Bread and Honey

Rich tried to slow his breath." You did tell her how urgent this is?"

In the two months since that conversation on the golf course, his sex addiction had reached the stage where he was no longer sleeping. His nights, and thousands of dollars were spent every week with hookers, or online with Cam Models, jerking off almost hourly. Now he was getting uncontrollable thoughts of rape.

And in that time the name of Lee Sanders had somehow cropped up all over the place. He'd read about her in the Washington Post. One of his friends had mentioned her in conversation. And of course he'd perused her web site and had been suitably impressed by the testimonials.

"Look. Jane. Jane isn't it."

"Yes, this is Jane. You ought to know by now, after the number of times you've been calling us."

"Yes. Sorry. Jane, I'm prepared to pay. I mean a lot. I'll pay you personally $1,000 if you can get me an appointment with Dr Sanders."

"I -- She's away right now."

"Where? London? China? I could see her anywhere. Anywhere is convenient. I'll take the next plane out."

There was a pause.

"Ok, Mr Brunner..."

"Richard."

"Mr Brunner, I'll see what I can do."

He hung up. But within a few seconds, his phone rang.

"Yes. Yes this is he. HELLO! Hello! Finally. Thank God. Finally. Hello. No, sorry, it's just I'd never thought I'd get to speak to you. No, please don't apologize, it's me should be apologizing for being such a pest. Poor Jane. Yes. Yes I did offer her $1,000. I was desperate. I hope you don't... Oh, it worked! Well that's okay then. I'm not usually the bribing type."

The next morning, Rich was on a flight to London. And for the first time in weeks, he slept soundly, for the entire eleven-hour flight.

Rich shaved in the airport and took a cab from there to Lee's office in Paddington. He buzzed an intercom by a large forbidding gate.

"Who is it?" A voice asked through the tinny intercom speaker.

"Richard Brunner. I'm here to see Lee Sanders."

"One minute, the gate entry thingy doesn't work. I'll come and let you in."

The gate opened. Behind it was a pretty row of gardens, looking out onto a willow-lined canal.

"Hello, I'm Lee. My place is just through here."

"Hi, Lee." Rich liked her immediately. She was probably in her early fifties, above average height, slim, slightly skinny perhaps. She had soft, full pink lips and wise, grey-blue eyes that made him imagine a Scottish moor, all cloud and dew and heather. Her hair was bleached blonde, gathered with a band at the crown of her head. Her dress was a blue and grey floral Laura Ashley design. Rich guessed she hadn't changed her hair or dress style for forty years.

Rich, following her along the path to her place, checked her out from behind. She had a very good figure. Nice shaped ass. Her dress was slightly too short for her age, but it showed off her legs. Young legs. The overall impression he got was of a Yoga teacher, or a retired ballet dancer.

Nice looking. But to Rich she looked way too "hippy" to inspire much confidence that she could actually do anything for him. He was expecting someone with a more professional and slick appearance.

And the gate not working, and her "office" too: It was the cramped living room of a little houseboat. Quaint and romantic, to the point of being distracting. But Richard fought his scepticism: So she's a little eccentric. Big deal. What do I care?

Still, with all those clients, paying $3,000 a day and up, for consultations, she could at least afford fancier and bigger premises?

"Tea?"

"A Cuppa tea. How jolly nice. And scones, too, I hope."

If she got his mockery, she didn't show it: "No scones today. But I have some delicious walnut cake."

"Oh -- kaaay."

Lee laughed." Don't worry. We haven't started yet. And I can assure you, that by this time tomorrow, you'll be cured. For ever."

"Or my money back?"

"You won't want your money back. Now drink your tea. And relax, Richard. This is all good."

Richard drank his tea. And maybe it was her polite manner, the jet-lag, or the tea, but within minutes he felt deliciously relaxed.

"Let me explain how I see your situation, Richard, based on the notes you've sent me.

"Your immediate reason for seeing me is to cure you of a negative behaviour cycle, whereby shortly after having an orgasm, you need another one."

"Correct."

"Good. Now, I'm going to tell you something you won't want to hear: This behaviour cycle is deep-rooted; perhaps you've not manifested it before, at least not so destructively and obviously. But I'm telling you Richard, I'm telling you..."

She paused. Well? Don't keep me in suspense!

"I'm telling you. You are, deep down..."

Another pause. Richard blinked, and tried to focus.

"Deep, deep down..."

