Group Therapy

Having been thinking it over for a few minutes it was whilst laying
out the soup spoons Andrew decided that he would take his own life. It
had occurred to him before in an idle way, mostly when he found himself
alone in large spaces: cathedrals, cricket pitches, airports. How would
he die? What grand gesture? Hanging from the hanging gardens of
Babylon? Speared on a Kremlin steeple?

Whilst arranging the wine glasses Andrew decided that his death would
be without showy symbolism. Not because he no longer thought those
stunts would be interesting or worthwhile, but because he just wanted
to get it done. Andrew had a thought, a memory that made him smile and
shake his head. A few minutes after picking up the meat cleaver that
rested, glimmering with fat on the chopping board, Andrew died.

Andrew spoke Chinese. Or at least this is what he told people.

"You speak Chinese? That's what you do?"

"It's not what I do but I can do it."

"Okay, fine. But I asked you what you do?"

"I'm an architect."

He was an architect. He could not speak Chinese. This is only relevant
because when Andrew and Anita have sex that same night she asks him to
speak Chinese to her while they fuck. She does not ask whether he
thinks the third floor balcony that she is leant over is suitably load
bearing.

"Go on, I've never been fucked by someone who can speak Chinese? Say
that you want to fuck me in Chinese. Say that you want to lick me and
suck me."

Andrew took a moment to contemplate whether it would be feasible to
fake it; a few cod Chinese grunts, he could probably do that. He
mentally browsed plosives that might pass for Oriental dirty talk.
Eventually, acknowledging that his invented dialect was some way
between Swedish and Glaswegian he gave up.

"I can't," he said, taking a step back, overwhelmed by vertigo.

"Why? What's wrong?" Anita sounded hurt.

"No, I can't. I can't speak Chinese."

"You thought it would make you interesting!" Anita steadied herself on
the balcony railings while she laughed.

"No. Well. Yes, I suppose. Stop laughing."

Anita allowed herself to slide down onto the tiles, her red hair
shimmering and as she convulsed with giggles.

"Sorry, but I could already tell that you weren't interesting. I
wouldn't have wanted to fuck you if you had been. Andrew, I couldn't
give two shits whether you can speak Welsh, Czech or fucking
Mandarin."

Standing up, Andrew had quickly become aware of his nakedness. He took
a step back and sat on the bed.

"Can I see you again?" He asked solemnly.
Anita blew hair from out of her eyes.

"Are you an architect?"

"Yes."

"Okay, tomorrow night. I'll meet you at Liverpool Street Station at
six. I want to take you somewhere."

They arrived at the same time, five to six, from opposite ends of the
station, striding towards each other across the forecourt. She wore a
black dress and a silver necklace.

"It's platform ten," she informed him, walking past without slowing her
stride.

Andrew span on his heel and tailed after her.

"Where are we going?"

"For a chat," she said.

An hour and a half later they arrived at Ely station. On the way she
had told him the plans. They were going to a party in the country,
organised by herself and some of her friends. It was an unusual party
in that there were no drugs, no sound system, and no fucking; or at
least, not until afterwards. They caught a bus for twenty minutes and
got out a by a crumbling church. Outside, a sandwich board advertised
teas and coffees.

"Follow me," she said, stepping inside.

They walked past pews, pulpit, organ, to a door at the back of the main
hall. The church was rather well kept on the inside. In one larger room
fifteen or so children in full costume practised the nativity; turning
to stare as they walked by. In another small, low-ceilinged room a girl
played the clarinet well. They ascended some stone stairs which opened
out to what Anita informed Andrew was the organ loft. It was well-lit,
the far wall dominated by switches, levers and enormous pipes. The
dregs of the day's sunlight shone through the stain-glass, freckling
the floorboards.

"The others will arrive soon. You'd better take off your clothes,"
Anita said calmly, eyeing Andrew's belt.

"What?"

"Only fucking around. Don't be so nervous."

The friends arrived casually, one by one. Like Andrew, they were all
aged in their twenties or early thirties. Fran, Joe, Mark, Ray, Toby,
another Andrew, Lucy, Mary, Colin. They introduced themselves, shaking
Andrew's hand and kissing Anita. Once they'd all arrived Anita raised
her voice above the chatter and spoke lightly.

"Hello, everybody. We all ready to get started?"

The wooden chairs that lined the walls were scraped across floorboards
as the group formed into a rough circle.

"Nice to see you all. We have a newbie today. You've all met Andrew. Be
nice to him," she said throwing him a wink, "I think Fran is to start
this week."

Group therapy. Before the meeting, on the train, Anita had told Andrew
that if he wanted to he should just get off at the next station and
head right back to London. She explained what the meeting would be
about. Anita set the group up for people of her age and financial
bracket. Originally, it was just a chance to say whatever you wanted to
in a friendly setting with people who could relate; invitation
only.

Fran, who was fair and looked vaguely regal, spoke first. "I genuinely
love the fact that I am good looking. I adore looking at ugly people:
on the tube, in Sainsbury's, at work, on TV." At this point she crossed
her legs; her calf muscles were like upturned bowling pins. "I just
think about how much worse their lives are because they are
ugly."

Then Colin. "I'm really, truly happy at the moment. Everything's good.
It's nice to be able to say that to people. This is the only place I
can come and be content without being overwhelmed by guilt."

"Toby?" Anita offered. "I..." he began slowly, "and this is not just in
a fantasy role-play way. I want to see what my wife's face would be
like if she suddenly realised she wasn't in control."

This is how the evening progressed until Andrew, feeling unsettled and
a little dizzy, raised his hand.

"Anita? May I?" He asked.

