The Unreliable Placebo Read online

  The power of suggestion is immensely strong and conversely the lack of any suggestion as in the case of me and Dennis can lead to a lukewarm outcome. In one medical study, some subjects weren’t informed that a therapy was being performed. Hidden medical treatments were performed as well as open ones. The results showed that hidden administrations of pharmacological therapies and non-pharmacological therapies (i.e. placebos) were far less effective than the open ones.

  I've started reading books and articles and things about placebos and their darker counterpart, nocebos; the effect of mind over matter. But there aren't any statistics that I can find about how well prospective couples get on with each other when they've been given leading information, good or bad. I suppose I must've been quite impressed, even if only subliminally, that Dennis wasn't just any old surveyor, but that alone didn't act in a positive way. In fact I was intimidated by the information. And I had no advance personal information about him to possibly balance things out. Still, maybe the next person I date will come highly recommended so perhaps that will improve the prospects considerably.

  Chapter 3 Milton

  I DECIDE TO pursue my idea of signing up to a dating website. I make up a few hobbies, things I’d quite like to do if I could get round to them. I put down astronomy, fell-walking and yoga, as well as things I do actually do sometimes such as reading and swimming and keeping fit. Everyone tells me that internet dating is by far and away the best chance of meeting a new partner so that must be the case. And the males on these sites have had the confidence to put various things out there about themselves therefore they must be true. Mustn’t they? I mean none of them would upload an old photo of themselves looking younger and more handsome would they? My own photo that I intend to use is five years old and I was a bit thinner then. But I think it’s one of the nicer photos of me and it’s not really very deceptive and I could of course lose the weight. And in the meantime I could wear a support garment.

  So I sign up to a site. Not one of the free ones. It’s one that you have to have a friend to verify your identity and your profile. So that you know that if you check out the profile of a bloke you’re interested in, he’s not going to turn out to be a complete weirdo, a serial killer type with no friends whose mother hated him as a child and who is suspected of having tortured and killed neighbourhood pets.

  Sharon verifies my profile which is good of her as she has to subject herself to an identity check too and after looking at my profile and scoffing a bit says yes it’s more or less true so she finalises it and whoopee, I’m up on the site.

  I look at the feedback for the several days out of idle curiosity. But it all seems so unreal. The responses are from real people wanting to meet up and start a relationship. I can't take it seriously therefore I decide to just read the feedback for the immediate future and form a view.

  I do also out of curiosity check out a site that’s free and that actually isn't really about dating. It’s a bit more specific. The photos some of the men put up are eye-watering. I don't believe they’re real myself. They look as though they’d be injurious to health. The thought that men might, to attract a female, display false images as part of their profiles (including the full frontal ones) does rather make me worry that on the normal sites men might be lying about their ages or their jobs or, gosh, even their hobbies.

  I’ve taken the step of advancing a little way along a course which might result in meeting suitable members of the opposite sex and, having so advanced, I think I’ll just sit back for a bit and take things as they come.

  So in the meantime, I innocently accept an invitation to a dinner party. I know what these are all about; usually there’s a spare man attending and they want a spare woman for him. Nonetheless I have to go out occasionally. The hostess isn't that well known to me. Her name is Clara and she’s more of a friend of a friend. So far as I’m told, she’s got some new neighbours and wants to invite them over along with some others who’ve been in the area for longer and though I hardly qualify as a long-standing resident, apparently I’ll do. My friend Abigail, who is the friend of this once removed friend Clara who is putting on the dinner, is going to be there as well with her husband so at least there’ll be someone I know. Abigail apparently does know most of the guests so I’m hoping I can sit quite near her to get the gen on everyone.

