She didn’t say anything.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“How he’d feel if he knew that I had just told you all that. He’s sort of private.”
“Cleo, is there a reason you won’t use his name?”
“Occupational hazard. I never use men’s real names. To protect their privacy. I just give everyone nicknames.”
“But you said he’s not a client.”
“No. No, he’s not.”
“If you were to give him a nickname, what would it be?”
She laughed. “I’ve given him a few nicknames.”
“Okay. What one comes to mind first?”
“Caesar.”
I must have arched my eyebrows, because she laughed. “Do you think it’s silly?”
“No, but I’m curious. Why Caesar?”
“The real Caesar was so commanding and powerful. Did you see the movie? His passion for Cleopatra was so allencompassing. It just reminds me of how he is.”
“Is he understanding about your sexual conflicts with him?”
She nodded. “No. Yes. Well, intellectually yes. He understands that I am having some sort of resistance to doing what he wants me to do to him-what I want to do to him-and confusing it with what I do with my clients…” She broke off, close to breaking down again.
I’ve been a therapist for ten years, a sex therapist at the Butterfield Institute for five of them, and have had more than fifty long-term patients. One thing I’ve learned is that if we are sensitive to our patients, if we listen to what they say as well as to what they don’t say, they reveal all the clues we are going to need to help them in the first five to eight weeks of therapy. It can take an infinite amount of time to move the pieces around until they lock into place and present us with a whole picture, but we get the clues early on. I was getting them now.
Cleo’s head was bowed. Her eyes were lowered. Her body remained quite still. I didn’t know if she was crying again, but clearly she was distressed. I looked away for just a second, toward the windows and the balcony outside my office-the narrow terrace that is just wide enough for me to stand on and sip a cup of coffee as I watch the pedestrians and traffic on the street below. Beyond that are two lovely trees, one magnolia and the other dogwood, that filter the strong summer light as it spills into my office, sending shadows dancing across the wall and the art deco rug.
Cleo started speaking while my head was turned.
“Caesar seems more worried about the book than about our sex life. He doesn’t understand why my sense of accomplishment at having written the book isn’t enough. He thinks I should burn it now that I’ve gotten it ‘out of my system,’ as he says. He’s afraid that one of the men I am writing about might try to get back at me. Oh, it’s just so ridiculous.” Her eyes filled up again. “I’m afraid he’s going to give me an ultimatum over this. Over a book!”
The minute hand on the small silver clock on the table by my chair swooshed forward. It was ten-forty-five. The session was technically over. But I didn’t mind giving her a few more minutes.
She was twisting the emerald ring on her finger, twirling it around so that every few seconds the stone caught the light, sending reflections to the wall, then disappearing just as quickly.
“Has he read the book?” I asked her.
“No. No one has. Not yet.”
“Because there’s something in it that you don’t want Caesar to know?” I guessed.
She nodded. “I haven’t lied to him about what I do. I just haven’t gone into the kind of detail the book does. Caesar thinks that for the last couple of years I’ve been behind a desk sending out the girls. And I have been doing that. But I’ve also been doing some calls myself.”
“You told him you stopped?”
“He thinks I stopped about a year ago. I didn’t. I still have a half-dozen regular clients I’ve been taking care of for a long time. I know these guys. I have…hell…I have a relationship with them.”
“Cleo, I’m not sure that I understand. Does Caesar know you are still going to bed with other men?”
“Well, see that’s the thing. Technically I’m not. I don’t have what you’d call regular sex with most of them.”
“Regular sex?” I laughed. “I don’t make judgments, but there is no such thing as regular or irregular sex, as far as I’m concerned.”
“See, that’s why I like you. We’re on the same side in all this. The logical side. The side that doesn’t make sex into some religious experience that saves souls or plummets you into hell.”
The clock chimed and the bell-like sound drew her attention. “I guess my time is up?”
I nodded.
“Just one more sec?”
I nodded again
She reached down and pulled out the Tiffany shopping bag she had brought with her. I’d noticed it when she walked in but hadn’t thought much about it.
From inside, she extracted a bulky manila envelope, which she held in her hand for a few seconds and caressed as if it was a velvet pillow, or a man’s thigh.
“I printed this out for you. Like I said, no one has seen the whole thing yet or even knows I finished it. It’s my first draft. I still have a lot of work to do. Not to mention better disguising the guys I write about…” She smiled. “But I really want you to read it.”
“Does Caesar know you’re giving it to me?”
“No.” She stood up.
Even though she was getting ready to go, I didn’t want her to miss what I thought might be a moment of insight for her.
“Does keeping that from him make you feel good or bad?”
Her head tilted to the side and a half smile played on her lips. “Good. And bad.” She sighed. “But here’s the thing. If we are going to talk about whether I can really go through with publishing this book, you have to read it. I mean, if I do publish it, I need to be able to give Caesar a really good reason I still sleep with clients. I want to publish my book, but I don’t want to lose him in the process. So…”
She took the last step to the leather chair where I sat.
Holding out my hands, I took the package from her.
It wasn’t light and somehow that surprised me. Everything about Cleo Thane was. From the lilting voice to the blond hair to the pastel-colored clothes she favored-so different from the almost all-black uniform most of us New Yorkers wear-to her pale gray eyes and barely pink lips. Even her perfume, which reminded me of spring and had a base note of lilacs, was light.
There was nothing heavy or dark or ominous about the woman who handed me her confession.
Nothing except for what was actually in that envelope: all the secrets she hadn’t yet told me or anyone else, but that would, in the end, be like the pins a collector uses to secure butterflies to a board after he has captured and killed them.
3
After Cleo left my office I pushed the play button on my answering machine, and while the morning’s messages repeated, I walked to the window, opened the door to the balcony, stepped out and looked down.
The first message was from my divorce lawyer, telling me that the papers had been signed by the judge and my divorce was final. We’d expected it to happen that day, but there was always a chance that the paperwork would be delayed.
I rubbed my fingers against the gritty stone surface of the balustrade. I was conflicted about having ended my marriage. Yes, it was the right thing to do and I would have championed this divorce if it were for any of my patients. But, despite our problems, I had liked the calm of my life with Mitch. That we had wound up at a place where there was a lack of passion hadn’t been a surprise to me. Many marriages wind up lusterless. But it depressed my husband and he couldn’t live with it. Ex-husband, I reminded myself.
The next message, from an insurance company, droned on while the sun disappeared behind a cloud and peeked back out. It was early June, and the scent of the climbing rose that wound through the railing and up the side of the brownstone perfumed the air. I leaned over, looked down.