The Hypnotist's Love Story

And of all the people I’ve been to see about this pain, Ellen is the first person who seemed even remotely interested in how much it’s affected me.

“It must be incredibly frustrating,” she said, and she seemed so sympathetic, for a horrifying moment I thought I might cry.

Yes, Ellen, it is incredibly frustrating, especially when one of my hobbies is following my ex-boyfriend, who, by the way, happens to be your current boyfriend, often on foot, and it makes it very difficult, although I’m proud to say that I’ve never given up, I just keep going, no matter how bad the pain is, and people stare, because I guess I’m grimacing. There she goes, a twisted old witch, hobbling after her old pain-free life with outstretched clawed hands, trying to snatch it back.

Chapter 11

From the moment we’re born everyone is hypnotizing us. We are all, to some degree, in a trance. Our clients think we’re “putting them to sleep,” but our ultimate goal is the opposite. We’re trying to wake them up.

—Excerpt from an article written by Ellen O’Farrell for

the journal Hypnotherapy Today

Saturday was wonderful. They slept late. Breakfast and the papers in bed. A long walk on the beach and a quick swim (very quick; Patrick started shivering after only a few minutes). Coffee and cake by the river. Lunch by the pool. An afternoon nap.

Ellen’s senses seemed sharper. The sun and the sea breeze caressed her skin. As they walked down Hastings Street, she could smell everything: coffee, the ocean, the perfume and aftershave and sunscreen of passersby. She heard every fragment of conversation, every burst of laughter.

There appeared to be some sort of baby boom happening in Noosa. The place was crowded with babies and toddlers and roundly pregnant women. Every baby was gorgeous: their big melting eyes seemed to fix on Ellen as if they knew her secret. The pregnant women seemed to know too. They gave her gentle, mysterious smiles from behind their sunglasses.

She’d felt so excluded from this club of mothers and children. She kept catching herself thinking: Would it be allowed? For me to push a big complicated-looking stroller like that? For me to pick up a baby without first asking someone else’s permission? For me to grab hold of a toddler’s hand while crossing the street?

Why not you? she asked herself. Why not?

But still she didn’t tell him.

Moment after moment slipped by when she could have told him. They had all the time in the world. She’d never seen him so relaxed. His forehead seemed smoother. He touched her constantly.

There was no sign of Saskia. Ellen’s stomach slowly unclenched and she stopped scanning the crowds for her. She was so relieved for Patrick. The poor man deserved a weekend without having to constantly look over his shoulder.

And how did she feel about the fact that Saskia had been in her home? Did she feel frightened, furious, violated?

She pondered this when she woke up first from their afternoon nap, Patrick’s body still curved around hers, their fingers still interlaced from when they’d fallen asleep together.

All of those feelings felt like possibilities. Yes, when she thought about Saskia sitting in her glass office, deceiving her, secretly observing her, there was most certainly a tremble of genuine fear and a flare of rage. What did she want from her? What was she planning? And how dare she? The audacity.

But she was still intrigued. Even more so than before. Fascinated. Beneath the fear, she still felt … no, surely not. But, yes, as inappropriate as it was, that’s what she felt: a mild sense of pleasure. She liked the fact that someone was that interested in her. It gave everything a definite edge. A spark. Maybe it was a tiny seductive taste of life as a celebrity: the feeling that everything you did was important and worth noting. Or maybe Ellen had some sort of personality flaw that perfectly complemented Saskia’s. She was the yin and Saskia was the yang, and together they formed a psychopathic whole.

(Or was she just trying to make herself seem as interestingly peculiar as Saskia?)

At any rate, Patrick would have to be told about Saskia’s subterfuge at some point. But she wouldn’t ruin this little interlude from real life. She would wait until they were back in Sydney. Also, there was still the pregnancy. The baby.

She felt Patrick’s hand tighten around hers as he stirred and woke up.

“Hello, you,” he yawned, running his other hand over her shoulder, down her waist and letting it rest on her hip. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” she said, without even a tremor in her voice.

“Mmmm. Me too.”

After they got up, Patrick suggested a walk. He pulled her to the window. “See the headland? There’s a spot just by the entrance to the national park where I thought we could watch the sun go down. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” said Ellen.

And it almost was.

There was a table and bench right on the headland. The lush green of the national park contrasted with the deep blue of the ocean. The sky was all soft pastels: pink and blue and orange.

Patrick had bought an expensive bottle of champagne and cheese and biscuits and strawberries. He’d carefully wrapped two champagne glasses from the hotel mini-bar in his beach towel.

“This is very impressive,” said Ellen, as Patrick uncorked the champagne with a celebratory pop.

“Stick with me, babe.” Patrick filled their glasses. “Us surveyors know how to treat a woman right.”

She decided she’d have one glass of champagne. Her mother had told her that the “occasional glass of wine is hardly going to cause fetal alcohol syndrome.”

“To us.” Patrick clinked his glass against hers. “May we have many more weekends exactly like this.”

“May we drink many more glasses of champagne exactly like this,” said Ellen. The champagne was excellent: dry and creamy.

“May we—oops, just let me get that.”

“What did you drop?” asked Ellen, confused, as Patrick scrabbled about at her feet.

He didn’t answer. He seemed to be getting back up in an extremely awkward manner, like an old, arthritic man.

“Have you hurt yourself?” Ellen stood up and went to help him.

“Sit down, woman! I haven’t hurt myself.” Patrick seemed to be trying not to laugh.

“What are you doing then?”

“Ellen,” said Patrick, and his voice changed, becoming deep and ponderous. His face had a silly, sheepish look about it, as if he was playing a game of charades.