and, following Wilbur’s lead, had changed her will the following week.
Mrs Browning simply fell asleep on a Sunday night, and didn’t wake up on Monday morning. When her nephew paid her a visit on the Monday lunchtime as arranged and received no answer from repeated rings of the doorbell, he let himself in and found her comfortably in bed, peacefully passed away. Her nephew, having met me on a couple of occasions, kindly let me know that evening.
I cried for an hour, and then remembered what Elsa had said about Wilbur. She was ancient, it was bound to happen sooner or later. And with that I resolved to stop crying but make sure I put a bench next to Rudolph’s in Kew Gardens, and think of something suitably appropriate to say on its plaque that wouldn’t be too sentimental for her. A week later her nephew called me again, one evening as I sat with macaroni cheese and a jacket potato for dinner, watching Dirty Dancing on video. Elsa had left me fifteen thousand pounds and the licence to distribute something called a ‘Two-Fingered Fondler’ in the UK for the next eight years …
‘Do you think, given the nature of your business, that people around you might assume that you have a healthy attitude towards sex, and that you just aren’t telling them about your sex life?’
‘No. There were definitely raised eyebrows when I started the business, because it was sex-related and because it was me. But I suppose nobody actually said anything disparaging. My Uncle Humphrey laughed a little too long for my liking.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘It bothered me at the time, but I have never liked him anyway. He’s an aggressive man, and his skin flakes so badly that my Aunt Lucy makes jokes about the snowstorm that is changing their bedding. It makes me retch.’
My therapist turns in his chair and writes something down on his pad. I know what it will be. Something to do with physical imperfections. He tries to steer me on to that a lot. We’ve discussed it. I roll my eyes, but he isn’t looking. There are no photos in this room, hanging on the walls. The wallpaper is a cappuccino colour, with a brown flower swirl pattern, quite modern in comparison to everything else. Maybe they had to redecorate the walls recently. Maybe some nut job slashed an artery and graffitied the walls with his blood. The windows are big, and the curtains are well made but a depressing rust colour like dried ketchup on a cracked plate. He turns back to face me.
‘Do you think you might think about love and sex a disproportionate amount, given the nature of your business? And the fact that you work alone and from home? Did you dwell on these things when you worked at the office, for instance?’
‘Not as much, no. But working from home is a positive thing, I am sure of that. It has changed my life dramatically, for the better. Office work didn’t suit me; I was too sensitive to the politics. I’m much happier now. I can’t bitch atmyself – not consciously, anyway – and I can’t stab myself in the back. I don’t berate myself for being ten minutes late to my computer in the morning and then ignore the extra hour and a half I put in every night. The office environment almost made me lose my faith in mankind. The petty bitterness at the core of so many people, men and women, depressed me to the point of tears, daily. My business is – ironically – much more wholesome than that.’
‘Tell me again, how long have you been working from home?’
‘I resigned a year and three months ago today.’
‘You told me that was because of Adrian.’
‘Yes. About that – I feel like I may have painted him in a harsh light, to you. I was thinking about it yesterday. He is perfectly nice, you know. He just subscribed to a female aesthetic that wasn’t me. All he really did was show a complete disinterest in me, sexually. He wasn’t cruel or unusual, in finding me unattractive. I just wasn’t his kind of eye candy …
Mrs Browning simply fell asleep on a Sunday night, and didn’t wake up on Monday morning. When her nephew paid her a visit on the Monday lunchtime as arranged and received no answer from repeated rings of the doorbell, he let himself in and found her comfortably in bed, peacefully passed away. Her nephew, having met me on a couple of occasions, kindly let me know that evening.
I cried for an hour, and then remembered what Elsa had said about Wilbur. She was ancient, it was bound to happen sooner or later. And with that I resolved to stop crying but make sure I put a bench next to Rudolph’s in Kew Gardens, and think of something suitably appropriate to say on its plaque that wouldn’t be too sentimental for her. A week later her nephew called me again, one evening as I sat with macaroni cheese and a jacket potato for dinner, watching Dirty Dancing on video. Elsa had left me fifteen thousand pounds and the licence to distribute something called a ‘Two-Fingered Fondler’ in the UK for the next eight years …
‘Do you think, given the nature of your business, that people around you might assume that you have a healthy attitude towards sex, and that you just aren’t telling them about your sex life?’
‘No. There were definitely raised eyebrows when I started the business, because it was sex-related and because it was me. But I suppose nobody actually said anything disparaging. My Uncle Humphrey laughed a little too long for my liking.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘It bothered me at the time, but I have never liked him anyway. He’s an aggressive man, and his skin flakes so badly that my Aunt Lucy makes jokes about the snowstorm that is changing their bedding. It makes me retch.’
My therapist turns in his chair and writes something down on his pad. I know what it will be. Something to do with physical imperfections. He tries to steer me on to that a lot. We’ve discussed it. I roll my eyes, but he isn’t looking. There are no photos in this room, hanging on the walls. The wallpaper is a cappuccino colour, with a brown flower swirl pattern, quite modern in comparison to everything else. Maybe they had to redecorate the walls recently. Maybe some nut job slashed an artery and graffitied the walls with his blood. The windows are big, and the curtains are well made but a depressing rust colour like dried ketchup on a cracked plate. He turns back to face me.
‘Do you think you might think about love and sex a disproportionate amount, given the nature of your business? And the fact that you work alone and from home? Did you dwell on these things when you worked at the office, for instance?’
‘Not as much, no. But working from home is a positive thing, I am sure of that. It has changed my life dramatically, for the better. Office work didn’t suit me; I was too sensitive to the politics. I’m much happier now. I can’t bitch atmyself – not consciously, anyway – and I can’t stab myself in the back. I don’t berate myself for being ten minutes late to my computer in the morning and then ignore the extra hour and a half I put in every night. The office environment almost made me lose my faith in mankind. The petty bitterness at the core of so many people, men and women, depressed me to the point of tears, daily. My business is – ironically – much more wholesome than that.’
‘Tell me again, how long have you been working from home?’
‘I resigned a year and three months ago today.’
‘You told me that was because of Adrian.’
‘Yes. About that – I feel like I may have painted him in a harsh light, to you. I was thinking about it yesterday. He is perfectly nice, you know. He just subscribed to a female aesthetic that wasn’t me. All he really did was show a complete disinterest in me, sexually. He wasn’t cruel or unusual, in finding me unattractive. I just wasn’t his kind of eye candy …
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