Dearest Marigold 141

Honey, I told you not to go back to him. But you did and now this is what you’ve got. If you want to stay with him, because you love him, then that’s great, but the fact that he is married isn’t going to change any time soon. He told you this, I told you this. You can’t have it all on this one. Or ever, in my experience.

If you’re going to stay with him, then you need to accept that you’re always going to be second on his list, as his mistress. I don’t know him at all, so I can’t say he is an asshole, but you are the one who needs to decide how much you’re worth in this scenario. Because obviously, you feel like being his mistress demeans you as a person. And yet, you keep on going back to be his mistress.

Aint no-one demeaning you but you, honey. Putting it on him is unfair.

Well wishes and love,

Oprah D

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I click send and sigh. This was email was #3 for this one, and I am glad to be rid of it. I mean, I charge for my time, so I get paid, but some people…I just hate the ones that don’t want to help themselves. Just keep on doing the same shit, again and again. It’s annoying and depressing.

‘Oprah D’ is my little pseudonym. It’s not very clever. The ‘Oprah’ part was a nickname. The ‘D’ is because I’m a guy.

Like I said, it’s not very clever. Stop judging me.

I stretch hard. It’s been a few hours of me sitting at the computer tonight. I try to keep my client list under twenty at most, otherwise I can’t keep up. My time gets munched and so does my patience.

My phone buzzes, and I pick it up curiously. It’s a bit late to be calling, even if it’s a Saturday night. My friends know I don’t go out. Can’t party when you’re a single parent and all that.

It’s Delia, though. Hmmm.

Delia is a left-over friend. As in, even though high school is way behind me, somehow Delia and I have managed to stay in contact, somewhere between friends and acquaintances. We’re not really close, but we do coffee every now and then. Maybe if I didn’t have a kid, we'd be closer. But her lifestyle is one I can’t enjoy; she’s a socialite, loves parties, men, drinks and dancing until all hours. For me, all things from a previous life.

She’s a fashion designer, so I guess it's pretty cliché. But I admire her; she’s a big girl. And yet, she thrives in an industry that punts stick-figure people as perfect, and doesn’t give a shit if her pants look like they’ve been painted on. She parties with the best of them, and kicks ass at her job.

But still, getting a call from her is a bit weird.

“I hope you’re not drunk.” I say as I pick up, moving to the kitchen so I don’t disturb Ada.

“Hey Michael, sweetie.“ She replies sweetly. “I’m not drunk.”

“Oh-Kay.” I say, willing her to get to the point.

She clears her throat then, and I think she gets that it’s weird to call me so late. “You weren’t sleeping were you?”

“About to be.” I reply. “You ok, though?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine.” she says, hurriedly. “I just wanted to call cos, uh…”

I wait, though I’m still checking out the clock. Eleven PM. It’s past my bedtime. Like every other night.

“You still doing that advice thing?” she asks. I can hear music in the background, and the sudden shout of voices, then nothing.

“Yeah?” I’m getting a bit impatient now. “Look, Delia, I’m kind of tired.”

“Yeah I know. Sorry. Just trying to be…delicate.”

I frown at the floor. Delia is delicate like a bull is delicate.

“That’s weird.” I say.

“I know, which is why I’m failing miserably.”

“Just spit it out, Delia.”

“Fine. I’m at a party. There are some pretty, sort, high up people here.”

I perk up, ‘cos at least it sounds interesting. “Like who? Senators?”

“No no,” she hurries to correct me. “I mean like, bands, artists, actors, those kinds of people.”

I roll my eyes. Not interesting after all. “Uh huh. Ok.”

“And anyway, I was chatting to someone and one thing led to another…”

I sigh. “Delia, I’m not giving you advice. You never take it and just go do whatever you want anyway.”

She titches at me in annoyance. “It’s not for me, oh holy mother Theresa. It’s for the guy I’m trying to tell you about.”

“Oh.” I say, “Ok.”

“I can’t tell you his name, but I told him I knew of someone who could help him, someone to talk to.”

“And you told him about my price, my rule-“

“About three messages, and no contact other than online, yes. It suits him. These kinds of people prefer to be anonymous when it comes to therapy anyway.”

Like me, I thought. “Yeah ok.”

“Ok?”

I rub my face. “Yeah. I’ve got some room on my virtual couch, so it’s ok. You can give him the address.”

“Cool.” She sounds pleased.

“Thanks for checking with me.” I say.

“I know you’re anal about that.” she replied derisively.

“Ok then, Delia. See ya.” I tell her. I know she is eager to get back to her party.

“Sure, coffee next week?”

With Delia, it’s more likely to be next month, but whatever.

I cut the line, glad to slouch off to bed.

It’s not the first higher profile client I’ve had. The rules stay the same though. It’s actually easier for everyone, since it’s all anonymous. I think if I actually knew who these people were, I’d be too intimidated to speak my mind. It’s why I stay anonymous too; who wants advice from a single, gay, twenty-seven year-old, middle-school teacher? Not very glamourous.