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breathing began to get shorter. Her throat constricted. She reached up to remove the thing that was choking her, but there was nothing there, the soft terry of the robe was loose at her bust. The therapist, unaware of Gemma’s inner turmoil, placed a warm towel around her client’s face to cleanse away the mud. The towel seemed to take on a life of its own, suffocating her like a great O2 pillow sucking the air from her lungs. The blockage in her throat slammed shut. She sat bolt upright, clawing at the face towel, desperate for oxygen and release from the claustrophobic threat. Her breathing was short, sharp and jagged. She had to get away, she needed to run; she was sure she was going to die from this feeling.
    She leaped from the bed in agitation, her mind a terrifying spiral of panic.
    Oh God, she thought, maybe I’ve lost my mind; I’ve gone mad.
    She threw her arms out in terror, trying to steady the world that whirled around her, and swept a tray of tiny glass aromatherapy oils to the ground in a noisy crash.
    â€˜What the hell?’ Mercedes and Chantelle sat up, shocked.
    â€˜Wow, good detox!’ Mercedes exclaimed.

Gemma sat rigid in the vinyl waiting-room chair. She clasped her handbag tightly on her lap. She stared unseeingly at the posters for STD and H1N1 prevention, and others urging patients to have mammograms and Pap smears. Her head was still aching and her body felt bruised all over. The panic had subsided, but she still didn’t quite know what had happened to her.
    Chantelle had insisted on bringing her to the doctor after her bizarre behaviour at the spa. She sat next to Gemma absently stroking her arm whilst she devoured an old copy of HELLO! Magazine .
    Gemma felt tears pricking her eyes. She felt so stupid, and so frightened. The sense of building pressure had happened a few times of late, but nothing as bad as today. Life had just been so full-on recently, with the increased responsibility at work and the unpleasantness at home. The more her marriage splintered at the edges, the more she thought back to her own parents’ dysfunctional relationship with a sense of impending and inevitable doom.
    They’d split when Gemma was fourteen and had never spoken a civil word to each other since, not even managing to be in the same space long enough to see their only daughter married or only grandchild christened. Their hatred and bitterness towards each other had barely waned in the decades since they had stormed and raged at each other as their daughter cried herself to sleep. Their split had only created more pain – at least there was less shouting when they were apart – but each parent had used Gemma as a pawn to score points against the other, constantly deriding the other to her, always in competition to buy her the most expensive gifts or designer clothes. Gemma’s teen years were spent being ferried from one angry parent to the other, listening to each catalogue the faults of the other. It was exhausting.
    She was determined that things would be different for Tyler; he would have stability and never be caught in the ugly place her parents had forced upon her.
    She thought back to the incident of this morning and the look on the spa therapist’s face when the panic finally ebbed away and Gemma was left breathless and shivering.
    You’re a mental case , the look had said.
    Gemma’s doctor, Kerryn Davis, stepped into the waiting room and motioned her to follow her into her surgery.
    Kerryn was a trim woman with a very quiet voice who immediately instilled confidence.
    â€˜Thanks for fitting me in at such late notice,’ Gemma said.
    â€˜It was good timing, actually. I just had a cancellation. Now what’s going on with you?’ Kerryn enquired gently, sliding a box of tissues towards her patient.
    Right on cue, Gemma grabbed a tissue and her will faltered. Heavy tears fell down her cheeks. ‘I know it’s silly, but I just