I step out of the car, and I try to make the most of every second.
The air is full of moisture, rain and sleet and snow, yet it smells like spring: of grass and honeysuckle and fertile soil. The sky is neither dark nor light; a quilt of raincloud letting in the bright, evening sunlight at its seams.
“What a miserable night,” MadFather says, wrapping his coat around him.
I smile. It is the most beautiful night I have ever seen. I had forgotten how it feels to be outside. Not only how good it smells, how I’d forgotten how beautiful the sky could be, but how after just a moment the wind leaves my hair chilled, resting on my neck like a cool hand; how the sunlight lights up the very whites of my eyes.
I cross the lawn we are standing on, feeling my muscles, so unused to this, slide over each other, knowing I will pay for this tomorrow.
The front door opens. “Hello,” I say to the lady. She is exactly as I imagined; about 50, bobbed grey hair, slightly tanned. “I’m here for reflexology.”
She ushers me in. The room is a soft reclining chair, an oil burner, an ipod touch playing panpipe music.
We just need to do a bit of background,” she says, “before I can help you.”
We go through my symptoms. Fatigue so bad I cannot sit up for longer than five minutes, constant fever, bouts of sore throat.
“Now I just need to ask you some questions before we begin,” she says. “Have you had any surgery I should know about?”
“Oh, foot surgery,” I say. “That’s probably relevant.”
“Right,” she says, writing on her clipboard.
“Have you had any respiratory problems?”
“No.”
“Any problems with your urinary tract?”
“Oh, yes, loads of infections. The doctors don’t know why.”
“Okay,” she says. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Yes, I can’t get to sleep and then I wake up every few hours.”
“Poor circulation?”
“Yes. My hands and feet are always cold.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Any digestive problems?”
“Yes,” I say., sighing as I realise how much I’d forgotten to tell her. “Since I got ill I often randomly throw up.”
“Any skin conditions?”
“I have a lot of bruises,” I say. “Glandular fever lowers your platelet content so you bruise easily. And have nose bleeds.”
“Right,” she says. “You’re quite broken aren’t you?”
I try to smile at her, the reality of my condition now staring at me, on a reflexology information form.
“One last thing,” she says. “Did you used to be active, before this – happened to you?”
I cast my mind back, to days spent strolling around Canon Hill Park with MindReader, chasing a goose until it flew into the water. Of evenings in hot baths after pilates, ballet, yoga, stretching out my worn muscles and complaining, a rueful smile on my face. Of running for trains, to take back library books, of chasing MindReader, giggling, into bed.
“Yes,” I say. “I used to do ballet and – well all sorts, really. In a former life.”
The tears catch in my throat and she pats my arm. “Now,” she says. “Let’s get you well.”
