How to be a Good Veronica. Michael K Freundt
think about it,” she said as seriously as she could. And then to change the subject, “So let’s look for that money.” She got up and immediately started taking books at random from the shelves.
“Not like that,” chastised Sally. “You need to do it methodically.” And she put her tea down and got up and joined in starting at the end of the bottom shelf. While she leafed through book after book Sally chatted away about someone she heard of who very successfully took in a university student and she stayed for four years! Veronica was only half listening: what was really on her mind was the slight unease she felt about explaining her job, to a loan manager - a stranger. It was easy putting “Psychologist” on an airport exit card but another thing entirely explaining to a loan manager. Would they happily agree to her guaranteeing a loan if they understood her work? She didn’t think so. There must be another way. Her disquiet at explaining her job led her to wonder if she really knew how to explain it. She had never explained it to anyone. Diane thought she knew what it was so didn’t ask. What did Jack know? What did Jack understand? How exactly would she explain it? Was her need for a man really a need to get out of her job? This question disturbed her. It was like making eye contact with herself in the mirror. Shit! What’s wrong with me? Was her lonely life really a protection from other people’s opinions? From their judgements? Their assumptions? Their prejudices? Was looking for a man similar to looking for misplaced money in a dusty library of books?
“Found one!” shouted Veronica as a $20 bill fluttered to the floor out of the pages of Jennifer Weiner’s In Her Shoes .
“Hurray!!” shouted Sally, overdoing it a bit.
At the little garden gate, as Veronica was leaving, Sally could not contain her curiosity. “Darling, I need to know what you really think about ... about my idea.”
Veronica looked her mother in the eye and said, “I’m not completely sure, yet, but I promise I will think about it. How much will it cost?”
"Twenty five thousand dollars,” said Sally with a look of concern on her face.
“Right.” It was a lot more than she could get her hands on. A loan was the only way. “Just let me think about it.” She was now thinking of her own fears. She would have to understand how she was going to explain her profession to a stranger, so she simply said, “I’ll call you.”
“Bye.”
Veronica kissed her mother on the cheek; she smelt of ponds cream and book dust.
“Bye.”
As she got into the car her mobile phone buzzed: it was a message from her five o’clock : Mr. Pyne wanted to reschedule. He was sorry for the late notice: world war three had broken out – Mr. Pyne was known for his exaggerations - but he had still made the payment and would contact her soon. She thought no more about it except for a brief reminder to call and cancel the babysitter when she got home.
What did concern her was the unresolved issue of her own attitude to her work. One could call it social work. She did, but when sex was involved was it social work still? Yes. Veronica stood firm: she had seen a need for strong psychology-based personal consultancy work and because such a profession didn’t exist she was confronted with the fact that the closest freelance occupation was the sex industry. Sex, and its use in her chosen profession, had occurred to her early in her mental planning and she was pragmatic enough to understand that sex played a very important part in the social and psychological makeup of the clients she hoped to attract. Being a graduate with a psychology degree made her also understand that it was usually ill-taught attitudes or bad role-models that caused sexual, psychological, and social dysfunction and that if her plans were to be fulfilled the issue of sex as a tool of her trade had to be addressed. And that’s exactly what she did: she addressed it and accepted it. The times in which she lived also made it possible: modern internet banking technology, freer sex industry laws and a growing sense among women of their own sense of their self-worth. Why then, now, was she influenced by Diane’s barbed comments? Was her chosen profession something she needed to plan to get out of? Was that what she really thought? It wasn’t conscionable when she set up her website, “The Red Site” and began operating (her marketing prowess wanted her to call it the ‘red light’ site but thought it compromised her serious intent). Had her practice morphed into something else? Had it changed without her knowing it? Was she truly on top of her game? Was her fear of explaining her work the reason why she was alone? Was it Jack’s forthcoming tenth birthday that had triggered all this? None of these questions were answered as she parked outside her little house. Jack was home but, as she would see, he wasn’t alone.
5
As Veronica walked into the kitchen, Jack was sitting on a bar-stool at the kitchen island bench with a middle aged pale-skinned woman. Both were sipping from large coffee mugs.
“Hello,” said Veronica, her voice tinged with curiosity and foreboding.
“Hi Mum! This is Mrs. Verlarny,” said Jack with a curious tone of inevitability.
“Hi!” said Veronica. “I’m Veronica Souter.” She held out her hand and the woman took it and clasped it firmly; too firmly for Veronica’s liking. This was a person who felt an over-firm handshake would make you like them instantly: her guard went up like an activated air-bag.
“Good afternoon,” said the woman with a broad smile. “Daphne Verlarny.” The woman was as pale as A4 paper but the name sounded Asian, although Veronica couldn’t be sure; she was slim, conservatively dressed with an undeniable erect and elegant poise. Put on, perhaps?
“I see Jack has made you some coffee,” said Veronica smiling. ‘Well done’ to Jack.
“Actually it’s tea, and very refreshing,” said Daphne Verlarny.
“Mum thinks that tea should only be drunk out of tea cups but they hold so little and one tea bag makes so much,” said Jack in a sing-song voice as if such an attitude could only be expected from today’s mothers.
“And do you think you could make me one too?” asked Veronica.
“I suppose you want a tea cup,” said Jack.
“That would be lovely. Thank you.” Even if she didn’t mind tea in a mug, which she did, she didn’t want to seem to be on this woman’s side, whatever it might be.
“OK,” said Jack, climbing down from his bar-stool and as he walked around the bench into the galley kitchen, Daphne Verlarny said,
“I’m sorry to come without any warning but circumstances and today’s little incident conspired to make this the most convenient option.”
“Little incident?” queried Veronica wishing for a better explanation. “So what....?”
“I was trying to explain to Mrs. Verlarny that it was just a little argument,” began Jack as he climbed on the bench to get the tea cups from a high cupboard.
“Jack, let Ms. Verlarny explain. I think that’s best.”
“Please,” said Mrs. Verlarny, “call me Daphne.”
“So, what’s this all about?” said Veronica in a tone that made it clear that she was already on Jack’s side.
“Do you know Cinnamon Carmody?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes you do, Mum,” said Jack with a little too much annoyance in his voice. “She’s the one I told you about; the one with the plait. I asked you if it had any religious meaning.”
“I don’t remember that Jack, sorry, but can I ask, Ms. Verlarny, what you have to do with this plait business?”
“My apologies, I thought you knew. Jack, haven’t you told your mother about my new job at the school?”
“Y-e-s!” said Jack in that annoying tone again.
“OK. Let’s start again,” said Veronica taking the lead.
“Yes.