"Go ahead, Andy. Let rip."

He allowed a moment to pass.

"I hate myself. I truly hate myself. And I hate all of you. We are all
terrible people."

After the meeting they all drove back to London; Anita and Andrew
getting a lift with Fran in her beamer. Andrew was silent in the back.
Anita, staring ahead into the road, began to speak.

"Society makes us feel guilty for being successful. You feel bad about
it, don't you? That whole speaking Chinese thing, what was that? To
show me that you give a shit about others, other cultures? Come on.
You've got money, you feel bad. You are handsome, you feel bad. Fuck it
Andrew. Too many young successful people harbour self-hatred. It's
spoiling what ought to be the best times of our lives. Whatever you
think of yourself is okay. If you hate yourself, hate us, that's fine.
Most of us, no, all of us, came to this group hating ourselves.
Self-hate has to be the beginning - that shows you are intelligent.
Once you realise that hating yourself is just the necessary baggage of
ambition you can forget about it. People who aren't ruthless, who
aren't power-hungry; let them have piety, give them integrity. I'll
take the money, the sex, the expensive food, the lifestyle and thanks
very much but fuck the self-loathing. I'm selfish and that is okay
because honestly, no one else is looking after me, and I won't feel
guilty for it. Revel in ego, enjoy what you have, screw the
meek."

For a time nobody said anything.

"Does it sound like I practiced that?" Anita asked.

"A bit."

Anita nodded. She craned around to look at Andrew.

"There's eleven of us Andrew...you'd make eleven. Trust me; it'll
change your life."

They arrived at Fran's house, a four storey Victorian terrace in
Holland Park. Anita and Fran looked slicker, reptilian now they were
back in the city. The evening slipped quietly along: wine, vodka, coke,
appearing and disappearing with practiced ease. At some point after
saying "I really ought to be heading off", Andrew found himself, or
more appropriately, lost himself in amongst a misty abundance of limbs.
He sensed they had something of a routine: the untying, unfastening,
unzipping of each others clothing like an acrobat checking the surety
of a tightrope or trapeze: diligent and thorough. Perhaps he was not
the only man to have found himself happily trapped in this show of
athleticism but as Anita pulled him on top of her he didn't spare this
too much thought. He sensed Fran rounding on him, he didn't turn to
look but Anita's glance over his shoulder was enough. It was at this
point, with the clop of high heels behind, and Anita arching beneath,
that Andrew decided he would most definitely not take his own
life.

At the next meeting Andrew said that he felt bad because he didn't
think he had any real creative flare for architecture. He'd just been
lucky enough to be able to pay his way through the course and all the
connections he needed were already made through his father.

A week after that Andrew talked about all the poverty in the world and
how he found it hard to pay four hundred pounds for a haircut when that
same money could do "so much...so much...", the word was so vague, so
dry, "?so much good."

The following weeks Andrew found that he was increasingly talking, not
about his desire to do "good", but instead about the good times he was
having. First off, Anita and Fran were the opening names on an
increasingly impressive list of young, attractive, successful, women
Andrew was sleeping with. Secondly, going out had become a pleasure,
not a necessary extension of work.

Andrew was chairing his first meeting with the group. He was speaking
about the joyously liberating waste involved in buying personalised
number plates. At the end of the meeting, in the glow of appreciative
nods that greeted his closing words, "you are where you are because you
deserve to be," he decided to invite everyone to a dinner party which
he would host. It was at this dinner party, or, more accurately, just
before, that Andrew would die.

Preparing the artichoke hearts went well. Creating the simple pasta and
asparagus salad involved no sharp objects. It was the dividing up of
the lamb shanks with a cleaver that made Andrew think of topping
himself. He was used to this, he had a morbid mind and, despite his
general well-being that the group therapy had inspired, he remained
susceptible to bouts of unhappiness. While laying out the cutlery he
decided that he would do it, he didn't know why but he would. Holding
the cleaver aloft, although not quite sure what he planned to do with
it, he had one last scan of his memory. He scrolled through childhood,
adolescence, young adulthood, checking that nothing cropped up to stop
him. Just as he was about to plunge the cleaver wherever it could be
plunged he remembered the threesome he had with Anita and Fran. Fucking
good, he thought to himself, starting to get hard as he thought about
it. "Fucking yes", he mumbled as he visualised the two women, one
behind, one beneath. How many men get to experience that? Really,
really good sex. That has to be something to live for. He unzipped his
fly with his free hand and found that his cock was already hard.

Anita arrived a little early; she always liked to arrive a bit before
everyone else, it gave her a sense of host-status she enjoyed. A note
attached to Andrews's front door read "WELCOME! COME ROUND THE BACK,
THE DOORS OPEN!" in efficient capitals. She strolled along the path
that lead through the garden, glancing in a small porthole style window
she could see Andrew's back, he was facing the counter. Anita opened
the wooden back door and burst in to the kitchen .

"Still peeling carrots are we?"

Andrew spun towards her, cleaver in one hand, penis in the other.

"Oh my fuck!" he exclaimed, instinctively moving his right hand to
cover his embarrassment; the same right hand that still gripped the
meat cleaver. The rectangular blade plunged into the top of his
thigh.
Shit, oh shit, was all Anita could think to say.

"Shit, oh shit," she said.

Andrew stumbled backwards into the lounge, tripped on the remote and
had any indecision about the value of his life decided for him by the
corner of the glass coffee table.

Anita rang the others and told them Andrew had come down with
something. They went out for drinks and afterwards ate at a new
restaurant called 'Mesto's'. Anita ordered the lamb shank medium-rare
and when it arrived, a touch too bloody for her taste, she felt a
moment of sadness.