When people ask me if the terrible, toxic divorce I describe in my new novel Is This Love? is based on my own, I have a standard answer: ‘No, mine was much worse.’ I am, of course, being dramatic. But I also know the facts of my own story are shocking. On the day my ex-wife told me she was ending our three-year marriage, she walked out of our house and to the hospital in where we were having fertility treatment. She withdrew her consent for that treatment, and it was immediately terminated. I was two weeks away from the date of our embryo transfer. For those who don’t have experience of , that means I’d been on a months-long drugs regimen, shooting up hormones in bathrooms across the city and once, memorably, in the front seat of my car outside a gig in Brixton (no one batted an eyelid).
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