  I’m also hoping that I don't get my name down on some sort of list that goes about of spare women thought to be desperate for a boyfriend, so that I end up getting emails from people I’ve never heard of who are a million times removed from any proper friend of mine but who need a female to make up numbers. Perhaps hostesses even pay for these lists in the same way as, if you’re foolish enough, as I have been, to fill in some online survey of your preferences in tinned artichokes in order to enter a competition to win a weekend for two in a bed and breakfast in Scarborough (which it’s said is a very nice place) and omit to check the box that says you don't want your name passed to marketing organisations, you end up on a list and get deluged with offers which have nothing to do with artichokes, tinned or otherwise. The corollary here would be endless social dining opportunities of dubious merit. I’m not sure. Probably far cheaper than joining a dining dating club. Actually in fact free so perhaps it would be a good thing.

  Anyway, for this evening I haven't risked a trawl through the lesser known zones of my wardrobe. I’ve bowed to reason and bought some size 14 dresses.

  Most importantly though I’ve alerted Sharon and she’s round here now as promised. I’ve splashed out on an expensive corset type affair that on first examination looks like a wetsuit shaped like an hourglass that’s been cuts off just below the bust and in line with the lady parts. We stand eyeing it critically and a little warily. I put it on my bed and it almost stands up on its own.

  We scrutinise the instructions.

  “I didn't know clothing came with instructions,” Sharon frowns.

  It says you have to step into it and work it over your legs, hips and trunk so that it sits ‘naturally at the level most needing careful re-shaping and control’.

  “Quite honestly it could do with a zip,” I say as I struggle to achieve the necessary positioning.

  “No. I don't think so. You’d never get it done up.”

  I wriggle and writhe and manhandle this thing to the best of my ability. Sharon assists and soon we’re gasping for breath such is the violent elasticity of this strange garment.

  “I’ve never come across anything like it,” says Sharon.

  You never know what you’re going to get when you buy online and I’ve take off the label so I can't send it back now. The material is quite thick and feels like rubber. It’s black and shiny and it squeaks and creaks as we wrestle it over my lumpy stomach and bottom. I’ve also bought a white one, but tonight I’m wearing a sophisticated little black number so my underwear also has to be black to avoid shine through.

  “I hope it won't be too uncomfortable,” says Sharon. “You don't want to suffocate to death. It doesn't look as though it’d let the skin breath at all. D’you remember that James Bond film where the girl gets painted gold all over and dies.”

  “Gosh. That’s terribly reassuring.” I know however that she has my best interests at heart. We’ve been bosom buddies since we met while working in a chicken factory one summer holiday from uni, which, given my sensitivity over carnivorous food products, counts as one of the worst experiences of my life.

  “Perhaps,” she says, “you should take it off and try a regular panti-girdle. I’ve got one with me.” She digs in a carrier bag she’s brought with her and produces what looks like an outsized pair of nineteen fifties bloomers. Too huge for even my generous proportions.

  “Sharon. I’m cut to the quick. Is it….it is isn't it? It’s a pair of your maternity support briefs. I remember you showing them to me. That you should think they might be suitable for me now!”

  “Hmm. You’re right actually. They’ve stretched.”

  “Well
thanks for that at least. I’m not taking this thing off now. I bought it and I’m jolly well going to wear it tonight.”

  Having somehow positioned the corset in the right place, I quickly put on my knickers and bra and then tights. Sharon zips up my dress for me with her cool grease-free hands. I look in the mirror and I’m suddenly two dress sizes smaller. It’s a miracle. Once the black high slingbacks are on, I really think I could grace any catwalk during London fashion week. We both cheer as though at some sporting achievement or awards ceremony.

  “And,” I say, “it’ll have the dual function that I couldn’t possibly get too friendly with a man while incarcerated inside this contraption. We’d both die of exhaustion trying to get it off.”

  “Well I hope you don't have to cut it off yourself later when you get home tonight. I’m afraid I’ll be at home in bed asleep by then. You’ll just have to call the fire brigade if you get into too much difficulty.”

  I GRAB MY BAG and jacket as the taxi arrives bang on time and, swinging a scarf round my neck, I hurry downstairs. The corset hardly squeaks at all. I wave Sharon goodbye and leave her to lock up when she goes.

