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      ‘Thea, I’ve blocked out your eleven-o’clock slot,’ Souki put her hand over the telephone receiver and told Thea, who was arranging magazines for the waiting room and flowers for the reception. ‘New client – sounds desperate.’

      ‘Sure,’ said Thea.

      ‘That’s fine,’ Souki told the caller. ‘May I take your name? Mr Sewell. Lovely, we’ll see you in a couple of hours. Yes, Baker Street Tube. That’s right. Goodbye.’ Souki filled in the appointments diary and turned to Thea. ‘Cup of tea?’

      ‘I was half hoping Saul might pop by with lattes all round,’ Thea remarked.

      ‘Two days on the trot might be wishful thinking,’ Souki said. ‘Do you think we could offer Saul free fortnightly massage in return for daily lattes?’

      ‘I’ll put it to him,’ Thea said, ‘though he claims to hate massage. Says it makes him feel uncomfortable and exposed.’

      ‘Just wait till he puts his back out through squash or something – he’ll be begging for it,’ Souki declared. ‘Earl Grey or Red Bush?’

      ‘RB, please. So who’s the eleven o’clock?’

      ‘A Mr Sewell – said he’s done his back in,’ Souki informed Thea, ‘but as Brent and Dan are fully booked, I reckoned yours were the second-safest hands.’

      Mr Sewell arrived ten minutes early. He was far younger than Thea had expected. In fact, he looked like Peter O’Toole in his Lawrence of Arabia period, which was a very pleasant surprise. Though dressed smartly, the pain from his back caused his suit to hang oddly, as if he’d forgotten to remove the hanger. Likewise, his face had an exaggerated angularity caused by teeth clenching; what appeared to be extraordinary blue eyes were dulled.

      ‘Usually, clients who refer to themselves as Mr or Mrs Such-and-Such are older,’ Thea remarked by way of small talk as she led the way to her room at the top. He didn’t say his name was Gabriel until Thea took his details and asked for it outright. She noted him shift gingerly in the seat, a greyness flood his face as he did so. If pain was this visible, the poor man must be in torment, she thought. In her experience, men in pain either exaggerated its intensity or downplayed it entirely.

      ‘Tell me about the pain,’ Thea said, pen poised.

      ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Mr Sewell lied.

      From Mr Sewell’s personal details, Thea considered his lifestyle and its possible ramifications on his current predicament. Gabriel Sewell was thirty-eight years old with a home in Clapham and an office in Mayfair. He was an actuary by profession – Thea didn’t know what this entailed but ascertained it was sedentary and high-powered. He appeared to be relatively fit, playing five-a-side once a week, plus regular golf and occasional cycling. It seemed he was fairly healthy, good diet, good weight, just a social smoker and a regular but not heavy drinker.

      ‘So,’ Thea said, ‘tell me about your back.’

      ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Mr Sewell began.

      But it wasn’t nothing. It transpired that leaving his wife over the weekend and hauling suitcases out of the loft and personal possessions out of the marital home had conspired to cause Mr Sewell’s spasm.

      ‘OK,’ Thea said after working on him for an hour, ‘I’ll leave you for a moment. Take your time.’

      She hovered outside her room, listening to silence followed by a sigh and the sound of Mr Sewell dressing. She knocked and after a moment, entered. He was sitting in the chair, gazing out over rooftops. His expression was unreadable but to Thea’s trained eye, the tenseness in his neck had dissolved and the greyness of his complexion had lifted. She asked how he felt, if the treatment had helped, if the pain was diminished, but Mr Sewell expressed any gratitude in a monosyllabic way.

      ‘I’d like you to come again,’ Thea advised, ‘towards the end of this week, preferably. I’d also like you to see one of our osteopaths for some manipulation.’

      ‘Fine,’ Mr Sewell said, ‘OK.’

      ‘I’ll book you in downstairs,’ Thea said, leading the way.

      ‘Thank you, Miss –?’ Mr Sewell waited to be informed.

      ‘Thea,’ Thea assured him, ‘Thea’s fine.’

      He nodded and left.

      ‘Thea darling! I’m late, I know – I’m sorry, honey, but I’ve had a bitch of a morning. A total bitch. And my back’s killing me. Total fucking nightmare.’

      Thea’s twelve o’clock arrived quarter of an hour late with his usual flurry of excuses. Because he was a regular, she would overrun her lunch hour to honour a full session for him. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a problem, Peter,’ she acquiesced, ‘come on up and let’s get cracking.’

      ‘I thought only osteos could do that,’ Peter joked.

      ‘Let’s get petrissaging doesn’t have quite the same ring to it,’ Thea said over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.

      Peter Glass had been a client of Thea’s for a year or so. He came in now for ‘monthly maintenance’ as he termed it, though he regularly phoned for ‘crisis sessions’ in between. This was meant to be a maintenance visit but it was obvious from his stilted gait that a crisis now superseded it.

      ‘How are you, Peter?’ Thea asked him, wondering how long it would take the serene atmosphere of her room to calm him. Peter was usually busy to the point of being manic – an upmarket estate agent earning on commission only, with a complex love life, a love of material goods and a propensity for changing his car as frequently as his girlfriend.

      ‘Work’s mental – good mental. Life’s crazy – cool crazy. New squeeze, new Beemer.’

      ‘What’s Beemer?’ Thea asked.

      Peter laughed. ‘BMW – Beemer, you know? Like Merc? Alpha?’

      ‘Skoda?’ Thea said.

      ‘You don’t!’ Peter exclaimed.

      ‘I don’t,’ Thea assured him, ‘I have a Fiat Panda.’

      ‘You don’t!’ Peter exclaimed with genuine horror.

      ‘Eleven years old,’ Thea said proudly. ‘Now, how are you?’ She glanced at the clock, knowing that he’d talk at her throughout the session anyway.

      ‘Nightmare,’ Peter groaned theatrically СКАЧАТЬ