“I’m glad you’ve come, Oddjob,” she said. “I’ve got some work for you. Why did you leave my workshop?”

“I wanted to think about it.”

“Did you enjoy it, then?” When I nodded, she said, “If so, how much? Very, very much? Just very much? Quite a lot? Or something else?”

“Let me think about that, Patricia.” She was looking at me. I said, “I did like it, in fact.”

“If you did really, you can say why—in your own words.”

I said, “You used the dream not as a puzzle to be solved, with all the anxiety of that, as if one of us would get it right, but as a felt image, to generate thoughts or other images. That was useful. I haven’t stopped thinking.”

“That’s a good thing to say.” She was flattered and pleased. “You see, you can be almost articulate, if you really want to be. By the way, I heard what you called the Center. Weepeasy,” she said. “Right?”

“Sorry,” I said, bowing my head.

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s easy to make people cry.” I went on, “Confession, not irony, is the modern mode. A halting speech at Alcoholics Anonymous is the paradigm. But what concealments and deceptions are there in this exhibition of self-pity? Isn’t it tedious for you?”

“There’s no rigor here anymore, you could be right. Or any progress. It’s become the same every day. I can tell you, that’s the least of it.” Then she said, “Please, come here.”

“Sorry?”

“Here!” I shuffled forward. She put her arms around me and pressed her breasts into my body. “I am feeling tense today. I wanted to run a center for self-exploration, only to discover I’d started a small business. You can’t explore anything if you don’t get the figures right—the eighties taught some women that, at least. Now I’m sick of being an accountant and I’m sick of being wise. Sometimes, I only want to be mad.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Being the wise woman must be a right bore.”

“Who takes care of me? I have to mother everyone! You’ve been attending the massage class, haven’t you? You know how to do it.”

By now she was pulling at my fingers.

“Patricia—”

“Massage me, Leo, you dear boy. There’s the oil.”

“I want to talk about Alicia.”

“Who wants to hear about that funny little thing? Oh, talk, talk about what you want, as long as you smooth out my soul.”

Her skirt dropped to the floor. She walked across the room, located the oil, and lay down on a towel on her low bed.

She was watching me scratch my stomach. There were certain conversations I’d missed in this new life. You might have a new body but if your mind is burdened the differences don’t count for much.

“Go on,” she said.

I told her how Alicia had got sweet on me and that I was concerned about it. I emphasized that I hadn’t deliberately led her on.