I try not to smile too enthusiastically.

‘Hi, Dr Prince.’ To my horror I feel my cheeks start to burn. Honestly. I’m getting really sick of this. I’m a grown woman; I’m too old for a crush. I’m also a doctor, and Dr Prince is an old, slightly overweight man who’s just another doctor.

Doctor … Brain surgeon … Yachtsman … Purveyor of rare antiquities …

I drop the nailbrush in the sink, which makes a loud clang, but he doesn’t say anything, just hands me another one, then another. We both know I’m hopeless, but he pretends not to notice.

‘Is it true you lend ancient art to museums?’ I can’t help asking.

He looks over at me, using his elbows to turn on the tap, like the pro he is. ‘Yes, it is true,’ he says. ‘It’s a special interest of mine.’

‘Cool,’ I say, accidentally splashing water all over myself.

‘Do you like history and art?’ he asks me, as he starts to clean his nails.

‘Yeah … I mean …’ I pause, feeling stupid. ‘I studied history at school, but I don’t know much about art,’ I admit. ‘I like the idea of it.’

He doesn’t say anything, and I regret my response immediately. I should have pretended, made some impressive statement about impressionism or something. Been impressive about impressionism. I almost laugh. I know as much about impressionism as I do about brain surgery—that is, nothing.

‘I don’t know that much either,’ he says surprisingly, stepping away from the sink and turning to walk into the operating theatre, ‘but I like the idea of it too.’

‘Well, I guess art is just an expression of ideas,’ I point out, following him through the door, reminding myself to hold my hands in front of me and not to touch anything.

He smiles. ‘Exactly.’

I laugh. ‘You’re just saying that. You must know heaps.’

He laughs with me. In the operating theatre it’s like seeing him in his living room, in a strange way. He’s more relaxed, he laughs more easily, and he wants to chat.

‘You know what they say …’ I continue as we approach the steel trolley where Mr Wilde lies, drifting in and out of consciousness as the anaesthetist draws up more Propofol. ‘Art is one of the only things in this world that exists solely for pleasure.’

I realise instantly that I’ve pushed it too far.

Behind his mask, his eyes find mine. I can’t see his mouth, but I sense he’s still smiling.

‘That’s true,’ he replies. ‘You’d know if you studied history that the ancient Greeks certainly realised that.’