The World House by Guy Adams

through. Everything was a glossy testament to celebrity lifestyle, perfect people pretending perfect lives. He glanced at Stacey but she was engrossed in Facebook on her computer and clearly hadn't the least interest in what he got up to. He dropped back into the sofa and put his hands into his lap. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror he was struck with the unpleasant image of a fat man playing with himself and so shifted his hands to his sides where they looked even more awkward. Who the hell put mirrors in waiting rooms, anyway? What sort of act of cruelty was that? He shifted in the seat, watching his reflection and trying to find a pose that he could live with. He was still trying when Rebecca's door opened and a woman stepped out, pushing her nose into a crumpled tissue as if trying to hide it.
      "We'll get to the bottom of it next week, Sandra," said Rebecca, following her client out. "We've made some wonderful progress, I'm sure you agree?"
      If Sandra did agree she wasn't about to admit it, shuffling straight past Stacey and out the front door. Stacey gave a small shrug and returned to updating her online status, no doubt with some witty variation on "You don't have to be mad to work here…"
      "Hello, Alan," said Rebecca, holding her hand out to him.
      He had never felt so disadvantaged, the sofa having sucked him back into it just as he wanted to leap to his feet. She was wearing her usual outfit: a tight pencil skirt and light cream blouse, half austere, half enticing. He managed to get to his feet but she was forced to step back as his momentum sent him into her personal space.
      "Sorry," he mumbled, taking her hand and then being horribly embarrassed by how clammy it must feel.
      "What for?" Rebecca asked. He wished she could save the awkward questions until they were inside.
      "Nothing," he said, hoping to dismiss it. "Hot, isn't it?"
      "I'm sure it is," she half-agreed, though in that non-committal "that's your opinion and it's not my place to disagree" way that therapists did so well. "I'm lucky enough to have been in the aircon all day." Alan nearly started talking about the campus air-con – a devilish contraption of pipes and vents that spat staleness sporadically into the lecture halls – but stopped himself just in time, having realised it was the most boring subject known to man. Instead he nodded and tried to stop smiling. He couldn't. "Well," she said, "let's get settled."
      She led him into her office and he took his seat in the patient's armchair, a soft entrapment of furnishing that seemed designed to limit movement. She sat opposite him, crossing her legs, and he tried not to stare at the inch of thigh she offered. Were all patients so attracted to their therapist? He found himself spending more time trying to perceive her bra through the cotton of her blouse, or imagining how the lining of that skirt might slide up and down her thighs as she shifted in her seat, than he did actually thinking about her questions.
      It was with something approaching horror that he realised he was developing an erection.
      "So, how've you been?" she asked.
      "Fine, great really, nothing major." He tried to shift in his seat to cover his arousal.
      "Dreams?"
      "Oh, you know, the usual." The more he tried to will his erection away, the more the bastard stiffened.
      "Talk me through them."
      "Do I have to?"
      "I think it would be helpful."
      Alan crossed his legs, hoping it would help. "It really is the same old stuff, me before the accident, being… well, not being nice. I really would rather not go into it."
      "And the box?"
      "The box is just a hobby. You said hobbies were good."
      "They are, but obsessions are bad."
      "I wouldn't say I was obsessed," Alan leaned forward defensively and Rebecca raised an eyebrow. For a moment he thought she was looking at his trousers (the thought of which made the problem more profound), then he realised she