1975
Breasts tender as bruises. Nausea squirming in the pit of me like a nest of snakes. And tears, rivers and rivers of tears.
Hormones, I tell myself, mopping up. Just hormones. Once I have done the deed, they will disappear with the rest.
Deirdre thinks it is breaking up with Rory that makes me cry. I have not seen him for three days. I am home, snuffling around the flat in my dressing gown, or sobbing under my blanket. What happened? Deirdre wants to know. Are we finished? Can’t we make up? Why won’t I tell her? I want to tell but I can’t. The word curdles in my throat: I cannot get it out.
I know I am (relatively) lucky, to have England next door. To have a safe, legal option to flinging myself down stairs with fingers crossed. To all the whispered things you hear that women do.
