When Life Gives You Lemons
Chapters (54)
- Cover
- WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS
- Dedication
- Part One
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Part Two
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Part Three
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Part Four
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Acknowledgements
- Keep Reading …
- About the Author
- By the same author:
- About the Publisher
Cover
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS
Fiona Gibson
Dedication
For Ellie Stott
Part One
Before
Chapter One
Sunday, February 10
It’s happened again, the night-sweating thing. ‘Christ, Viv,’ Andy announces. ‘It’s like waking up in a swamp around here.’
I blink at my husband as he climbs out of bed. ‘I can’t help it. It just comes out of my body while I’m asleep.’
He winces. ‘Yeah, well, I’m just saying.’
‘But you’re not just saying, are you? You’re telling me off for being a middle-aged woman in the throes of hormonal collapse—’
‘It’s just unpleasant, that’s all I mean.’
He pulls on his dressing gown, tightening the belt with a sharp tug. It’s unpleasant for him? Well, I’m sorry, but along with the sweats I have a few other issues on my plate right now, such as: mood swings, heart palpitations, irrational outbursts and perpetually simmering anxiety that’s ramped up considerably from my usual already significant levels; plus a craving for hefty puddings (which might explain the weight piling onto my stomach), a tendency to cry at the sight of puppies, kittens, calves – any juvenile animal in fact – and more spots than I’ve been plagued with since I was thirteen years old. Oh, and there are the night fears too, neatly parcelled up with insomnia: about whether I booked my boss’s flights for the correct date, and why I am overdrawn so badly, and what’s happened to make my hair go crunchy like straw. There’s always something to fret about at 4.37 a.m., from the state of the government to the size of my arse – and, failing that, I can angst about my anxiety in general (is it normal to feel this way?). And my husband has the audacity to moan about a clammy bed? For a man, the menopause is a breeze.
‘I could sleep in the spare room?’ I suggest. ‘If it’s that bad for you?’
‘No need for that,’ he says with a martyrish sigh.
‘Or book into a special hotel for menopausal ladies with fans everywhere and sympathetic men to tend to our needs?’
He chooses not to respond to this.
‘There’s not much else I can do,’ I add. ‘It’s not as if I can have a thermostat fitted.’
‘All right, you’ve made your point …’
‘Although I wish I did have a little knob.’