By the time I woke up at dawn on Sunday morning, I had formulated a plan of action and I was excited. It had been a long time since I’d felt passionate about my work. I was going to become the Vampire Psychologist. Well, Vampire-Wannabe Psychologist, anyway. Starting Monday, I would run ads in all the local newspapers and online classifieds, offering both individual and group psychotherapy for vampires.
Yes, I thought, mentally rubbing my hands together, this had bestseller written all over it. I had found a brand-new dysfunction-of-the-week that mixed genuine mental illness with just enough scary occult sensationalism to make it a bona fide hit. Maybe I’d even get to go on Oprah or Dr Phil!
While I daydreamed about my impending stardom, my stomach growled in angry protest. When had I last eaten? I tended to forget mundane details such as food, and strolled into the kitchen to forage for something edible. As usual, the refrigerator was cluttered with old take-away boxes, the contents of which were no longer recognisable, along with bottled water and a substance that had probably once been cheese. My kitchen was a potent reminder that while I was exceptionally organised and efficient in my professional life, I was completely oblivious to its other aspects.
Shopping falls into the category of torture for me. Not only do I have all the impatience of my ‘Type A’ personality to deal with, but being around all those people – their energy, I guess, for lack of a better word – wipes me out. According to my parents, I’d always been ‘too sensitive’, too receptive to the moods of those around me. I suppose that’s why I became a psychologist, but my sensitivity certainly complicated the rest of my life.
I spent most of my childhood thinking I was crazy – or cursed. Normal kids didn’t spend time hiding in closets, talking to invisible friends, and picking up bits of people’s thoughts. I learned very early to keep my weirdness to myself, to isolate so nobody would notice. It took years for me to integrate my extra senses, to acclimatise to the strange hand I’d been dealt.
And if my psychic ‘gifts’ weren’t stressful enough, I always got teased in school for being a nerd. The ‘brainy girl’ with no fashion sense. The shy loner with her nose in a book, cowering in the corner. Thanks to my reclusive parents, I was the poster child for Social Anxiety. I just couldn’t see the point of worrying about trivial things like parties, friends or clothes when there were so many mind-puzzles to solve. So many mental illnesses to cure. At least, that’s what I told myself. I had a moment of feeling sad for the terrified child I’d been, always observing instead of living.
Another stomach growl prompted me to call my local deli for a breakfast bagel. Picking up the phone, I heard the beeping sound that told me I had messages.
I made coffee and poured myself a cup, then punched in the retrieval number to access my calls.
The first message made me grin. It was from Vaughan, the cute chiropractor I’d met when we’d both volunteered to answer phones at the local PBS fundraiser a couple of months ago. I think he’d called me once before, but I couldn’t remember if I’d returned the call or simply thought about returning it. He really was adorable, with his light-green eyes, curly chestnut hair, and that delicious dimple. It probably wouldn’t hurt to call him back. After my spectacular failures with men, I’d become such a wimp about dating. It was just so much easier to hole up at the library.
Hearing the next voice made my breath catch and my knees go weak. My heart pounded and my palms moistened. I grabbed the counter to keep my balance.
‘How can he still do this to me after all this time?’ I said aloud.
Dr Thomas Radcliffe. My first love. The man I’d been willing to change my life for. The man I’d thought was the answer to my prayers. The man who had told me I didn’t excite him any more and who’d dumped me for an airy-fairy astrologer who wore crystals and smelled of patchouli oil. Even after all this time, thinking about him still made me want to cry. It had been two painful years, and I had only recently started to feel good about myself again. Two long years of going over everything I’d said and done, trying to understand what it was about me that hadn’t been quite good enough for him. Shades of my lonely childhood.
‘Kismet? Are you there? Tom Radcliffe here. Oh, well, I guess I’ll leave a message. I know you’ll be sad you missed my call, but I wanted to let you know I’ll be in Denver for a conference and we should get together for lunch, catch up and touch base, do some networking. You have my cell phone number. Give me a call.’
‘Catch up and touch base? Do some networking? You arrogant ass.’ I forced myself to breathe as my heart rate calmed.
He always talked that way. Pompous. Oblivious. I wondered if his vocabulary had expanded to include all the astrological information he surely must be privy to now. Would he tell me that Mercury was up Uranus, and that’s why he’d broken my heart? No matter. I had no intention of meeting him for lunch or anything else. The welcome mat had definitely been pulled out from under Tom Radcliffe. He might still have the keys to my libido, but the rest of me wouldn’t be going along for the ride any more. I pressed the button to erase his message and called the deli.
After I’d eaten, I brought my laptop over to the table and wrote for a little while. Then I stretched the cramped muscles in my arms and checked the time. Since I had nothing planned for the day, I figured I could either work for a couple more hours, or I could break my routine and do something different – maybe take a walk in that big neighbourhood park I’d been meaning to explore. Jefferson Park was Denver’s equivalent of Central Park in New York City, and it had lots of trees, benches and trails. It was only a couple of blocks from my townhouse.
Yes, exercise. That was the ticket. I looked down at myself. Whether I liked it or not, it was clear that being physically inactive – sitting on my butt all the time – had a downside. I’d promised myself I’d rectify the fitness situation and gain some muscle in other places besides my brain. I changed into a comfortable dark-blue sweatsuit, put on my still-in-the-box walking shoes, and headed out the door.
Denver could be counted on to have over three hundred sunny days per year, and this late-October morning was a prime specimen. Actually, the fact that it was mostly sunny in Colorado was one of the few things I would have changed about a state that was, otherwise, paradise. Coming from the Midwest, I loved a good rainstorm and relished the introspective embrace of a grey, overcast day.
The first thing I noticed was how many walkers, joggers, runners, bicycle riders, skateboarders and pet-walkers were out on the park trails this early in the morning. And, even more interesting, was how many of them were holding Starbucks cups in their hands as they engaged in those activities. I marvelled at the level of physical coordination it must take to run and drink coffee at the same time.
‘Kismet? Kismet! Is that you? I thought you lived around here someplace. You didn’t call me back.’
My mouth went dry and my stomach churned. The voice was very familiar. Especially since I’d just listened to it on my voicemail. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard and run as fast as I could in the opposite direction, but instead I turned around slowly and stared into the dark-brown eyes of Dr Thomas Radcliffe, my astrologer-humping ex-boyfriend.
Shit.
This wasn’t how I’d imagined our first meeting would be after all this time. In my vision, I was dressed to the nines – painted, polished and gorgeous. He’d be overcome with remorse for his treatment of me and beg me to take him back. I, of course, would kick him to the kerb. But instead, here I was looking like something the vampire had dragged in, wearing a baggy old sweatsuit. I couldn’t even remember if I’d brushed my hair before I left.