Rich's eyes fluttered closed.

"Deep down, you know where it comes from. You know the truth. You're weak. You know this. This is your nature. Deep, deep down, you're weak, you're lost. You try to keep this from everyone. You act strong, but deep inside... deep inside..."

Rich tried to move his mouth to respond, but found he was unable.

"It's okay, Richard. It's okay. It's okay to be weak. It's okay to feel lost. It's okay. It's okay to be a loser. Nobody can be a winner all the time. It's okay. Now, wake up!"

Rich stirred and slowly opened his eyes.

"Fuck. Fucking hell. Wow. How the hell did you do that? Did you spike my drink, or what? Fuck. Sorry, you probably don't swear. Fiddlesticks. Bother and befuddle. I'm impressed. Really, I'm impressed."

Lee laughed." Good. Now we're going to start the cleaning. Spring cleaning, until all the clutter is gone. How does that sound?"

"Delightful."

"Good."

The session continued for many, many hours. Sometimes Rich flagged, and sometimes he joked. But Lee always brought his focus back. A few times he cried. There was a short break for lunch, and then further rounds of hypnosis.

It had grown dark by the time the session ended. Rich felt exhausted, and crabby. Part of him felt sure that the whole thing had been a waste of time.

"How are you feeling, Richard?"

He didn't know quite what to say: He didn't really feel any different.

"Tired."

She watched him for a minute, intently. Then she appeared to make up her mind about something.

"You're now cured."

"I am?"

"Yes. Just like that. Believe me."

He really, really did want to believe her. Somehow he didn't want to let this nice lady down.

"Well, thank you. And I promise I'll try and behave."

"Uh-uh -- That's two escape routes: If you promise, you can break it. If you try, you can fail. Say it again. No escape words this time."

"I'll behave."

"That's better."

Rich donned his jacket, but was hesitant to leave." So, you don't think I need to see you any more?"

"No, you don't need to see me, but, if you'd like to see me, just to let me know how you're getting on, that would be nice."

Rich, to his own surprise, responded: "Well, what if I felt like seeing you again, just because I like you." He added hastily, "You see, I come to London on business sometimes." That was a lie.

"That would be nice too. Call Jane at the office next time you're here and she'll arrange it."

Rich was disappointed." Don't you have a direct number?"

"I don't give it out. Richard, you have to leave now."

"Ok, ok. I'll call Jane. It was really nice to meet you. I'll recommend you to everyone I know."

"Thank you, Richard. Bye now. Safe flight."

LA Confidential

"Are you going to eat that?" Paul eyed the last soft-shell crab roll.

"No, you are. I'm done." Rich wiped his chopsticks and slid them into their paper cover.

"Sure? Because I don't really want it."

"I'm done, I'm done. Eat."

Paul picked the roll with his fingers and popped the whole thing in his mouth. Still chewing, he eyed Rich appraisingly.

"You look good. I told ya. I told ya she was the best."

"Yeah. The best."

"What? You sound a little disappointed. Maybe you didn't want to be cured."

"Maybe. I dunno. I kind of expected, well, I expected to be happier now. But instead I'm just - bored, I guess."

"Maybe you should go back to work. Or take up a hobby. One that doesn't involve your dick."

"Yeah, I thought about that. Work, I mean. It's pretty hard to motivate myself to be honest. I mean, I don't need the money."

"Neither do I, but it gets me away from the missus. She still calls me an asshole, but at least she can't call me a lazy asshole."

Rich looked at his friend wistfully.

"Cut the crap. You and Celine are happy together. She's wonderful and you know it."

"Yeah, yeah, I know it. And I also know what you went through, after Maggie. Any guy would be the same. Maybe not so fucking extreme, but you know, it's pretty common to go a little nuts after a divorce."

"Yeah. Well I'm done with that. 'The cycle of Want and Gratification must be broken.'"

Paul was startled by this strange remark.

"Is that one of Mrs Twiddlepussy's mantras?"

Rich felt a flash of annoyance." Yes, that's one Lee's mantras. Among others."

Paul stared at him. "Let me ask you something: And forgive me if I'm out of line here --"

"-- When have you ever been in line?"

"-- Just tell me, because I don't want my best pal to turn into an even bigger schmuck than he already is: Are you turning into a fucking Buddhist, now? What is this woman, the Maharishi?"

"She's not the Maharishi. I can tell, because she doesn't have a beard."