  I realise that really I should have driven there which would have meant I would have had to have moderated my drinking, but I haven't been out for two weeks, not since Dennis in fact, and I want to enjoy myself. I’m certain that I can remain sober and this is a dinner party anyway so we’ll get dinner right? Meaning something to eat to soak up the liquor. I haven't had to shovel down a greasy pasty before I leave the house.

  I arrive at the venue in good time and the taxi deposits me almost at the front door. The taxi company will send someone to collect me and take me home later. They just asked for thirty minutes’ notice. There are lots of cars parked in the drive and another car is arriving as I ring the doorbell. Clara has obviously roped in her children to help this evening as the door is answered by a serious young man in his early teens who lets me in, asks my name, writes it down against a number on a sheet of paper, takes my jacket and pins a raffle ticket to it.

  “Er, what are the prizes?” I ask (joke) but he looks at me as though I’m an idiot and explains slowly that the ticket number identifies me on his list as the owner of this coat.

  “OK,” I say, playing along. “Do you expect the guests to start nicking each other’s coats then? Must be some rum types here!” I laugh but the young man looks aghast.

  “God I hope not,” he says. “My mum’ll kill me! I mean she really will!”

  But the next guest is standing in line and the son gestures me frantically towards a door along the hall as “you’ll want to powder your nose” (the expression doesn't fall easily from his lips and it sounds like he’s been practising the phrase all day). I scurry in that direction. Inside the room I make a quick appraisal of my appearance in the mirror (little change) and go out again.

  There’s another offspring loitering outside, a girl of about ten who directs me to a room further along from which the hum of conversation and soft tasteful chamber music can be heard. I half expect to be taken into the room and announced but this doesn't happen and I have to make my entrance on my own. I quickly scan the room for anyone I might know. I spot Abigail and walk quickly over to her and her husband. They’re standing alone trying to look as though they’re talking to each other so they’re more than happy to welcome me into their midst.

  I’m immediately informed without preamble that Abigail has told Clara all about me and that there’s a man earmarked for me this evening. His name is Milton something and he’s eminently suitable for me being another lawyer. I look around for someone who’s obviously a lawyer. You can sometimes tell, but Abigail says he hasn’t arrived yet. She’s received the information from the hostess Clara who appears to have arranged the event down to the last detail. It seems a bit bizarre and I’m wondering if there’s some ulterior underlying motive to this evening, such as Clara’s husband wanting to be adopted as a Conservative Parliamentary candidate and the room consisting mostly of the whole of the local selection committee. Or something.

  Clara suddenly descends on our little group and says we must entertain a new man who’s arrived. She introduces him as Milton Rosenberger. I surreptitiously look him up and down as we all shake hands with him and discuss how we know Clara and where we live locally and what we do for a living and all that crap. Milton says he’s a corporate and commercial city lawyer. I wonder if he knows the Backside but I can't ask as I don't know her name. He’s quite tall for a Jewish guy and has goldie coloured curly hair cut short. His features are fine and chiselled with a hooked nose, a thinnish top lip with that lispy look about it and he wears steel framed spectacles.

  I have no idea whether he’s been told that I’m eminently suitable for him but as this gathering has been organised to the nth degree, I must assume that there’s a good chance that he has. Though to observe him now, you wouldn't know it. He shows no particular interest in me or indeed any of us. But the crowded sitting room is thinning as people are making their way to the dining room, being ushered through by a number of children I haven't seen before aged between about eight and fifteen. How many kids has this Clara got for God’s sake! They are well-trained and help us find our seats which of course have name place labels. I find that naturally I’m seated next to Milton. I hope the evening will go well.

  IT'S THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY and it's my first date with Milton. I didn’t expect him to call and I wouldn't have worried if he hadn't. Despite everyone's apparently favourable impressions, I found him rather shallow. In fact looking at him and listening to him at Clara's last weekend, I couldn't help thinking that he's the sort of person who would stab his own granny in the back for a shekel or two. Nothing specific; it was just the impression I got. I felt most of the time that he wasn’t listening to a word I said, that is when I could get a word in edgeways at all, and was looking around at what other people were saying and doing.

