He looks up and, oddly, the door stays open, the shutters up. He doesn’t have to say anything, but I get it. It’s why I like him so much, I realise. There are always rumours in hospitals; people having sex with other people, affairs, bad behaviour, sleaze, lust. But sitting there on his hospital bed, as we both silently acknowledge the painful truth that we have simply just missed each other in time, I realise that what draws me to Dr Jack Prince is his decency. And our wonderful connection, forged against all odds, remains intact inside a place neither of us will ever visit. He goes back to his wife, and I go back to my life.

But we will meet in the rose garden, that metaphorical place where what never happened is as true as what did. And our story will forever be imprinted on the pages of the life of Kitty Holliday, the writer.

The thought, as foolish as it may be, comforts me. I wonder if he realises the impact he has had on me, quite apart from our mutual attraction. Any senior consultant who shows an interest in the wellbeing of their struggling juniors and is kind to them can make an enormous difference. Perhaps if someone had cared about the Smiling Assassin, things would have turned out differently for her.

My pager goes off. I ignore it and stay there, next to him on that bed. We talk about sickness, about my plans for the future, about the hospital and about the other doctors. He starts to look exhausted, so I move to get up. As I do, to my surprise he pulls me towards him. He holds me tightly, as if he never wants to let go, and I place my lips on his cheek and let them linger on the warmth of his skin. We lie there, gripping each other, for several minutes.

‘I’d hug you tighter, but I’m in pain,’ he says as we break apart, and we both laugh softly.

I get up and leave the room, shutting the door behind me. I walk the long road back to the public hospital and into the doctors’ room. There I gaze out the window overlooking the houses below, where people are sleeping peacefully in their beds, only their dreams as distractions. I see the roof of my own house, two short blocks away. I see another me, dreaming through my sleep, and I let myself ask the unaskable question, the one that most doctors bury because they’ve already given or lost too much by the time they’re desperate enough to ask it. Was it a mistake, choosing to be a doctor? In another life, could I have done something different, something better, something that made me better? I thought when I finally finished medical school that everything would fall into place. Let the healing commence, Dr Holliday.