Page 8 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

I mean, I get why it might have looked unprofessional to run out of the presentation after me, but surely afterwards? A harried hailing of taxi. Sprinting down endless hospital corridors. Some tearful bedside hand holding?

Actually, it wouldn’t even have been unprofessional because we signed one of those HR things that lets you state you’re in a consensual relationship and working for the same company and not harassing each other in any way.

I can’t help myself. As I steer from the foggy awfulness of the day, I say, ‘I didn’t even warrant a “Hi Babe, just checking in with you – looked like you were having a myocardial infarction during the presentation. Concerned. Love, Anya”?’

Anya drops her bag at the end of the sofa and folds her arms. ‘You had a panic attack, George.’

Yes.

The shame of it grabs me by the throat and slams me about some more so that I’m now feeling even more tired.

Not a heart attack.

A panic attack!

Distinct difference.

And the reason for the unrelenting feelings of stupidity.

‘But you didn’t know that, did you?’ I accuse, feeling irritable.

‘I did, George. You told me. From the hospital. Would you like some tea?’

‘Tea?’ I stare, agog. I may be from Old Blighty but what the actual? I end up in the emergency room, fully thinking I’m having a heart attack and my girlfriend returns from partying and offers me tea. ‘Is that some kind of joke?’

‘No joke – I guess, more a clumsy attempt to soothe. What I’m trying to say, is that, yes, you had a panic attack, but you also took care of it without impacting the deal, which, by the way, I commend you for. I told Mr. Yeong you had to rush to another presentation and got you some extra points for dedication. I don’t think we should pay too much credence to the panic. It may affect how you get over it. And we can’t have that happening again, can we? You’re too important.’

I want to ask to whom, but I have a sneaky feeling I already know.

Suddenly, I crave sinking back down onto the sofa and pulling the throw over my head so I can have an almighty sulk.

Aside from the utter humiliation of having a panic attack at work for absolutely no reason at all, I realise I’m upset and confused that my girlfriend isn’t dressed in a naughty nurse uniform, feeding me peeled grapes and offering to binge-watch something she hates on Netflix, with me.

Doesn’t sit well.

So I stand up and walk over to the kitchen area for a bottle of the good red I like. I pour out a large glass. There’s no point pouring one for Anya as she will tell me she’s already had her allotted alcohol units while out playing the perfect business hostess.

‘Hungry?’ I ask, aiming to let go of the horrid irritability dogging my every move. I haven’t felt like this in years. I’ve worked very hard not to feel like this.

Instead, I favour feeling phlegmatic.

Pragmatic.

Chilled.

Anya smiles. Technically she hasn’t been hungry for decades.

For some reason, this rankles too. Probably because I’m suddenly yearning for the comfort and healing qualities of a full English fry-up. Which is weird, because I haven’t had one of those since the early years, pre-surgery.

But seeing as I didn’t have a heart attack I could totally have one now – a fry-up, that is.

I open up the fridge and stare at the emptiness inside.

Or not, then.

It flashes through my mind that maybe if I kept the fridge better stocked and not looking like something out of a bachelor pad then Anya and I would be better about being a couple. A stab of guilt follows at the thought and I vow to get better at all of this. Perhaps if I purchased some scatter cushions? Make the place more enticing for her to stay over more.

It occurs to me I don’t remember the reason why we didn’t move in together when I agreed to come to New York with her. There must have been one, right?

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