Nothing But The Truth

The first time he met Camilla Danover, he was instantly sure that she would be one of the most trying clients he had come across. He'd read her file of course, and he knew her history. She did things that his wife would never even dream about and she had a past that would make the most open-minded woman blush. She was going to be a handful, that much he knew. But quite how he was going to handle her was something he had not yet decided.

He talked it over with his Supervisor earlier that week, and together they had come to the conclusion that perhaps conventional methods of therapy needed to be abandoned in this case.
Quite what that meant, and quite what that allowed him to do - Robert wasn't sure. But he knew he had to do something different to stand out from the previous 15 therapists she had seen. His supervisor had told him to tread carefully.

'Tread carefully? I haven't been doing this for 30 years for the fun of it Mike.' Robert had
returned with a laugh. 'We both know I'm made for this job and let me remind you again...'

'Yes, Yes. Robert we both know you've been in the job longer than I have.'

'Well then.' Robert replied. 'I know what I'm doing. I'm just - baffled right now as to how to go about this one.'

'Just remember the age old saying- Operation Successful but the patient died.'

Mike had given him that parting gift and Robert grimaced now, remembering it. Sat in front of Camilla he felt sure of himself. She was slim - the kind of half there shape that you often see in recovering addicts. That's what she was, he was sure of it. She hadn't spoken a word but even before she did he could predict her accent. Uptown, well-pronounced - borderline snob. It didn't match her face but that wasn't a surprise. There was nothing about Camilla Danover  that was going to match expectation.

He hazarded a guess that she hadn't dressed herself that morning. Probation officer perhaps? Thoughtful friend? Whatever. It hadn't been her. She was wearing a black suit, white pressed blouse and her hair was scraped back into some sort of intricate knot. The only giveaway was the heels, 6 inches, well worn - a woman used to dressing up. Most likely without the suit.

Robert ran through a mental checklist of his posture, body language and facial expression. Ticked them all with an elaborate flourish in his mind and opened his palms expectantly. It worked.
She sighed, 'There are three parts to every story' She told him, and he clocked the accent was as predicted. He raised an eyebrow cynically, 'Oh?'
Nodding she leant forward and he caught a hint of vanilla musk.

'Mine, his...and the truth.'