Paul ignored Rich's attempt to lighten the tone. He was concerned for his friend's well-being:

"Ok, so did she, what, hypnotise you or something? Because, you know, I detect a gleam here... I definitely detect a little culty gleam happening here... you know, I lived in Berkeley, I've seen..."

"Hey, don't worry. I'm just, figuring stuff out. But yeah, she did make me think. She's pretty deep." At the word "deep" he recalled her voice.

"Hey! You didn't fall for her, did you?"

Even after twenty years of knowing him, Rich was still regularly astounded by Paul's shrewdness. He looked like a dummy, but by God he was quick; there was no point in trying to bullshit him.

"I think I might have done."

Paul burst out laughing." Well, what are you going to do?"

Rich joined in the laughter." I don't know. I was thinking of calling her for a date."

"Well, good luck to ya! I mean it. Seriously, good luck, old friend."

The waitress appeared. She was cute. Paul got to her first:

"Check please. My treat."

"Thank you. Can I tell you something? Promise not to tell anyone this: Not even Celine."

"Sure."

"I've had the weirdest fucking dreams since I got back. Every night, the weirdest dreams. And she was in them a lot."

"Who, Celine?"

"No, stupid: Lee. Lee was in my dreams. Last night was a doozy: I was in jail, for something serious, like murder. You know, a life sentence. And she came to visit me in jail, like she was from a church and this was her good deed, to visit condemned prisoners.

"So she visited me, and we had tea and scones there in the cell, and she was like she is in real life, very polite and English good manners and all.

"And then she tells me, 'I've spoken to the governor, he's willing to let you out, if you come work for me.'"

"And, so you go and work for her in her big mansion in the country as a butler?"

"Well, almost. I go and work for her, but my job is looking through old photo albums. My photo albums. And sorting out which photos to keep and which ones to throw away."

"Is that it?"

"No. Still, it's pretty obvious so far, I mean, the interpretation?"

"Okay, I get the symbolism in her getting you out of your prison - your mental prison. And sorting through photo albums is like cleaning out your head. Like after my mother died I did the same thing. With the family photos. Clears out the crap."

"Okay. So explain this next bit, Sigmund: Next thing in the dream, I'm going down on her. I can actually taste her pussy in my dream, like it's happening for real. It's fantastic. But then, two cops burst in, and she's arrested. Turns out she has some kind of blackmail scam going, to do with the pictures."

Paul thought for a moment.

"Maybe you don't trust her. I mean, part of you doesn't want to trust her, is trying to fight her influence off. I guess it must be pretty scary, letting someone you hardly know see inside your head. All the ugly and embarrassing shit. So the addict in you is trying to turn her into the Bad Guy. Hell, I was suspicious of her too when you started quoting stuff she said. Frankly she does sound a tad kooky."

"Yeah, maybe that's it."

"You know what, Rich; just go with your heart. There: I bet you'd never expect to hear that from me. But I mean it. Stop figuring, stop being an accountant."

"Ok. Thanks. I mean it."

"You're welcome. Of course, there's also another interpretation of your dream."

"Yeah? What?"

"That she really does have a blackmail scam going."

The Flowers of Venn Street

Not for the first time during the three days since he arrived in London, Rich wondered what the fuck he was doing here.

He hadn't called Lee's office. He didn't want any more stalling from Jane. He had to see Lee soon.

So he'd flown to London with the intention of meeting her "accidentally" somewhere nearby where she lived. He knew he was unhinged, he knew that most likely she would figure him for a crazy stalker and call the cops, but he couldn't think of a better plan.

And now here he was, sitting on a mild September afternoon in jeans and tee shirt at an outdoor French Café on Venn Street in Clapham, breakfasting on coffee and croissant. He'd followed her yesterday morning after she'd left her place. She'd passed along this street. So he decided to stake out here hoping she would do the same today.

The waitress came out with his check. He fumbled for money and stared at the array of British coins in his palm. He asked the waitress to help him with the right money. She was the sort of girl he would have flirted with, and probably over-tipped, before his cure. She smiled kindly as she helped him with the coins.

"Richard?"

He turned. Lee stood just behind him, carrying cut flowers wrapped in paper. Sunglasses hid her eyes. She didn't remove them.

He was flustered, but hoped he hid it behind his smile." Hello! How are you?"