  He concentrated on me for about twenty seconds when he told me that his “team” has a Legal 500 profile (“Wow. Get that!” I thought) and that he personally is up for Legal Business Lawyer of the Year Award. Well mazel tov to you, I muttered under my breath.

  In the main however, the evening raced by in a blur of Milton’s disinterest in me so that when the taxi came, I got into it and fell back on the seat relieved but perplexed. I couldn't help wondering if I’d actually imagined the whole thing.

  At one point as we sat through the meal which was pretty enjoyable if on the minimalist side, I got so sick of the flow of Milton’s account of his own activities and the cases he was involved in, that I decided perhaps complimenting him on his success might wrap up the subject of him, Milton, and make him start talking about something else. Therefore I said that it was remarkable how well he’d done in becoming a leading partner in an international law firm and was drawing breath to say something more general regarding a legal career but I didn't get the chance. He just said airily well of course cream always rises to the top. Hmm, I thought, there are other excreted substances that float too. I think after that I just gave up and switched off.

  But, the whole evening had been surreal, not just sitting with Milton. Quite early on during the meal, a child of Clara, presumably, was marshalled to come round and collect everyone’s taxi cab numbers and then this child, or maybe another one, called all the cab companies to come and collect the guests in a clear and pre-ordained order at regular intervals to avoid any log jams in the drive. My coffee had barely cooled to a drinkable temperature before a couple of young lads came and more or less manhandled me up out of my seat and hustled me out of the house handing me my jacket to boot. It looked very much as though the persona gratas were being allowed to stay on later (which may or may not have included Milton) while the less or non gratas, myself obviously in this category, were unceremoniously shown the door as soon as decently possible.

  Still he's called so I said yes and we're going to have a meal together and then go and watch some art
house film he wants to see at a theatre club he apparently belongs to. He mentioned the name of the film. It’s Japanese and he said it’s called ‘Carved the Slit-Mouthed Woman’. I scribbled it down and checked it out on the internet and it’s some sort of horror story. As I looked at a preview of it I had to swallow and bite my lip. It is rather scary not to mention monumentally boring and subtitled. I have to wonder about Milton. But arthouse is suppose to be cultured, right, and I’ve accepted the invite out already so what the hell. Maybe he was just nervous last weekend and I’ll find he’s really a big softie underneath. If we get along OK during the meal, I can bury my face behind his arm when we see the film and/or fall asleep on his shoulder as necessary.

  I don’t think I can risk wearing the supportive tight seal suit I managed to force my way into for the dinner party. It was all right for that night as in it didn’t hurt all that much given that the meal was pretty skimpy but I couldn't say it was comfortable. Tonight it's going to be quite a long walk from the restaurant to the arthouse theatre and then sitting down for an extended period which means I need less restrictive wear. As Sharon isn't at hand to help me out tonight, I decide on a tunic top and leggings, high boots and some co-ordinating scarves. I feel happier in this garb. It's far more in the style of what I slop about the house in most of the time, apart from the boots.

  We've agreed to meet in the restaurant. I take a taxi again and he's there already when I arrive. I don’t see his smile reach his eyes as he stands to greet me and bends to kiss my cheek. Instead he's looking me over through his metal framed spectacles as a dealer might examine an artwork for value and saleability or rather instead for the scrapheap as the case may be. I wonder how I measure up. It's impossible to tell. Is my dress this early evening too casual, my hair, which I went and got done only this morning, in too self-consciously tangled a style? Is he wondering which hedge I was pulled backwards through? Is my perfume, even, too strong or too flowery? Or not flowery enough? Too musky perhaps. I can't tell at all. I feel like a laboratory specimen and wonder inevitably what it would be like to be in bed with him. Would he score me against his last thirty conquests? If this is the effect the hello peck on the cheek has, I wonder what the heck the next five or six hours are going to be like and whether I'll survive that long.