“What is, exactly?” Sam asks.
“Manipulating men to do whatever I want,” she says. “You could call it my superpower. I should pitch it to Marvel, right? Put me in a red bodysuit and watch me find the weakness in men.”
“I can already see the movie poster,” Sam says.
They share a hearty chuckle, and I notice how relaxed he sounds. In fact, I’d say he’s more relaxed than he’s been in days.
“I can’t imagine being with someone who I couldn’t control,” she says. “Men, at least. Women are an entirely different story.”
“Are you currently seeing anyone?” he asks.
“A few people,” she says. “But most of my time is for Chandler.” My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a laugh. Chandler? “He’s the real reason I wanted to start therapy.”
“Tell me about him,” Sam says.
She sighs. “I met him at the end of summer, at an opening in New York. The guy I was with is kind of a bore, and I noticed Chandler standing near the bar. He’s insanely sexy. You know, in that way older guys are?”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Sam says. “How old is he?”
“Forty-one.” She snickers. “Sorry if you’re offended by me saying forty-one is old.”
“I’m not, but thank you,” Sam says.
“Anyway, I went over and talked to him. Asked if he was enjoying the show. And my god, the way he looked at me . . .” She stops there.
“How did he look at you?”
“He drank me up. He was utterly unabashed about it, too.” Her voice is distant, and I imagine her on the sofa, languid, her eyes on the backyard. “I still masturbate to the thought of it.”
I cringe, wondering what he must make of this girl.
“His wife came over then and introduced herself. She’d curated the show, and we chatted a few minutes. He kept his eyes on me all night, and before I left I wrote my name and number in the guest book near the door.”
“And?”
“He texted me within the hour and came over that night.” She laughs softly. “Honest to god, best night of my life.”
“Do I sense a but coming . . .”
“Two days later I showed up for my studio class at the university, and he’s the professor. I had no idea, and neither one of us acknowledged it, but at the end of the class he asked me to stay behind.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he have to say?”
“Not one word. He locked the door and pushed me to the floor,” she says. “It’s now a ritual, at the end of every class. There’s four other students in that studio class, and I can’t even begin to tell you how incredible the tension is between us during that hour.” It’s silent then, and I picture Sam, in his chair, waiting for her to speak. “Are you appalled, Doctor?”
“Appalled?”
“Yes. An impressionable twenty-four-year-old woman, sleeping with her older, married professor. Certainly breaks a lot of rules.”
“What do you think about that aspect of your relationship?”
“I think it’s an incredible turn-on,” she says. “In fact, nothing turns me on more than crossing a boundary with a man.”
“That’s something I would like to explore further,” Sam says. “But unfortunately, we’re nearly out of time.” I look at the clock: 2:44. Her appointment must have started at two. I take the notebook I’d hidden in one of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes and add her name to the list—“The French Girl”—as Sam shifts in his chair below me. “I’m curious how today felt for you,” he says. “You said in your message you’ve never gone to therapy before. I like to check in and see—”
“It felt great,” she says. “You’re worth every cent.”
“Would you like to make another appointment for later this week?”
“You want me to come twice a week?”
“It’s what I suggest for all new patients, at least in the beginning,” Sam says. I stop writing. No, he doesn’t. “Therapy is most useful to those who commit to it, Charlie.” Charlie, I jot down in the notebook.
“Can I think about it?” she asks.
“Of course.”
They stand, and I hear Sam’s office door open. I wait for the outside door to slam shut and her footsteps to pass by the window before sliding the notebook into the box and easing toward the broken window for a peek. She’s wearing a hat with a fur rim and a long wool coat. I can’t make out her features as she opens the door and gets into the front seat of the green Mini Cooper. I step away from the window and replace the happy-face rug. Pulling my robe more tightly around me, I steal quietly out of the room, back upstairs, uneasy.