Selling Scarlett

chapter Twenty-Five

~ELIZABETH~

Four days pass without anything that registers on my Hunter-o-meter, and I fall into a soothing—if not comfortable—routine. Mornings I wake up and work my booty off with Brenda or one of her trainers. I take a quick shower in the gym and put on something comfy, then go up for lunch with all the girls, plus Rod, David, Slash, and a few other guys I don't know. After lunch, someone is usually assigned to teach me something. Yesterday it was Bella, showing me how to move in lingerie. How even the smallest crack between your legs can flash someone your va-jay-jay, and if you walk like a runway model, your teddy will look a lot better on you. Today I'm booked with Sonny for my morning work-out. I'm warmed to hear he thinks I look like “one of us.”

I take a long time in the shower, because Loveless has a lunch session today, and Juniper won't be in the cafe because she has a scheduled phone call with her English boyfriend. I like the other girls, but there are still moments with them when I feel a little like an outsider.

I haven't seen Marchant yet, thank God, I realize as I slide into a muted aquamarine sundress. It hugs my bust, shows off my waist, and makes my legs look long; the fabric gets more sheer as it nears the floor. Under the dress, I'm wearing pink ballet flats. I take my time drying and straightening my hair and pull the top layers up into a barrette. I stick diamond earrings into my ears—they're loaners, and real—before spritzing myself with one of the house-approved perfumes and sliding my leather bag onto my shoulder.

Apparently I was going slower than I thought, because by the time I reach the cafe, it's mostly empty. I grab a muffin and a slice of turkey bacon and check my phone for a text to let me know where I'll be spending the afternoon.

My stomach roils when I see: Dr. Bernard—Love Inc. Psychologist

Immediately I dread it. I run back to my room, call and check on Suri and Cross—both about the same, Suri says—and grab a ginger ale for the trek down to the manor where all the official business gets done.

I put on a calm face but my mind is racing. What does Dr. Bernard want with me? Is the good doctor a woman or a man? How can I talk to them if they don’t even know my real name? Richard must have told them. Damn!

I shouldn't be so nervous about this, but I'm in knots by the time I reach the small office on the third floor of the building. The doctor's nameplate is mounted on the door, so I figure she must be the official Love Inc. shrink.

Elizabeth Bernard.

How much do I dread thee? Let me count the ways.

The door is closed and my phone tells me I'm a little early, so I drop down onto the plush mini recliner in the hallway and try not to bite my long, pretty, red nails. I'm obsessing over whether she will recognize me as the daughter of an addict—as if every shrink in the West has heard about my mom—when the door opens and a nice-looking woman about the age of my estranged grandmother steps out. A quick once-over reveals shoulder-length gray-brown hair, a loose, floor-length brown skirt, and a surprisingly stylish, flowing beige blouse.

Her thin lips curl into a smile that looks more welcoming than anything, and she extends her hand; the nails, I notice, are as bare as her face. “Scarlett. Please, come in.”

I don't take her hand, something I'm sure she notices, but I don't really care. I've seen enough therapists to last a life time and now that it's 'go' time and the belly bats are gone, I don't plan to go out of my way to assure this woman of my sanity. I played those games my whole childhood. I make good grades and have nice friends. So what if my mother slit her wrists last week? If I want to flap my arms and cluck like a chicken, what will she do to me? Tell Richard that the ranch shouldn't host my auction? Um, I think not.

She waves to a cozy, suede-looking blue couch with gray pillows sporting cut-out felt daisies. I take a seat on the end nearest the door, because there's no reason not to. I don't want to be here and I'm not going to be anything but honest.

She sits down in a small, orange leather recliner and pulls a pillow under her elbow. “Shoulder surgery,” she says with a wince. “I'm still recovering.”

I nod. It's not like I care.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Bernard? What’s the reason I’m here?”

She shrugs. “I'm not sure there is one. I speak to most people who come through the Love Inc. ranch as a matter of policy. You aren't an employee, of course, but you've been here for...”

“Ten days,” I supply. “And in three more, I'll be gone.”

She gives me a gentle, knowing smile. “You don't want to talk to me.”

“Guilty.” I feel a little awkward, but there's nothing I can do to stem the flow of animosity I feel for anyone sitting in an armchair with their PhD on the wall behind them.

“You've seen a therapist before.”

“Dozens.” I cross my legs. “One of the things I dislike the most is the questions, so let me answer them for you. My mom's crazy with a capital 'C'. She's been a drug addict or an alcoholic, in and out of rehab, since I was a young child. She married into money and my dad was in love with her at first, I think. Over the years that faded, and at some point he started traveling a lot for business. One of the...plants—” that would be bottling factories— “he visited was in Salt Lake City and about thirteen years ago, or maybe before then, he started seeing Linzie. He has two daughters with her—at least I'm pretty sure he does because one of them looks like him and the other one looks a lot like me. When I went to college he left Mom, sold the controlling share in his family's company, which had been in decline for some time, and moved to Utah to be with his new family. Yes, I'm bitter about it. And it doesn't help that Linzie is a bitch.

“My mom is in rehab as we speak; only it's not really a rehab, it's more like a spa, and it's costing us more money than we have. My oldest friend, Cross, got into a motorcycle accident after a party where he and I had a fight, and he needed help paying for his care. I knew—well, knew of—Marchant Radcliffe, and I got the idea to sell my virginity.”

I think that’s a pretty tidy summation of what’s the what. The first half, about my family, I’ve given several times before.

