The Hypnotist's Love Story by Liane Moriarty Page B

that she loved strawberry daiquiris.
    Actually, now that she thought about it, she always took the lead. She’d written “I love you” on Jon’s thirty-eighth birthday card, and he’d taken forty-two humiliating days to say it back.
    It might be safer all round if Patrick said it first.
    And then he did.
    He stayed at her place one weeknight, and in the morning he wasrunning late for an early appointment. He leaned over the bed, kissed her cheek and said, “OK, gotta go, love you,” before rushing off.
    He’d said it in the exact same casual voice that he used on the phone to tell Jack that he loved him. It was clearly a slip of the tongue.
    She was pondering this, half amused, when she heard the sound of his footsteps pounding up the spiral staircase. She sat up in bed as he reappeared at her doorway.
    “Sorry,” he said breathlessly, his hands gripping the doorjamb. “That was a mistake. Well, no, not a mistake! I was waiting for the perfect moment with moonlight and rainbows or whatever, and now I’ve blown it. Fool.” He slapped his forehead.
    He came and sat down on the bed next to her, and looked at her in a way that she didn’t think she’d ever been looked at before, by anyone, lover or friend, as if nobody else had ever concentrated that hard.
    He said, “I would like to make something very clear.”
    “All right.” Ellen made her face serious.
    “I am making this, er, declaration on the record. I am of course prepared to put it in writing if necessary.”
    “Right.”
    He cleared his throat. “Ellen. I love you. I officially love you.”
    “I love you too,” said Ellen. “Officially, that is.”
    “Right. Good then. Well, this has all worked out extremely well then.”
    He held out his hand and they shook hands, as if at the conclusion of a satisfactory business deal, except that before she could let go, he pulled her to him, rolled her on to her back and kissed her hard.
    They sat back up, grinned idiotically at each other and then Patrick looked at his watch. “OK, so this sounds bad—”
    “That’s right. Love me and leave me.”
    He kissed her again and left. She lay back down and felt drenched with happiness.
This
was how love was meant to feel: simple and peaceful and funny. Obvious. There was nothing to analyze. It seemed to her that shehad never loved or been loved like this before. All those other times had been a wishy-washy imitation of the real thing.
    Just imagine if she’d gone her whole life without knowing that!
    (Also, not that it mattered, it was just something interesting to note for future reference:
He
said it first.)

    I rescheduled my appointment with the hypnotist because I had to go away to Melbourne for work.
    I tried to get out of it, but Trish supposedly came down with some terrible virus, and I was the only one available at short notice. Single, childless woman. What else have you got to do? That’s right. Nothing.
    Patrick and I never went to Melbourne together, so there were no memories lurking on street corners. At first it seemed like the trip was a good idea. The brooding skies and cruel breezes were a relief after Sydney’s relentlessly cheery weather. Work kept me busy and distracted. I was tired at night and fell asleep straightaway.
    But the longer I was away from Sydney, the more my desire grew to see Patrick and Ellen again. On Thursday morning I woke up early, ravenous for information.
What were they doing right that moment?
Had he stayed at her place? Had she stayed at his? My need to know felt physical, like a nutritional deficiency.
    I flew back to Sydney on the first flight out on Friday morning, my hands clenched around the armrests, leaning forward as if I could will the plane to go faster. I was a vampire and I needed blood.

    It was Friday afternoon and Ellen was taking a moment in between appointments for some deep breathing and positive affirmations.
    She had a somewhat stressful weekend ahead of her.
    That night Patrick was meeting