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I answered. ‘What’s wrong?’ Nigel said, ‘You should feel pleased.’
    â€˜Hmm,’ I thought, ‘then why don’t I?’ I just had this awful niggling feeling in my gut that it was going to be bad news, even after the positive feedback from Mr Shorthouse. I still felt I was in deep trouble; call it a woman’s intuition, but I just didn’t feel convinced.
    6.45pm: still waiting, Mr Shorthouse was running 30 minutes late. ‘Great, just our luck,’ I whispered in Nigel’s ear, trying to be discreet. Nigel was looking more anxious than me, I thought. He was dressed smartly in a dark grey suit and tie, having been at work all day. I was wearing a pair of grey slacks and a black blazer with the Olympic brooch, that dad had given me, pinned onto the left lapel. It somehow gave me support in a strange way. Nigel was beginning to make me dizzy; he was up and down so many times to the water dispenser that he’d virtually drunk it dry.
    The consultation suite was packed full of patients waiting to see their consultants, and I couldn’t help people-watching and trying to decide what might be wrong with them. Was there anyone else in this room that had found a breast lump? The funny thing was that nearly everybody looked perfectly healthy, but who would know if they might be walking round with some horrible disease that lay undetected? We were sitting next to the reception desk, so we were within earshot of most conversations that were taking place. Eventually, a nurse came through the double doors and said to the lady on reception, ‘Is Mr Sharp with Mrs Sharp?’ We’d both witnessed the comment, but said nothing apart from turning towards each other with a knowing look. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled as Nigel squeezed my hand. Surely we would be put out of our misery soon, I thought. I just wanted to know what was going on.
    Another lady appeared, whom I’d not seen that evening; ‘Mrs Elaine Sharp?’ she asked, as she held the door open with one hand. Nigel jumped up and took the door-holding duty off the friendly, plump lady, who proceeded down a corridor into a room on the left. I felt like I was on autopilot, as the grey-haired man stood up from behind his desk and held out his hand to me. I shook his hand and sat down facing him. Nigel did the same. The same familiar grey desk stood in front of us, with Mr Shorthouse behind it opening up a file, which I presumed had something to do with me.
    â€˜Well,’ said Mr Shorthouse, ‘the mammogram was clear.’
    Nigel and I turned to face each other, but said nothing.
    â€˜But,’ said Mr Shorthouse, ‘the needle biopsy showed up a bunch of suspicious cells.’ Like clockwork, we again turned to look at each other. The sound of Andrew Shorthouse’ voice was resonating in my head, until the silence was broken by Nigel.
    â€˜Suspicious cells,’ uttered Nigel. ‘What exactly does that mean?’ looking at Mr Shorthouse.
    â€˜Well, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s cancer. The lab report still states that it is probably benign, but I will need you back in tomorrow to remove the lump, to see what we are dealing with’.
    By now I was oblivious to the words that were coming out of my consultant’s mouth. It was almost as though the volume had been turned down, but the conversation was still going on.
    Nigel, as usual, was bombarding Mr Shorthouse with questions, which he promptly answered as best he could, with fairly brief and limited information.
    â€˜If it is cancer, how do we need to deal with this? What will the treatment be? Will she need further surgery? Chemotherapy: will she need that? What if it’s spread?’
    Nigel was doing what he does best; like most engineers he looks at everything from first principles, gathering as much information as possible before he finds the best way forward; only this time he was out of his