Dr. Bernard arches her delicate brows. “That's quite a story. Frankly I don't know which part is the most dramatic.”

I wrinkle my nose. I'm not used to a therapist being this direct. It makes me feel like being direct, too. “I wouldn't call it dramatic as much as just...screwed up. Seriously screwed up. At least the part about my family. The part with my friend—” whose very distinctive name I should not have mentioned— “was just an accident, and the part where I sell my V-card is obviously an attempt to get money.” I purse my lips, looking for some levity. “At least it's not a kidney.”

“Did you consider that?”

I nod, smirking. “It's less profitable, crazy though that is.”

“That is crazy,” she says. She looks down at her lap and makes a note on a pad. “Before we continue I want to make sure you are aware that I know your real name.”

I gulp. “You do?”

She nods. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary. However, in my notes I’m referring to you as Scarlett.”

I frown. “Do you know who I am? Like, my identity?”

“Do you mean who your family is? Yes,” she says. “For most of my career I ran a center that specialized in the dynamics of financially privileged families. You're the DeVille heiress.”

“Inheriting coal and switches,” I say drolly.

“Tap water,” she offers.

“Yeah. The kind with pollution.”

“You've been through a lot, then, with your mother. And your father.”

“I guess so.”

“I think the answer is a resounding 'yes.'”

I nod. “Yes.”

“You know it's not uncommon for the children of addicts to harbor some resentment toward the therapists who treat their parents.”

“Why is that?”

The good doctor shrugs. “You’ve watched therapists fail your entire life.”

That's true.

“Hope can turn ugly when it's dashed over and over.”

Her words strike so true that I have I bite my lip to keep from crying. Feeling desperate, I change the subject. “Are you from the New Orleans area, by any chance?”

She smiles. “How did you know?”

“Accent. How did you end up here?”

“I'm a child of privilege myself. I married a privileged man, a lawyer and later a politician. His last name isn't Bernard,” she tells me, winking. “By the time I divorced, I knew Marchant and his adopted New Orleans social circle well. He's been a client of mine since his college years. In fact, it's thanks to him that I relocated. When he decided to bring a psychologist on board at Love Inc., he wanted it to be his own.”

“Really.” That surprises me. Marchant doesn't seem like the type of guy to admit weakness.

But Dr. Bernard nods. “He came to me after he lost his parents. In fact, we still talk. Maintenance therapy. I'm not sharing anything with you that he would mind. He's very open about it.”

I nod, because I'm not sure what to say.

“I've got a question for you, Scarlett.”

My stomach flips. “Okay.”

“Why are you still a virgin?” She smiles a little. “Let me rephrase. There's no reason not to be a virgin, if that's what you so choose, but you're a pretty girl, and judging by your plans, I assume there are no religious or ethical qualms about experiencing intercourse.”

I swallow hard, wanting to die. Does she actually expect me to answer this?

“I was curious, that's all. If you don't want to discuss it, we don't have to.”

Well, dangit. Now I feel like I should discuss it. I play with my fingernail, then realize I'm doing it and force myself to look into her eyes.

“The question makes you uncomfortable?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.”

“Does sex make you uncomfortable?”

I sigh. “That's not why. I guess it's just a little further than I like to go.”

“With therapists.”

“With anyone,” I say. But, hey, I'm here. Why not? I chew my lip and then just jump in head-first. “I used to be fat,” I tell her. “And I have trust issues.”

“What kind?”

“The because of my mom kind. The kind you get when you grow up in an unstable home. You know the story.”

“I don't know your story. How does that go?”

I shrug. “My parents never had sex very much. A few times I over-heard them talking about it. Their relationship was just the surface. Probably because, with an addict, it's impossible to get any deeper than that. So we were all...I don't know...like, roommates. I made friends with Suri and Cross, my two best friends, when I was young, so I grew to trust them without meaning to. But everybody else...” I bite my lip as the truth finally dawns on me with crystal clarity. I spit it out in a froggy voice. “I guess I just never considered that it was possible to have a good relationship with a man.”

Her face is sympathetic. The kind of sympathy that almost hurts. I raise my hand to my chest. It kind of does hurt. “Geez, that's new to me. I didn't even know that until just now.”

She nods. “That's one of the reasons people—non-addict people—come to therapy. To learn more about themselves. How much time have you spent learning about Scarlett? Not Mom, not Dad, but Scarlett. Her issues. Her fears.”

I press my lips together. The answer is none, of course. “I never had time.”

“That's very common for a young woman with your history. And it's not your fault,” she says with a reassuring smile. “The great thing about getting older is, you change yourself. And what's healthy and appropriate, you nourish.”

I nod, relieved. I'm not a freak who doesn't want a relationship. I just never really thought that one was possible. It makes sense!

She looks up at the clock behind me, and I'm surprised to find an hour has passed since I walked through her door.

“Do you find yourself in Vegas very often?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” I hedge. I sigh. “Not really.” I feel my cheeks flush, and I tentatively say, “I wish I did. It was kind of nice talking to you.”

She smiles. “Well I asked because I have an office in Los Angeles. I know it's not a speedy drive, but it is in driving range.”

I nod, and she asks, “Would you like to talk again sometime?”

“It depends on how much money I get,” I say, smirking, though honestly, it's embarrassing having as little money as I do.

“I work on sliding scales at times. Perhaps that would work for you.”

“Maybe.” She hands me her card, and I put it in my purse. “I'll call some time.”

“I'd like that. And Scarlett?” I turn with my hand on the door-knob. “Don't hesitate to come back if you'd like to talk again before you go.”