The Single Mums' Secrets - Janet Hoggarth Page 0,35

how old, or what she did (healer had been a lucky guess) or how they’d met. I just wanted to get out of the claustrophobic pub and into the fresh air because the claret flock wallpaper was suffocating me with its priapic furry fronds.

‘I just need to clear my head. Will you excuse me, please?’ I scraped back my stool from the small round dark wood table, the legs ploughing the floor like nails down a blackboard. I stood and blood immediately pounded in my ears, making my head loll like a marionette, the weight proving too much for its spindly neck. Tom caught me just before I hit the deck.

‘Jesus, Christa. Don’t scare me. Are you OK?’

I nodded, then shook my head. I dug my nails into both palms, practically gouging the stigmata. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

‘God, I had no idea you would react like this. I would have suggested the chat at your house otherwise. Do you want some water?’

I nodded, not trusting my vocal cords. I needed to face this was actually happening now, rather than keep fobbing myself off. The time had come to bring in the HRT Big Boys.

Tom slid a pint of water across the table towards my bowed head leaving a snail trail of condensation. My shirt was stuck to my back but I knew if I took my cardie off I would start shivering.

‘It’s not the news that affected me, though I’m sure it didn’t help.’

‘Are you ill?’

‘I think it’s the menopause fast approaching. It’s got incrementally worse in the last six weeks, almost daily. But I can go for a few days without any symptoms at all and then I’ll have a day that floors me.’

‘Have you had a blood test to confirm you’re nearing the menopause?’

I shook my head.

‘Don’t you think you should?’

‘Yeah,’ I sighed wearily. ‘I’ve been putting it off. The thought of this happening now just feels so… wrong. I’m too young to be a crone!’

‘Do you want me to do it? You know a lot of the symptoms can mask other illnesses. You should be checked for everything just in case.’

Everything – the gamut of tests that included cancer, under and overactive thyroid, anaemia, blood sugar, pernicious anaemia, as well as looking for spikes and dips in the reproductive hormones. I knew the other reason I’d been avoiding the test – I was a terrible patient. I was never ill, hated being prodded, and had little tolerance for complainers.

‘Listen, you’re not being a complainer.’ Tom read my mind. ‘It’s OK to get a blood test to rule certain things out. But there’s one thing that we also test for when we’re ticking off boxes—’

‘Tom, no.’

He shrugged. Neither of us could bear to look at one another, let alone utter the divisive word.

‘It has to be ruled out when testing for everything else.’

‘No. I don’t need a test. I’m infertile.’

‘Well, you know best,’ he said curtly. ‘Do you want me to do the bloods? We could go back into work and do it now. Margaret can send it over to King’s with all the others in the morning.’

*

‘You may feel a little prick,’ Tom said, a smile curling up the edge of his mouth as he slipped the needle into the vein. What was bizarre was that it wasn’t bizarre. Tom was the last and also the only person I wanted to do my bloods. I could have asked Penny, the practice nurse, or my own doctor, Victoria, at the Queens Road Surgery, but I couldn’t face the conversation. I would eventually need to phone the surgery anyway to find out the results.

‘Thanks, Tom. I’m sorry I freaked you out earlier. I’m glad you’ve met someone.’ Was I? I didn’t feel it, but it was the right thing to say. ‘Eleven years is a long time and I think it will take some getting used to.’ He nodded and smiled, grabbed another vacutainer and expertly slipped it into the syringe.

‘Results in ten days. Then you can make an informed choice on HRT.’

I inwardly sighed. Crone-hood felt so early at forty-two. But I also felt a world away from summer 1990 when my sexual journey had officially started.

12

Impossibly Possible

‘Hello, Christa. I have some test results here for you. I had no idea you’d taken bloods.’ A message had popped up on my screen from Margaret just before lunch. Could I please ring Doctor Greaves at the Queens Road Surgery?

‘Yes. Last week. I wanted to know where I stood on