Some nurse accessed the file of the football player who had a drug overdose and the media got on to it. So now we’re copping it.

Fifteen seconds into the friendly welcome, Nicole has already used the word ‘terminated’ three times. As if we are pests that need exterminating, we’re informed that if we do anything to compromise the confidentiality of any of our more famous clients (apparently when you’re famous you’re a client, not a patient), we will be terminated immediately.

‘We’ve introduced a new system that you should all be aware of,’ the buttercup chirps.

While we were away, the hospital has entered the twenty-first century and put us all under surveillance, she explains. The hospital computers now have an electronic tracking system that alerts the administration directly if an unauthorised doctor accesses a patient file. So, if a famous patient is in the hospital and you decide to sneak a look at their CT scan, an alert will be sent to the executive, who can then terminate you.

‘It’s for your own protection,’ Nicole tells us cheerfully, neglecting to point out the obvious: that protection and termination can be used interchangeably.

As the lecture continues, I find out that there are plenty of grounds on which the executive can terminate me. If I don’t wash my hands enough, if I don’t use the right code on my discharge summaries … the list goes on and on.

After the talk ends, Nicole corners me. ‘So you’re off to Sweden tomorrow!’ she exclaims. ‘Are you seeing Wolfgang?’

I remember mentioning the research to her briefly, but I’m surprised she knows about my trip. She must realise this from my expression, because she rushes to explain. ‘Jack told me,’ she says, smiling. ‘He said you’re presenting the poster.’

I’m momentarily pleased that Dr Prince remembers who I am, as I’ve not heard from him in months. Then I feel irritated that he has discussed my research with Nicole but has never communicated with me. Then I tell myself to stop being so pathetic.

‘Ah, yeah,’ I say noncommittally, ‘but I’m only spending a few days there. I’m meeting a friend in Amsterdam afterwards.’ I think of Fabien, and the light, fairy-floss feeling of happiness floats around me.

‘A special friend?’ Nicole probes. ‘Is he a doctor?’

I refrain from pointing out that doctors can find happiness with people who aren’t doctors themselves, probably more so, and shake my head. ‘No, he’s just a friend,’ I lie. ‘We used to ski together.’

‘I can’t believe he treated me like that, you know,’ she complains, and I’m confused for a moment, before I realise she must be referring to the mysterious Dr Wolfgang Dietrich.

‘Men,’ I say vaguely, reluctant to get caught up in the saga.