Page 27 of Under Your Spell

About 372,000,000 results, Google tells me. Right. Fine.

And there he is. The man I met at a funeral, the man I spent the best night of my life with. There he is, all over the internet.

There are so many photographs, so many articles about him, interviews, fan sites, videos, blogs, tweets, photo shoots. I start clicking through but soon feel sick. It’s just too much, way too familiar. The frantic headlines, the shitty paparazzi pictures.

There’s plenty of speculation on his love life, and from what I can see a long, long list of models and actors and musicians who he’s dated or hooked up with. Headline after headline about Theo Eliott, the Heartbreaker; Theo Eliott, the Womanizer, and each one makes my heart sink further. Do I know better than anyone how many lies get printed in the newspaper? Yes. But do I know that the papers probably haven’t covered even half of my own father’s toxic behaviour? Also yes.

I told Theo I’d take the job. More importantly, I told Serena I’d take the job, but as I shut down all the tabs on my laptop I just don’t know if I can do it.

By the time I have my next session with Ingrid I’m a seething, writhing mess of indecision.

‘Your sister has offered you a job?’ Ingrid asks, pen poised over her notepad.

‘Yes, but it’s not so straightforward.’ I squirm. ‘You remember the man I had the one-night stand with a couple of months ago?’

Ingrid nods.

‘It involves working with him. For him I suppose. Just the two of us alone for six weeks in the middle of nowhere.’

Ingrid’s head tilts thoughtfully. ‘And you’re concerned that your history may make things…’ – she pauses for a moment – ‘awkward?’

‘Yes!’ I exclaim. ‘Extremely awkward. And not just because we…’

‘Had sex,’ Ingrid supplies.

I huff. ‘Yes, had sex. But also because it turns out it’s a bit more complicated. He isn’t who I thought he was. He’s… he’s a musician. A famous one. His name is Theo Eliott.’

A muscle in Ingrid’s cheek twitches. In any other human being this would be the equivalent of falling to her knees, screaming, crying, and throwing up. I have never seen this happen before. I hadn’t even been sure she had muscles in her face before this. I feel my own mouth drop open.

‘Oh God,’ I slump in my chair. ‘You know who he is.’ This is the biggest reaction I have ever got from my therapist and I feel weirdly jealous that it’s Theo who has elicited it.

Ingrid’s facial muscles are fully under control when she replies, coolly, ‘Yes, I know of him. He’s quite famous, Clemmie.’ Her tone is mildly reproving but still, there is the faintest tint of pink on her cheekbones and I am fascinated and horrified in equal measure. I think it’s possible my therapist has a crush on the man I slept with.

‘So,’ Ingrid continues after clearing her throat (another thing she has literally never done), ‘I can see why this revelation may trouble you given your history with your father and your relationship with…’

‘Yes.’ I cut her off before she can bring up Sam, because there’s only so much a girl can take. ‘It does trouble me. He lied to me. Maybe not on purpose,’ I add grudgingly, ‘but he did. And before I found out who he was I thought there was some… connection between us. Now I know he’s just like my dad, and’ – I swallow, steeling myself – ‘you know. The other one.’

‘But Clemmie, as I remember it, you were the one who established the boundaries of your encounter with Theo.’ This time Ingrid manages to say his name neutrally.

‘That is true,’ I agree.

‘And that this encounter made you feel’ – she consults her notebook – ‘brave and elated.’

I wish she’d stop saying encounter, like Theo was an alien and our night together had involved some sort of cross-species probing.

‘Mmm,’ I murmur in agreement.

‘But you also said that part of you was sad you wouldn’t see him again. Do you have feelings for this man?’

‘No!’ I say quickly, squashing the traitorous flicker of something like disagreement in my chest.

Ingrid treats me to a long, narrow look. The silence stretches until it becomes a living, breathing thing threatening to crush the life out of me. Ingrid looks like she could do this all day.

‘Fine,’ I snap gracelessly. ‘Maybe I had some small, possible feelings for him when I thought he was just some nice stranger at a funeral. But not anymore. I couldn’t… I can’t even imagine… there’s no way… with how things have been for me that I’d ever, ever be in a romantic relationship with a famous musician. Never.’ This time my tone is definite, not a hint of room for disagreement. ‘Not that he’d want that, either,’ I add quickly. ‘He doesn’t seem the type to be looking for anything serious. It was just a one-night thing for both of us.’

Ingrid’s pen flicks across the page and I crane my neck, trying to see what she writes, but I can’t make it out. ‘If that is the case then what are your qualms about entering into this business arrangement with him?’ she asks.

‘I…’ I stop, considering. ‘I’m not sure. I freaked out when I saw all the articles about him. It felt so familiar; he’s part of that world, the one I don’t want to get pulled back into.’