He slurped his tea—a much less pleasant intrusion—and asked about the GP.
Earlier in the week, after Raymond had delivered a persuasive argument about the importance of obtaining an expert,
objective view of my emotional state, and of the efficacy of modern treatments should any mental health issues be diagnosed,
I’d finally agreed to make an appointment at the surgery.
“I’m going tomorrow,” I said. “Half past eleven.” He nodded.
“That’s good, Eleanor,” he said. “Now, promise me you’ll be completely honest with the doctor,
tell her exactly what you’ve been feeling, what you’ve been going through.”
I thought about this. I would tell her almost everything, I’d decided, but I wasn’t going to mention the little stockpile of pills
(which no longer existed in any case—Raymond had, with scant concern for the environment, flushed them down the lavatory.
I’d professed irritation but was secretly glad to be rid of them),
and I had also decided to say nothing about the chats with Mummy or our ridiculous, abortive project.
Mummy always said that information should be divulged to professional busybodies on a need-to-know basis, and these topics weren’t relevant.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색