Control Freak
“Fuck my life. Sorry, keep reading,” I say, nodding at her pages. “They’re good.”
Lacey’s cheeks turn a little pink with pleasure as she continues, and the smile lingers on her lips. My assistant is very attractive, I realize, watching her as she reads. Her hair is long and dark, and she wears silver jewelry on chains around her neck and wrists. I notice a figurine of Osiris and several blue-and-white beads on her wrist. Greek, I think. Warding off the evil eye.
I rattle off a list of things I want done in the next few days, and she notes them down and suggests the order in which they should be done. It makes sense, and I tell her so, and she goes to do them.
I gaze at the closed door for a moment, considering Lacey. She’s not a frightened little mouse, but she’s not arguing with me at every turn, either. If she keeps this up she and I are going to get along just fine.
Chapter Four
Lacey
“So, yeah. I guess I would like an apology for him yelling in my face, but I’ve put that aside for now, and I’m just getting on with the work. Maybe I’ll bring it up again before I leave, or maybe I’ll just let it go.”
“You seem to like your boss,” my therapist replies. I’ve finished talking through my first week at the museum, and this is the first thing she’s said.
“What?” I say quickly, pretending not to have heard her. I don’t think she’s fooled. Her eyes behind her spectacles are keener than usual. “Oh, yes. He makes the work interesting. Not that it’s not interesting.”
Ugh, shut up, Lacey.
I’ve been coming to see Doctor Loftin ever since I left the ward. We have weekly sessions, and I talk her through my days and any problems I’ve been having. Right now I’m considered to be recovering, and my weight is stable. I glance around her plain white office, trying to gather my thoughts. She won’t speak again until I’ve clarified myself.
Well, I do like Mr. Blomqvist. I didn’t at first because of the shouting and his refusal to apologize for it at my interview, but he’s been perfectly civil since. Only good things to say about my work in his flat, gravelly voice. When I told him I needed two hours on Wednesday mornings off to see my therapist he just nodded and said that was fine. I even risked saying to see my therapist rather than pretend I was going to the dentist or something like that. Sharing with someone that I go to a shrink is very hard for me, because I can see the suspicion in their eyes as they wonder if I’m psychotic. Mr. Blomqvist didn’t react at all.
“I like having something to do over the summer, and working at the museum is good for my career,” I say firmly, because I didn’t mention anything about how he’s attractive or that I like the way he smells, so she’s got no reason to be suspicious. I just told her how he wants things done a certain way, and I respect that. Sometimes he can be blunt, but it’s being argued with once he’s made his mind up that riles his temper. If I make a suggestion when we’re planning things he takes it on board.
Dad told me about his car. Control freak. I suppose he is, but he’s the director. He gets to be in control.
We finish the session by going through my food diary, but I’m still annoyed by Doctor Loftin’s comment when I leave. You seem to like your boss. People are so sordid.
There’s a beautiful park outside the museum, and when I arrive for work dozens of people are sitting on the grass eating takeaway lunches. It’s a hot day but there’s a breeze blowing, and the leaves on the trees are a brilliant green. Doctor Loftin and I have talked about me starting to eat in front of other people again, but I can’t face it yet. The thought of people seeing me put food into my mouth and chew it makes shame and panic flood my stomach.
Instead, I go inside and take the stairs up to the office. When I reach the top floor, I sit down on a step and pull my lunchbox from my handbag. No one uses these stairs. I can see the door from my desk, and I’ve been watching.
Lunch is a salad of poached chicken, sunflower seeds and a baked potato. To go with it I have eight carrot sticks and a small tub of hummus. I measure and prep everything the night before. My therapist wishes it was more food, but she’s happy that I’ve reached a healthy weight. I’m skirting the lower bar of what’s acceptable, though, so I have to be careful to eat everything on my plan. If my weight dips she’ll send me back to anorexia prison, AKA the Dawnstead Eating Disorder Inpatient Ward, AKA the worst place I’ve ever been in my life.