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This time I shook my head. “No, I’m just not good in crowds.”
“Why did you come here then?” His question wasn’t mean. He sou
nded confused more than anything.
“I’ve just started working at the clinic, and I couldn’t bear to tell them. I didn’t want them to think I was completely crazy.” I laughed, but it came out too harsh.
“Would you like me to get you a cab? Or I could drive you home, if you prefer.”
My eyes watered at his kindness. This man, who looked old enough to be my father, was being sweeter to me than anybody had in a long time. More so than my own parents, who by that point had pretty much disowned me.
“I can’t leave until later. Somebody will notice.”
He smiled and it was the first time I realised how handsome he was, in spite of his age.
“How about you come and sit with me? I can hold your hand and talk you through any panic attack. I’ll protect you.”
That had been the start of it. He did everything he promised; escorted me all night, held my hand when I started to shake. He even managed to coax me onto the dance floor once. When he dropped me home that evening, barely flinching when he saw the run-down squat I was living in, he’d taken my number and promised to call me the next day.
He was a man of his word. He always has been. What he lacks in passion he makes up for in loyalty.
Over the next six months, he courted me assiduously. Spoiled me with flowers and gifts, took me to beautiful restaurants and upmarket art galleries. And though I liked all these things—who wouldn’t—it was the way he treated me I liked the most. He made the decisions and looked after me like I was his second daughter.
For the first time in a long while, I felt happy. Safe. Within six months I was spending more time at his house than mine. We were married two years later.
I haven’t had a panic attack since.
