INTIMACY, a strange and wondrous place, once visited, unlikely ever to be forgotten, but once lost, not always easy to find one's way back to. I used to think that I shared (in common with most men) a difficulty with intimacy. I was wrong. Most men can do intimacy, we just tend to use a different currency to women, i.e. one not so dependent upon words, more about being, and doing.
But Patrick (the central character in my novel) is well practised in the ways of words, and sees intimacy difficulties as at the heart of what most of his clients are bringing to him. However, if he dared to take a long hard look, he might be surprised by what he saw in the mirror. And in his wife's eyes.
Intimacy requires a context to give it meaning, a platform on which to sit and unfurl. I once heard a famous chef remark that the two most important pieces of furniture in any home are the kitchen table and the marital bed. Of course the chef's prime focus is the former; whereas I'm as concerned with what takes place in the latter, a platform not always as safe or conducive as we would wish, and those few inches of bare sheet between the occupants can resemble a minefield in the shadowy heartland of an ailing marriage.
LISTENING IN a novel of therapy, and real life ~ an extract from Chapter 7 ~