Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Twenty

I don't know why I'd expected Linda Stephen's to be young.

When Harry, a week after peeling me from my living room floor, had finally convinced me to set up an appointment with his therapist friend, I'd not bothered to ask much about her or how they'd met. I think I'd just assumed they became friends at Uni and that she'd be a similar age to us.

So when I walked into her office, after Harry had dropped me off in Cyndi, I'd for some reason concocted an image of a young and beautiful woman who would intimidate me.

Yet, upon being called through into her room, I was met with a woman who was surely nearing her 60s. She was short and wide, with broad shoulders and a large bust that was hidden under a flowing linen shirt that hung down to her knees. She was wearing bobbly black leggings and strappy flip flops that showed her bright pink toenails and a silver anklet.

Her skin was tanned and dotted with sun spots, her hair cropped short and highlighted a honey blond and she had kind, feline shaped eyes.

Even her office was nothing at all what I'd expected; I'd readied myself for dark oak panelled walls and book cases and leather armchairs but instead I walked into a a bright room that was awash with sunlight that spread through the open patio doors behind a slightly unkempt desk.

There was a tinkling of wind chimes from just outside the door, and I caught the wafts of incense burning.

Instead of laying me out on a squeaky couch like I saw in therapy sessions in a movie, Linda offered me a cup of tea and told me to make myself comfortable whilst she squeezed out the tea bags.

"You're friends with our Harold then?" She asks in a raspy accent that I know wasn't native to the south at all, let alone Islington.

I nod when she passes me my hot drink, in a chipped mug with a picture of three fluffy little kittens on the front.

"Yeah, we've known each other since secondary school," I say, if only to fill the silence and attempt to quash down my nerves.

"Yes, he mentioned something about school," she says as she hobbles back to one of the squashy looking armchairs that's gathered in front of an old fire place. "Sit down love, anywhere you like. Make yourself comfortable."

I look around the room; there's an old patterned sofa against the back wall that has an abundance of dangling crystal ornaments above it, or a little wooden bench just by the front door. Eventually I decide on sitting on the matching armchair across from her, realising I'd have to be louder and more vocal the further away I sat.

I sit down gingerly and wipe my sweaty palms down onto my knees.

With a huff and groan Linda leans across to snatch the notebook that she left dangling off the edge of her desk with a pen jammed between the pages, before settling back and looking up at me with those blue eyes that have wrinkled and sagged at the corners.

"Firstly, I think we should start with discussing what it is that has initially brought you to seek out therapy, and what your goals are by the time we finish our sessions together."

She double clicks her pen and opens a fresh page with a sense of expectancy, but I fumble over my own thoughts already.

"Oh - I just thought I'd come for this session. I appreciate you helping me, being Harry's friend, but I don't think I can afford any more sessions after this."

Linda gifts me a soft smile, setting that pen back down and crossing her hands over her round stomach.

"So if we just have this hour, what would you hope to achieve by the end of it?" She asks gently; her voice is low and gravelly and I wonder if she must smoke. There's something comforting in the unevenness of it, in the imperfection.