‘Your palpitations are better then?’ she asks now.
‘Completely gone. Same with the migraines. I still have PMS symptoms and feel a bit foggy just before my period but they’re not as severe. I’ve generally got more energy.’
‘Well, that’s great news. Stress levels?’
‘Hmm. I do live with a teenager . . .’
‘Say no more. But a general improvement across the board, you’d say?’
‘Yes. Apart from the hot flushes.’
She looks at her computer. ‘I don’t think you reported those at our first appointment.’
‘No, they . . . seem to be a new thing. Nothing I can’t live with, though.’
‘Hmm. Okay.’ She types it in. ‘Anything else. Vaginal dryness?’
I nearly sayquite the opposite. ‘No.’
‘What about your sex drive?’
I shift in my seat, feeling slightly awkward. ‘I think the best description of that would be . . . off the scale.’
‘It’s gone up?’
‘Through the roof.’
She looks very pleased. ‘That’ll be the oestrogen.’
‘Should I beconcerned?’ I ask.
‘Oh no. I’d say the only thing that need concern you now,’ she says, spinning round to reveal a wry smile, ‘is having the time of your life.’
I’m not one of these people who has a general distrust of the medical profession, but as I walk home after the appointment, I do know that on this particular issue Dr Willoughby is way off the mark. The time of my life indeed.
The truth is, I make terrible decisions after having sex with people and I always have. The sex in question doesn’t even need to be that good. I read somewhere once that this is somethingto do with oxytocin levels in the aftermath of the event. I might have known it would be a hormone.
I’ve convinced myself I’ve fallen in love with so many people after a roll in the hay over the years that I realised a long time ago I simply cannot be trusted. It’s taken time and two failed marriages for me to recognise this, though Danny and Brendan are far from my only mistakes. They’re just the most drastic examples. I had a single one-night stand at university and was so gutted when he wanted nothing to do with me in the cold light of day that it took about two terms to get over it.
I put my key in the door as a response to my earlier email arrives on my phone from Andrea.
From: [email protected]
Lisa,
Today’s fine but don’t make a habit of home working, will you? Zoom can be handy, but it doesn’t bring out the best in any of us. Remember Giles flashing his pyjama bottoms at the Public Policy Director of Ofcom? Also, don’t forget the ‘Future of Streaming’ day tomorrow. We definitely need you here for that.
Andrea
I feel a surge of dread at the reminder. Zach will be presenting at that. It will be impossible for me to avoid it. Which is unfortunate because so far my main approach to Friday night’s events has been to try and pretend he doesn’t exist.
This really isn’t like me. Ordinarily, I never bury my head in the sand. I roll my sleeves up, have a difficult conversation and sort it out. I am the last person to avoid an issue. Unless that issue involves a handsome American who has caressed my behind in a dark, rainy street – something I have singularly failed to stop replaying in my head ever since.
‘Eurgh,’ I groan, heading to the bathroom. I’m washing my hands after using the loo when I look in the mirror and register a couple of wrinkles that I’m sure never used to be there.
I’m not especially obsessed with the way I look, which I think can partly be attributed to the fact that there was no such thing as a selfie in my formative years. Only a handful of pictures even exist of me in my twenties, largely because of the effort it took to buy a film, get it developed, then come to terms with your disappointment when the only vaguely decent photo had been hijacked by your dad’s thumb.
