked, wondering if she might at long last be persuaded
to speak of her childhood. Usually his patients were only too eager to delve
into their past. After all in this, fast-moving, wealth acquiring society it
was a luxury to be granted the licence to talk at length about oneself.
Especially to someone who listened without interrupting, but seemed to care.
In the four years of his practice
as a psychoanalyst (leaning more towards the theories of Carl Jung than those
of Sigmund Freud) Dr Denton had heard countless stories of childhood – most of
them unhappy and brutal. This was hardly surprising as his patients came to him
because they had problems, the underlying causes of which were inevitably
rooted in their childish past. The problems which rose to the surface –
alcoholism, drug abuse, anorexia, depression, poor sexual performance - were
merely symptoms of something far deeper. It was his job to discover the demons
in the hidden caverns of their unconscious and gently reveal them to the
patient in an attempt to purge their power. He judged that his degree of
success was satisfactory and steadily improving.
‘Just sometimes I would dream,’
she said suddenly. ‘I used to see my parents’ faces. They would be smiling at
me, just as they did when I was awake. They were the gentlest parents, the most
loving. We were all so happy.’
Dr Denton looked across at the
winking red light on his tape recorder on the desk. He would be interested to
listen to those words played back when she had gone. Statements of that kind
were simply too good to be true. What was she concealing from him – or from
herself?
‘My mother was very beautiful.
Golden-skinned, lovely ash blonde hair. Not as tall as me, but everyone said we
were unmistakably mother and child.’ She smiled, taking obvious pleasure in the
memory, closing her eyes like a cat responding to a soft caress.
Dr Denton directed his attention
to her face. She was indeed beautiful with her firm jaw-line, her high
cheek-bones and her fashion model’s straight nose. Beneath her bronze-shadowed
lids were eyes as blue as a summer sky and her baby soft hair was a thick,
creamy shade which he assumed must be entirely natural.
‘She’s still alive,’ Georgiana
continued. ‘In her late sixties now and still very lovely.’ Another smile.
So the daughter need have no
undue fears about the ravages of the ageing process, Dr Denton thought. ‘You
seem to have a great affection for your mother,’ he suggested.
Georgiana gave a long low murmur
of assent. ‘Yes, oh yes. And for my father, of course. He was a wonderful man.’
‘He’s dead now?’
‘Two years ago. Poor Daddy. He
used to call me his own lovely darling.’
‘And what did he call your
mother?’
‘His own precious darling. They
were so very loving to each other – and to me. They used to say I was their
world.’
Dr Denton leaned forward
slightly, clasping his manicured hands loosely together. He considered how to
frame the next question which he hoped would stimulate Georgiana to make a
start on the intimate biography of her past.
He was an excellent listener:
concerned, sincere and calmly accepting of anything he was told, however
shocking.
‘So that was your family? Your parents
and you. Anyone else?
‘Just the three of us. The
perfect family.’ Georgiana allowed her mind to drift away into the idyllic lost
world of her childhood. As she began to translate her thoughts and images into
words for the handsome, personable Dr Denton she felt a warm glow of well-being
suffuse her body. Suddenly there was licence to be a cherished little girl all
over again.
Dr Denton listened to the flat, faintly
metallic voice with growing pleasure. Georgiana Xavier was beginning to have an
appeal for him which none of his other women clients had evoked.
And now at last she was opening
up. Another few sessions like this and he would have enough information to
begin to
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