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When Life Gives You Lemons

Fiona Gibson
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS
  3. Dedication
  4. Part One
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Part Two
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Chapter Fifteen
  21. Chapter Sixteen
  22. Chapter Seventeen
  23. Chapter Eighteen
  24. Chapter Nineteen
  25. Chapter Twenty
  26. Part Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-One
  28. Chapter Twenty-Two
  29. Chapter Twenty-Three
  30. Chapter Twenty-Four
  31. Chapter Twenty-Five
  32. Chapter Twenty-Six
  33. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  36. Part Four
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. Chapter Thirty-Two
  40. Chapter Thirty-Three
  41. Chapter Thirty-Four
  42. Chapter Thirty-Five
  43. Chapter Thirty-Six
  44. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Chapter Forty-One
  49. Chapter Forty-Two
  50. Acknowledgements
  51. Keep Reading …
  52. About the Author
  53. By the same author:
  54. About the Publisher

Cover

Cover image: When Life Gives You Lemons by Fiona Gibson

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS

Fiona Gibson

Avon. Logo

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.’