I would have to be upfront. She was not the sort of person who was sensitive to atmospheres or subtext. ‘I’m wondering about the Lofepramine . . .’

‘Right,’ she said, eyes feasting on my stomach. She looked pained. ‘My gosh, you’re always so slim,’ she said. ‘How the hell do you do it? Skinny cow!’

I was temporarily stumped. Oh, you know, the Cuckold Diet, works a treat. I couldn’t speak for fear of crying.

‘Anyway, how’s it going, any side effects?’

‘I’m pretty anxious,’ I said. ‘I’m not sleeping.’

‘Oh?’ I didn’t like her tone. ‘Anything in particular keeping you awake?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m just stressed.’

She stared at me for a bit. ‘What about your periods? How are they?’

‘No, it’s not that . . .’

‘Peri-menopausal hormones can make us a bit doolally.’

I cannot live with this pain inside me. You have to help me. ‘It’s more anxiety,’ I said. ‘I’m having these panic attacks . . .’

‘I tell you, HRT is the way forward.’

‘My therapist said I should see you about my prescription . . .’

That was a lie, of course. I don’t have a therapist. I’m not against therapy but I’ve always assumed I’d never find one I respected. If I’m going to look for advice, I want it from someone I can truly look up to, preferably someone perfect, like a guru or a saint. At least someone who lives an exemplary life themselves, not someone like you with your Si Hubby problems and your calorie bars in your bag. No offence.

‘Anxiety and insomnia . . .’ she said, sucking on her pen in a strangely suggestive fashion. I got the uncomfortable feeling she was trying to impress me.

‘She thinks you should up the dosage,’ I lied. She didn’t like being told that, I could see. She raised one of her ventriloquist-dummy eyebrows and tapped something into the computer.

Then she turned to me, all swivel and secrets. ‘I might have just the thing . . .’

She knew she had me hooked now and there was nothing Dr. Rhys Evans liked more in the world than having people hooked; it happened so little outside her office. ‘Look,’ she said conspiratorially. ‘Not to name names, but all the celebrities we get in here are on these little beauties. Between you and me, I gave Leah some and she said they were just amazing.’

I want them.

With hindsight, she was unbelievable, that woman; she had both name-dropped and broken the ethical code in one sentence. ‘What are they?’ I asked, too desperately, like a drowning woman grabbing on to a twig.

‘They chill you out, like Valium or Zanax. They’re the same family, benzodiazepines. Take as and when needed, if you know what I mean. I’m only allowed to give you fourteen at a time.’

We both listened as the printer wheezed my hopes asthmatically into life.