Isabella? I’m guessing that’s not your real name. Sherry’s not my real name either. I didn’t want to call one of those help lines. I don’t need that sort of help. After what’s happened my family think I should see a counsellor. For comfort. I don’t want comfort.

I’m sorry. I’m not your normal client. Is ‘client’ the right word? I can’t talk to anyone I know. Not my family, of course. Or, my friends. None of them would understand. And they’d judge. You don’t mind who the client is or what they say, do you? You still get paid? It’s by the minute, isn’t it? Why don’t you make a cup of coffee or tea and sit back and relax. You don’t have to say anything. I just want an ear to talk into.

It’s the old story. My husband dumped me two months ago for another woman.

….

No. No. You don’t have to sound sympathetic. It’s okay. That’s part of the problem. Everyone feels sorry for me – my friends, my son, even my daughter-in-law! But there’s nothing to be sorry about. For the first few days I went around in a daze and people assumed I was upset. Not at all! Shit no! Sorry! I hope you don’t mind the language. It’s part of feeling so free. Once I got over the surprise, I felt – relief. Freedom! Yippee! I couldn’t say ‘Yippee’ out loud. Everyone was being so kind. They kept saying things they thought I’d like to hear.

‘You’ll get the house.’

‘The hussy’s no blonde. You should see her roots!’

‘She’ll soon get tired of him and find someone less boring.’

‘He can’t keep it in his pants. Typical man!’

What do you think, Isabella? It’s not true of all men, is it? Wouldn’t some of them call your service as a less guilty alternative to being unfaithful to their wives?

….

What? Spot on? I’m not totally naïve! Okay, so I’ve only ever had one man. I know that’s strange in this day and age. We were twenty-two when we got married. Both virgins. In those days I believed in all that stuff about keeping yourself nice for ‘The One’.