Free Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect by M. J. Rose

in a refreshingly unmelodramatic yet dramatic way.
    But it was the empathy she had for the men who came to see her that made me stop and reread what she had written.
    Cleo seemed to have shut down the part of herself that made judgments. No matter what a man asked for, she understood that his need came from a wellspring that was vital and strong and could not be simply dammed up. Her ability to grasp the reasons for the humiliations that titillated one man as opposed to the physical prowess another needed to believe he possessed impressed me. But her own distance from what she had done disturbed me.
    And I was hoping I could get her to talk about that when she arrived for her 10:00 a.m. appointment.
    But for the first time, Cleo was late, and when she arrived at ten-fifteen she apologized for the delay but didn’t give me a reason. Sometimes, with patients, I pursued tardiness if I felt there were unconscious reasons for it, but Cleo was so anxious to be in therapy I didn’t think this was the case.
    As soon as she sat down, she hauled out a large bottle of water and took a long gulp. And then a longer breath. In previous sessions she had eased into talking about what was on her mind, but this morning she didn’t waste any time.
    “Those murders. Did you read about them?”
    I nodded, but I did not tell her that the first victim had been one of my patients. All of that was privileged information, details that the police had not yet revealed to the press. None of the specific ways the woman’s body had been defiled had made it into the news. The police were obviously trying to keep it quiet to prevent copycats and to make sure that if they got any leads, they were legit. Only the broad strokes of the killing had been reported.
    “That shouldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen if prostitution was legal.”
    “Did you know the woman who was killed?” I asked Cleo.
    She shook her head. “No.” She shook her head again, and for the first time I noticed the tiny pink-diamond cross thatshe was wearing on a fragile chain around her neck. It caught the light and gleamed. It looked lovely and expensive.
    “The news has made things worse. Caesar is preoccupied with the story. Worried about me. And the last thing he needs is more reason to worry about me. So we had a fight. A bad fight.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “It started with the news, then segued into the book again. But it’s really all about me and sex, isn’t it?” She stopped and drank her water as if she had not had anything to drink for days. “He’s confused. And he’s impatient. And I just feel all this pressure to get better faster.”
    “Does he know you are seeing me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Does he think it’s a good idea?”
    “Yes, but he also has his own idea of how to cure me.”
    “Cure you? His word or yours?”
    “His.”
    I nodded. “Go on.”
    “He thinks we should act out a scenario where he is one of my clients. He wants to pay me to have sex with him and play out his fantasy. That maybe this is a way to break down my resistance. To just see him like any other client. Is this making any sense?”
    “Does it make sense to you?”
    She shrugged. “Not really. But I think I’m willing to try it.”
    “What is the fantasy?”
    Cleo leaned back against the couch as if she was pushing herself away from me. As if she could disappear into the furniture and avoid the revelation. For the first time I saw a look in her eyes that reminded me of women who are missing from themselves. The lost women. Lost to drugs or alcohol or fear or abuse.
    I waited.
    She shook it off. “It’s the Caesar and Cleopatra thing.” Now the look on her face was one of embarrassment, but she continued. After reading so much of her book and knowing how little inhibition she had with her clients, her shyness in describing this fantasy that she and her lover had talked about was almost charming. It was also a signal I needed to pay extra attention.
    “He wants me to be