Page 26 of The Dead Ex

‘What’s that round your neck?’ they might ask.

‘Just a little red button which I press if I think I’m about to have a seizure. Providing I get enough time.’

How well would that go down? An aromatherapist is meant to help others. Not be in need of healing herself.

I brush the thought from my mind. Attempt instead to concentrate on the client whom I’d rescheduled for tomorrow. It willdo me good, I tell myself. I need to get back to normal. That was another piece of advice from the consultant. Try not to let it ruin your life. Keep taking the meds. Don’t alarm yourself over the statistics. Plenty of people still have jobs and families.

But what kind of employer wants someone with an official record like mine? The only option was to go self-employed. It would be, I told myself,a new start.

Now, to clear my head, I go for a walk along the promenade. Below me, the beach drops away. When I first came here I was disappointed to find the beach was shingle. But that was because the tide was up. When it’s out, it’s sandy. Two different people. Like me.

When I get back, I spray lavender onto my pillow for acalm sleep. It doesn’t work. In my dreams, David runs after me alonga beach. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’s shouting. ‘I’m sorry …’

I wake with a start with the night still black outside and the clock showing 4.12 a.m. next to me. For a moment, I think that it’s true. That he really is sorry for not sticking with me. And then I feel a huge grey wave of regret and sadness, because if he’d supported me, things would have been different.

All I can do now is hope against hopethat David turns up. Soon.

My client – one of my regulars – is five minutes early, but I’m ready for her. The room is warm, and my usual soothing ‘angel’ music – like the sound of a light breeze or lapping waves – is playing. I like this woman with her soft, gentle manners. Indeed, there have been times when I’ve been tempted to explain my condition to her.

I’ve a feeling she might understand.But I daren’t risk it.

‘How are you?’ she asks when I answer the door.

When rescheduling, I’d deliberately not mentioned my hospital stay. Now I’m nervous. My hands begin to sweat. She lives in town, so maybe someone has told her. I can almost imagine it:That aromatherapist with the red hair who lives in one of those converted flats? Found her having a fit under the bench on the seafront, they did.

‘Fine,’ I reply tersely.

‘I’m still having my migraines,’ she says. And then I realize that her ‘How are you?’ was simply a matter of courtesy.

Immediately I snap into professional caring mode. ‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we?’

Lavender, of course. Citrus scent. Clary sage. Jasmine. My chosen middle note, my top and my base, as I learned during my training. Now blend. She lies backon my couch, her head in my hands. I massage the oils into her temples in a slow circular motion. ‘Lovely,’ she breathes. ‘You’ve got such a deft touch. Have you always been able to do this?’

I stiffen. Even though this woman has been here before, she’s never asked questions about my past. She’s just taken it for granted that the black-and-white framed certificates on the wall are a measure ofmy competence.

‘Not always,’ I say hesitantly.

‘So what made you become an aromatherapist?’

I swallow the tension in my throat. ‘I went to one when … when I needed to tackle some of my own issues. I found it calming. And then I decided to train as one myself.’

‘Fascinating,’ she murmurs, eyes still closed. ‘What were you doing before?’

I can’t tell her the truth. ‘Just running a home, actually.’

‘Don’t undersell yourself.’ Her voice is gently admonishing. ‘I was a full-time mum until my youngest went to uni.’

I have a sudden vision of rosy cheeks and a soft brown floppy fringe. A strong nose. Freckles. That wonderful baby smell.

‘How old are yours?’ she asks.

My hands slip.

‘Ouch!’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘My left eye.’ She sits up. ‘Your finger went right in it. The oil is stinging.’