11 Five years earlier
The waiting room feels cold. I bring my hands across my chest and rub my upper arms. It’s mid-July, but I’m freezing. Middle-aged women sit around me, fanning themselves with paper fans. Men sit spreadeagled in shorts and sunglasses, those daft toe-splitting flip-flops dangling off the end of their feet.
I turn to Chris. He looks at me and smiles, and places a reassuring hand on my thigh. He squeezes. I feel instantly warmer.
It doesn’t last long, though. I know deep down what’s going to be said today isn’t going to be good news. We’ve been trying for three years. We have s*x every other day — sometimes every day — but still nothing. I don’t need a doctor to tell me what’s wrong. Sometimes you just know in your heart. It doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel realistic,
