Twelve
ON MONDAY MORNING, SEXTON DROVE me out to Surrey to a private medical practice Dante had been using his whole life. It was certainly a drive out of his way so I assumed his doctor must be good.
I felt sad as we drove there, and slightly broken. We’d slept in separate beds last night; after working late, Dante had gone to one of the spare rooms and slept there.
After Dr Clare Heron took my weight, height, blood pressure and a urine sample, she asked, “So what is the purpose of your visit, today? Other than checking in as a new patient.”
She must have sensed I had something on my mind.
“Have you got my notes from my old doctor?”
She nodded slightly. “They faxed copies this morning after Mr Sinclair called.”
“Well, I… get a period maybe once every three months. I don’t keep chec
