Free Rebound by Aga Lesiewicz

tree pollarding, the latest craze to have been plaguing our neighbourhood.
    ‘It’s barbaric and it should be banned,’ says the woman with red lips, whose name is Fiona.
    ‘It’s the wrong time of the year for it anyway, it should be done between November and February, not now,’ booms David, the older guy. His wife and the young guy remain silent.
I feel they are expecting me to chip in on the subject of pollarding. I’m frantically trying to think of something to say when Tom’s voice saves me.
    ‘Anna, I’d like you to meet my wife, Samantha.’ I turn, relieved I don’t have to suffer the pollarding discussion any more, take one look at Samantha and freeze in
horror. I shake her hand and she smiles and says something. Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s the nice doctor from the Sexual Health Centre at St Bart’s. I’m mortified. She doesn’t
show any sign of recognizing me and I muster all my wits to follow what she’s saying. It’s about Wispa and she tells me how much her children would love to have a dog but how impossible
it would be to keep one. I know she’s already placed me on her clinic couch and I’m grateful to her for giving me time to recover. I slowly regain my composure and we happily banter
about dogs and children for a while. Then she moves on to tend to other guests and I’m left on my own, shaken and ashamed. I excuse myself and find my way to the loo. I lock the door and
stare at myself in the mirror. What does she think of me? Is she going to tell her husband? ‘Oh, that nice lady who you helped with her dog the other night is a sex addict who shags strangers
on the Heath.’ She actually wouldn’t know it happened on the Heath, but I add it for dramatic effect. Of course she’s not going to tell her husband, doctor–patient privilege
and all that, but I’m not sure if it doesn’t apply only to crime dramas. I bet in reality doctors gossip about their patients all the time. Maybe she’s telling all her guests
about me right now: ‘Anna is an interesting case, a nymphomaniac, but you’ll be pleased to know she’s currently free of STDs.’ I have to stop this nonsense, pull myself
together and go back to the party. I splash some cold water on my wrists, take a deep breath and unlock the bathroom door. When I get back to the sitting room, everyone is busy greeting new guests,
Francesca and Simon, an attractive couple who instantly charm the whole party. I’m relieved they’ve taken all the limelight. It turns out Simon is a bit of a celebrity, a business
genius who has made millions in advertising. Francesca and Simon have a house on The Bishops Avenue, David tells me in a hushed, reverent voice. Oh, real millionaires, I think, and take another
good look at them. They present themselves rather well, I have to admit, a mixture of extreme confidence and charm giving them the well-pampered, glamorous air of people from another dimension.
Simon regales everyone with a tale about Michael Birch, the co-founder of the social networking website Bebo, who sold it in 2008 to AOL for 850 million dollars and bought it back recently for just
1 million.
    ‘This is what I call a bargain,’ Simon says, as if it was something one could pick up in Oxfam. ‘And he actually tweeted everyone about it.’ He’s clearly amused by
the story and everyone chuckles in unison.
    I empty my glass of Prosecco and quickly pour myself another one. Thank God for tweeting millionaires, but I still can’t stop feeling awful about the secret I now share with Samantha.
Thankfully, Simon has moved on to Rupert Murdoch and tells everyone with glee how he forked out over 500 million pounds for MySpace in 2005 only to get totally creamed by Facebook and sell it six
years later for the measly sum of 35 million. Everyone finds it hilarious.
    ‘And then there was Friends Reunited, of course . . .’ continues Simon.
    I’ve had enough of social networking investment fiascos and I go to the kitchen in