Woman with a Secret by Sophie Hannah Page A

know that for sure?” Sam asked.
    Hannah glared at him. “It should be obvious to you,” she said.“There are some people who inspire passionate love-at-first-sight feelings and some who never have and never will—women like me.”
    “What do you mean?” said Sam. Simon knew exactly what she meant.
    “Look at me, Sergeant Kombothekra.” Hannah pushed back her chair and stood up so that he could see more of her. “What man would take one look at this face and this body—or even two looks, or three—and decide he had to have me or he’d go mad? This isn’t self-pity talking. I’m not secretly hoping you’ll both tell me how gorgeous I am. I know I’m not physically attractive. A long way from hideous, yes, but not actively good-looking, and not even ordinary. I look odd. My face is asymmetrical; my body’s out of proportion—”
    “Hannah, you’re being way too hard on yourself,” Sam interrupted gallantly. Simon said nothing. Having listened to her assessment of her own appearance, he was inclined to take her tales of Damon Blundy’s phony love more seriously.
    “I’m being hon-est.” Hannah elongated the last word as if she thought Sam might not have heard it before. “Realistic. I know lots of men love women who aren’t pretty, but at first sight? When you look like me, and when it’s a man as handsome as Damon, who could have anyone he wanted, assuming they didn’t loathe him from reading his column? No. I don’t buy it.” She fell heavily into her chair, as if the effort of standing had drained all her energy. “I’m not saying I’m unlovable. I think lots of men might love me if they had the chance to get to know me—intelligent men who care about more than looks—but that sudden at-first-sight kind of love? No. That’s rooted in the superficial. We see an object that, physically, fits some kind of preexisting fantasy archetype that we harbor, and we start to project onto it—inappropriately strong feelings that have nothing to do with the person within.”
    “And you think that, physically, you couldn’t have been Damon’s ideal fantasy type?” Simon asked.
    “Exactly.” Hannah sounded satisfied.
    “Why not? You said it yourself: you’re odd-looking.”
    “Simon . . .” Sam muttered.
    “It’s OK,” said Hannah. “Let him speak.”
    “Your appearance is unusual,” said Simon. “Lots of men, maybe even most, would prefer a supermodel type, but not everyone’s the same. You must know that from your patients—aren’t some of their problems unique? And Damon . . . from a quick look at some of his writing, he doesn’t strike me as having been an average man.”
    “He wasn’t,” said Hannah. “And thank you for not saying what everyone else I’ve ever discussed this with has said: that I’m beautiful in my own way, that men are just as likely to fall in love with me as they are with a stunning model. Of course they aren’t!”
    “Stunning models often don’t look as if they’d be very interesting if you got to know them,” said Sam.
    Hannah ignored him and addressed Simon instead. “You mentioned my patients. You’re right. Most psychological problems and relationship issues are as common as physical attraction to pretty faces and hourglass figures, but every now and then someone turns up with a completely new one, and I think, ‘Wow. I really ought to write a paper about this case and publish it in a journal.’ I had a patient recently who had a pathological terror of train and bus drivers, taxi drivers, airplane pilots. She was neurotically convinced that all the people who might conceivably drive her anywhere were in league against her, conspiring to take her to some unspeakably frightening destination that she couldn’t even imagine. She really believed that if they succeeded in getting her there, she’d be destroyed. I mean, she knew logically that it couldn’t be true, but she couldn’t get over her phobia.”
    “I feel that way every time I