As she let herself out of the room, the guard on the chair turned and gawped. He’d heard it all, of course, every hooting, snotty moment. She stumbled back up the corridor towards the waiting room, wanting a drink more than she ever had before in her life. Saying something, said Corinna. She’d get a taxi, a black cab from the rank outside, screw the money. She needed to be alone, to get herself under some sort of control before she walked into Dunnington Road.

The doors wouldn’t open. She tugged at them, gently at first, then harder and harder until a nurse came out from a curtained bay and hit a release button on the wall. Robin muttered a thank you and plunged out as if she’d been underwater.

The waiting room was empty bar a man on the same row of chairs against the far wall. She glanced over, expecting the crossword puzzler with his flask and air of silent forbearance. No – it wasn’t him. Sitting forward, head bent over his hands, was a younger man, broad in the shoulders, black coat, blue-black hair cut short against the nape of his neck.

Samir.

In one of the weird jump-cuts that had been happening all day, he seemed to be across the room in a second, pinging up in front of her like a spring-loaded target. She jumped and he reached out to steady her arm before quickly pulling his hand back.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

She met his eye with a jolt of recognition. ‘You didn’t,’ she said, looking away. She brushed a brisk hand under her eyes, one then the other. ‘It was the first time I’ve seen him. It was … a shock.’ Her throat was thick.

‘I know. I saw him yesterday. The last time, before, we had a kick-about in the garden.’

His voice was the same: soft, rounded-sounding, no hard edges. It was posher than hers, less of an accent, even though he’d lived here far longer than she had now. She made herself look at him and was disorientated a second time, as if the jump-cut just now had swallowed a decade rather than a couple of seconds. Or she was nineteen again and looking at an e-fit projection of him sixteen years into the future, grey shaded in over the ears, fine lines bracketing his mouth and fanning from the corners of his eyes. He’d filled out. The Samir she’d known had been willowy despite the broad shoulders. This one was solid; he took up space.

‘Can we talk for a moment?’

Now, after a decade and a half? ‘I should get back – it must be late.’ She scanned around, looking for a clock. ‘Lennie’ll be waiting for me. My daughter.’ She shook out her jacket, shoved an arm into the sleeve.