Coming Clean Read Online Free Page B

says now. Cue his famous Tina impression. “Greg,” he says, adopting the familiar overly soothing, empathetic voice, “thank you for unpacking your pain and laying it on the table. It seems to me that your depression is a result of your father failing to validate you while you were growing up and that now your inner child is in desperate need of hugs from Daddy.”
    I can’t help smiling.
    “Tina based her entire theory,” he is saying now, “on the fact that when I was a kid my dad never let me win at Connect Four.”
    “Well, that is a pretty mean, childish thing for a parent to do. Maybe it did affect you.”
    “Crap. I was feeling down because I was anxious and shy and spending too much time alone in my room jerking off. Once I’d moved out of Palmdale and got laid, I was fine.”
    We’ve reached Virginia Pruitt’s front door. Greg looks at his watch. It’s seven o’clock. (Although we both left work early, I can’t believe we made it home to Putney and then to Muswell Hill in less than a couple of hours.) “Right on time,” he says. “She’ll either see that as proof of our commitment to therapy or she’ll decide we’re people pleasers, neurotically obsessed with timekeeping.”
    A woman I assume to be Virginia Pruitt opens the door. I feel my face fall. Virginia Pruitt is tall, reedy and—off the top of my head—a 32B. This isn’t the plump, bosomy mummy I ordered. My inner child already wants to start acting out. The only thing that puts Virginia Pruitt into the mummy category is her age. She is maybe sixty. I take in the gray hair, which has been cut into a sensible bob. She’s wearing a calf-length skirt in beige linen. Her short-sleeved blouse—cream—has one button open at the neck to reveal a single row of pearls. How a sex therapist can look so prim beats me. I decide the name Pruitt suits her.
    “Ah, you must be the Lawsons.” Plummy voice. I picked this up when I called to make our appointment. “I’m Virginia. Do come in.” I fear she is used to organizing garden fetes and gymkhanas and is going to be bossy and strict, but she offers us a warm, welcoming smile. As we shake hands I start to relax.
    Virginia Pruitt’s entrance hall is large and a bit grand. I take in the parquet flooring and antique Indian silk rug. She leads the way down a wood-paneled passage, towards the back of the house. Greg makes small talk about it being a beautiful evening and how it looks like summer has finally arrived. Virginia is friendly enough, turning to offer him another smile, but keeps her reply brief. “We can only hope,” she says. Greg has warned me that shrinks don’t do chitchat and that they tend to keep their facial expressions pretty deadpan. Apparently, revealing their thoughts and emotions gets in the way of the therapeutic process.
    While Greg prattles on about the warm weather and the possibility of another drought, I’m taking in the watercolors on the walls—landscapes, mostly. We pass a mahogany table. I’m guessing Victorian. Sitting on it is that Indian god, the one with a man’s body and an elephant’s head. I’m damned if I can remember his name.
    “Beautiful statue,” Greg says. “It’s Ganesh, isn’t it? Did you get it in India?”
    Virginia Pruitt turns around again. “Yes. My husband and I bought it in Mumbai last year.”
    OK, I know what’s going on. Before we’ve sat down, before I’ve even had a chance to mention the tank, Greg is trying to suck up to Virginia Pruitt and get her on his side.
    She shows us into her counseling room. It’s small and cozy with French doors at one end. These open onto a pretty paved garden and more plant-filled pots. A breeze has started and the long net curtains are billowing gently. As Virginia Pruitt pulls the doors closed, I notice the framed botanical prints on the walls, the pretty cast-iron fireplace with its original blue and white tiles. For some reason, I start to imagine Virginia’s kitchen. I’m thinking