The Hypnotist's Love Story by Liane Moriarty

clients if they wanted to use the toilet first; a full bladder was the worst thing for a good hypnosis session.
    “No thank you,” said Mary-Kate. “Let’s just get on with it.”
    When Mary-Kate was sitting in the green recliner, somehow managing to make it look like the most uncomfortable chair ever, Ellen opened Mary-Kate’s file on her lap.
    “How have you been since we last met?” she asked.
    “Same as ever. Fat as a whale. How have
you
been?”
    Ellen glanced up at her. “You’re worried about your weight?”
    “No, well, yes of course,
obviously
, but whatever.” Mary-Kate sighed and yawned. “So, Friday today. Got anything interesting planned for the weekend, Ellen? Seeing friends? Family?”
    “No particular plans,” said Ellen. “So, tell me, is weight loss something you’d like us to work on?”
    At Mary-Kate’s first appointment she’d said she wanted hypnosis because she’d started becoming panicky whenever she drove through the Sydney Harbour Tunnel, and she wanted to put a stop to it before she became one of those “nutty, fragile” types. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her weight, but that was often the case with clients. The real reason they were there didn’t emerge until after a few visits.
    “Perhaps I went through the potato famine in a past life,” said Mary-Kate. “And now I’m trying to make up for it. That’s why I crave potatoes.”
    “Well, hypnotherapy can be very useful—”
    “I don’t believe in past lives,” said Mary-Kate truculently. “That’s such
crap
.”
    “I think we talked about this at our last session,” said Ellen mildly. She was not fond of the word “crap.” Also, they had talked at some length about Mary-Kate’s lack of belief in past lives.
    “So you don’t take people back to their past lives.”
    “I don’t specifically offer past-life regression,” began Ellen. “ButI certainly have had clients who believe they have re-experienced past lives under hypnosis. I have an open mind about it.”
    Mary-Kate snorted and gave a little sneer.
    “Have you had to drive through the tunnel since I saw you last?” asked Ellen.
    Mary-Kate shrugged. “Yeah, I did. I was fine, actually. I must have got over it.”
    Ellen studied her. “So, then, what are you hoping to gain from today’s session, Mary-Kate?”
    Mary-Kate sighed again. She looked disdainfully around the room as if it was a cheap hotel room, leaned over, took a chocolate, then changed her mind and dropped it back in the bowl again.
    Finally she spoke. “Actually, I think I do need to use your bathroom.”

    It felt like relief to see her again.
    I don’t know how she feels about me, but I sort of like her. I mean, I’m sickened by her existence obviously, but I find her strangely compelling.
    It’s almost a perverse crush. Like when you meet a man and you find him repulsive, but you still want to go to bed with him, and when you do, it’s great, but afterward you feel ill with regret. Like that apelike guy I met at one of the client Christmas parties last year. He wore too much aftershave and more jewelry than me. The sex was fine, but afterward I was like a rape victim scrubbing myself in the shower and sobbing for Patrick. I guess it’s like that self-loathing you feel after eating bad greasy junk food.
    Ellen wouldn’t eat junk food. Tofu and lentils, I imagine. I wonder if she is lovingly appalled by Patrick’s pizza habit yet.
    It’s not like I want to go to bed with her. I just want to know everything about her. I want to watch her, in every imaginable situation. I want to get inside her head and inside her body. I want to be her, just for a day.
    I haven’t felt like this about any of the other girls Patrick has dated.
    The thing about Ellen—
    It makes me feel good that I can use her name.
    I used it a lot at our last session. “Thanks, Ellen.” “See you next week, Ellen.” Each time I use her name it’s like I’m slapping Patrick across his