She smiled back, but didn't reply. He had had an excuse rehearsed for their "chance meeting", but now he'd been taken by surprise. He blurted unconvincingly:

"I'm here on business. I'm staying not far from here. I was actually thinking of stopping by but I know how busy you are. In fact I was going to call your office, but - "

"Richard. Stop."

He fell silent. She removed her sunglasses.

"Why are you here?"

"I - I wanted to see you. Again. Not for, I mean, I just wanted to see you again. Lee."

"Well, now you've seen me."

"Yes." Rich felt foolish. He should just go. He should just get back on that fucking plane and go.

She put the flowers on the table. They were crimson and pink, matching her blouse and skirt. But she didn't move or say anything. She was waiting for him to talk.

"Won't you sit down?"

She pulled out the seat opposite him and sat down. She ordered a café au lait.

After a minute of silence, she asked, "I can see something's bothering you, Richard. Something's still not right, is it? Here?"

She leaned forward and placed her hand over his chest. At this gesture he felt like weeping. He gazed down her smooth, delicate hand, then at her face. Her blue-grey eyes seemed to see into the deepest core of him. She was so beautiful.

An impulse came to him suddenly to go down on one knee and propose marriage.

"I think I've fallen in love with you. Or maybe I'm just -"

"- Don't. Don't edit. The first words you say should be the only words you say, because the first words you say come from the heart."

Her coffee arrived. She took a sip.

Rich felt blissfully calm and content in the cool sunlight, watching the pigeons rummaging for crumbs. Lee broke the silence:

"My place is nearby. I mean my house, not my office. Let's go there. I need to put these flowers in water. And I want you to know who I really am."

With these mysterious and unsettling words, she drained her coffee, picked the flowers from table and stood up to go. Rich, following his heart, followed her.

The House That Jack Built

Lee's house was a marked contrast to her little boat. It was a massive detached Victorian town house, surrounded by a high hedge, set in a quiet tree-lined street in Clapham Village.

A bicycle stood propped up on the wall by the broad front door.

Inside, the house was quiet, simple and elegant. There were few signs of modernity anywhere, except for a large iMac perched on a cluttered mahogany desk in the front room.

Rich, who was familiar with the housing market in London, guessed the place was worth over five million pounds. That was more appropriate for a woman earning over half a million a year.

"Do you live alone here?"

"I don't spend much time here. But yes, when I stay here, I like to be alone. I don't see clients here."

She led him to a living room. It looked out onto a large leafy garden, bordered with rhododendrons and tall oaks. A monkey-puzzle tree stood by the immaculate lawn.

"Sit down." She indicated a huge and comfortable armchair.

Slightly taken aback at her curt tone, He obeyed. She disappeared from the room, and came back carrying a vase with the flowers she had bought. She set it gently on a round table. Finally she seated herself on a large sofa, the big brother to his armchair. She seemed in no hurry to say anything.

"You said I need to know who you really are. So: Who are you, really?"

"I don't feel like talking right now. Let's just sit for a while."

Had he said or done something to piss her off? Was she just moody? He couldn't figure her out. But her demeanour made him reluctant to ask her any questions.

Eventually she spoke.

"Who I really am... Okay, I'm going to tell you who I really am, Richard. You may not like the real me. But I ask you to listen, without interruption, withholding judgement, until I let you speak. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

The Queen's Speech

"I'm true British aristocracy. Few people, least of all foreigners like yourself, really understand what that means.

"My full name is Rose Margaret Sanders-Beaconsfield. I changed my name to Lee in honour of gypsy Rose Lee, and dropped the 'Beaconsfield'.

"My family has a profound sense of entitlement which has been fostered over the generations. They would probably unnerve and anger you, an American Jew, with their air of superiority. And my brothers and sisters and I were all inculcated with this attitude from birth.

"We had nannies, servants, gardeners, housekeepers. Our private tutors were in no doubt as to their role: They were in the pay of my family, and their status was no different than the gardeners who tended and grew the orchards.

"But there was, in my case, something more. I had something my sister and brothers, and even my parents, didn't have: I believed, I knew that I had a sort of psychic vision which gave me power over people, which I could employ to get my own way. I could make people do my bidding. By the time I was five, I was fully aware that I was different from everyone because I had this power. It made me feel isolated and aloof. I didn't relish it. In fact I prayed to God every night to be relieved of this unasked for magic power. I just wanted to be normal.

"When I hit my teens, I rebelled against my parents, as most teenagers do. And of course they were unable to reason with me or control me.