The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

depressed.
    “I suppose,” Emma O. was saying, “I’m in here for the same reason as practically every other female in residence. I’m in here for not being beautiful.”
    Elizabeth nodded. “Depression.”
    “Well, depression comes later, I think. First society teaches you a good hard lesson about not being pretty, and then you get depressed about it, which means that you understood the lesson. But depression has its good points, you know. It sharpens perception. Did you know that?”
    Elizabeth shook her head.
    “Absolutely true. Psychologists have done studies of people with depression versus so-called normal people, and you know what? Depressed people have a much more accurate view of the world.”
    “What do you mean … accurate?”
    “The researchers asked both groups to rate themselveson how smart they thought they were, how good-looking, how well liked, and so on. The normal people
overestimated
themselves in every category. They always gave themselves higher scores for looks and brains and popularity than other people gave them. That’s the old rosy view of the world for you—sheer self-delusion.”
    “The depressed people underrated themselves?” asked Elizabeth.
    “No. The depressed patients were right on the money. Their self-scores tallied with the researchers’ objective assessment of them every time. So—depressed people may be sadder than normal, but they are the only ones who can look reality dead in the eye. If you want Truth with a capital T and no Pollyanna bullshit—get depressed. It’s funny, isn’t it? Normal people try to cheer you up by telling you things aren’t as bad as you think, and it turns out that you’re right and they’re wrong.”
    Elizabeth sighed. She had been on the receiving end of a lot of well-meaning optimism in recent weeks. “I think I’d rather have the rose-colored glasses, thank you.”
    “Suit yourself. I prefer to take reality straight up, without the sugar coating.”
    “So why are you here then?”
    Emma O. held out her arms so that Elizabeth could see the crisscrossing of thick, white scars encircling both wrists. “I guess you could say I overdosed on the truth.”
    B ill MacPherson was standing awkwardly in the mansion’s two-story marbled entrance hall, peering intently up atthe blazing brilliance of the five-tier chandelier, dutifully contemplating the sprawling carved oak staircase that led to a landing with a stained-glass window—and he knew that some sort of reaction was expected of him, but he just didn’t get it.
    “Oh, you men are hopeless when it comes to houses!” said Holly Milton in some exasperation. She could see that her new client the young lawyer was trying his best to be polite about the magnificent house, but he was hopeless. He felt none of the visceral lust for possession, the rush of instant status that would have hit any woman fifty yards from the front door.
    “Bill,” sighed the Realtor. “Just pretend it’s a sports car, okay?”
    He nodded slowly. “So … What you mean is that this is an ego thing. Extension of one’s self. I own the house, therefore I am the house. Hmmm. Am I not supposed to think about practical things like heating costs and the condition of the roof?”
    “Eventually, yes, we can talk about those things. You can even get a second opinion from an independent real estate appraiser before you make an offer. First, though, you must feel the magic of this place. You are the house. That’s exactly what I want you to imagine. Think what this house says about the people who live here!”
    Bill thought it over. “It says that they have spent a lot of money on a really big house, and now they will spend even more money to keep it from falling slowly to bits. It says that they probably want to brag about owning the house to a lot of people they don’t like very much, so that those people will envy them and feel bad that their own houses are not so grand. This house could generate a lot of