‘Fear not,’ Max says, as we each sling an arm around her shoulders. ‘We’re only a few hundred metres away from bad wine and a good whine.’

For all the stresses and catastrophes that being a junior doctor brings, there’s a sense of camaraderie among those in the trenches. My mates are everything. Just when I think I’ve lost north completely, Estelle, Max and Winnie appear, standing in the lighthouse that shows me the way, brandishing a bottle of cheap pinot grigio.

On our way to the pub we run into Nicole at the traffic lights.

‘Love your dress,’ Estelle says approvingly.

‘Thanks.’ Nicole looks pleased. ‘I was worried it was a bit too tight.’

‘No way—you look great.’

Nicole, warmed by the conversation, hovers near us as we take our usual seats in the darkest corner of the establishment.

Con the Greek, the publican, nods in our direction. ‘Bottle of the house white?’

The pub on the corner is our home away from home. It’s dark and seedy and full of shady-looking characters, but the last place you feel like being after a day in the hospital trenches is a brightly lit bar filled with happy people. Con the Greek is as jaded as we are, and our complaints about hospital life are matched by his relentless tirades about various government regulations.

We’re just starting to argue over who’s paying when Nicole breaks in to say, ‘It’s on us—there’s a tab until nine. Don’t pay if you don’t have to.’

Normally I would be suspicious of anyone from medical admin trying to socialise with us, but Nicole is offering us a free bottle of wine and in any case she seems pretty all right. It isn’t her fault she works in HR. She probably needs money too. We all have to do things we don’t want to at work, present company included.

Two bottles of wine in, I am really starting to warm to her.

‘What term are you on, Kitty?’ she asks me.

‘Neurosurgery,’ I reply, feeling mournful. It’s ticking towards 9 pm, which means soon it will be 10 pm, which means even sooner it will be 6 am and time to get up and do a ward round with the Joker and the Smiling Assassin.

She nods, opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, then catches herself.

‘What?’ Estelle asks, looking interested. ‘What were you going to say?’

‘Come on,’ Max says, topping up her wineglass. ‘Give us the goss!’

Her defences weakened by Max’s relentless refills, Nicole starts to spill. ‘Is one of your bosses Dr Prince?’

I choke on my drink. ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to look casual as I wipe wine from my shirt. ‘Why?’ I add, suddenly fearing that she has carnal knowledge of my slightly overweight fifty-year-old surgical boss who, for some weird reason, I spend a lot of time thinking about.