‘I suppose with me it’s actually quite similar to what you just described,’ the Athlete said, casting a gym-honed arm in the direction of the Lost Girl.
He could have been the lead in a Regency romance. He had the chiselled jaw, the curly hair, the refined looks. When he’d walked into the room he’d towered over Sam by several inches.
‘I’m basically convinced I’m going to die all the time. But from a heart attack, not sleeping. My father died of a cardiac arrest when he was fifty-two.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Sam told him. It was a loss he could all too easily relate to.
‘I was twelve. It happened completely out of the blue. I was the one who found him.’ The Athlete blinked rapidly, glancing away towards the whiteboard for a moment to compose himself. ‘I loved him very much. We all did.’
‘That’s awful,’ the Artist said. ‘You were so young.’
Sam didn’t think it was his imagination that the Artist was looking at the Athlete with something more than sympathy, nor that the Athlete appeared to be responding in kind, nodding gratefully, holding her gaze.
‘In many ways I’m incredibly fortunate. My family is well off. My father ran a successful business and my mother and uncle continued it after his death. Everyone keeps telling me to get out of my own head. My brother and sister are always urging me to look to the future, but I really can’t help myself. I’m terrified and convinced it’s going to happen to me. A hundred per cent. And even when people tell me it’s not going to happen, I don’t really believe it, because I can’t.’
‘Same for me,’ the Lost Girl whispered.
The Boxer scrubbed a hand across his balding scalp. He looked dubious. ‘Have you had tests?’
‘Lots, yes.’
‘And?’
The Athlete frowned at the Boxer. Sam could tell he was irritated by the Boxer’s question but he also believed that could be a good thing. Part of the reason for the support group was for the people who came along to have their phobias challenged. In Sam’s experience, it could be a powerful factor if the challenge came from somebody else who was suffering in a similar way.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the Athlete said. ‘Because that’s the whole thing with a phobia, isn’t it? For all of us, I’m assuming. That’s why it’s this kind of mental torture. I eat healthily. I don’t drink. I go to the gym every day. But you could have a hundred doctors run a hundred negative tests on me and I’d still think they’d missed something and that I’m going to have a fatal heart attack any second.’
‘You’re young,’ the Librarian spoke up. ‘Statistically speaking—’
‘Yes, statistically speaking,’ the Athlete agreed. ‘But what do statistics really mean? They deal in averages and no statistic would have predicted my father would die young. He didn’t have any underlying health conditions. So I’m afraid they bring me no comfort. And I imagine it’s similar with you, isn’t it? What’s your phobia, by the way?’