‘He did it for you once upon a time…’ mutters Emma under her breath.

I stare down at paperwork, opting to ignore her. I admit, when I first met him, we flirted. But that was purely whilst in the comfort and security of a long-term relationship – a cheap thrill if you will. But things have changed. Not least my Facebook relationship status. And besides, nurse gets with consultant? Like that’s not a massive cliché. ‘He’s from Manchester, anyway,’ I say suddenly. Emma looks confused. ‘Wrong side of the Pennines.’ I offer it up as a legitimate excuse, then I remember she’s a born and bred Mancunian, so wiggle my eyebrows as if I was just trying to wind her up with some Sheffield versus Manchester rivalry.

‘He may not do it for you, but you definitely do something for him,’ she nudges.

True. Apparently. But since Daniel, my boyfriend of five years, thrust his hand into my chest and ripped out my heart, I’ve sort of gone off men.

Apparently, by now, I should be over it. He doesn’t deserve me. I’m better off alone. Et cetera. All of which is easy for best friend Lou to say, given that her wedding is imminent and unlikely to be suddenly, nay brutally, called off.

Not that I had an imminent wedding as far as Daniel was concerned, but in my head it was a given. Neither Lou nor Emma can feel the pain in my heart. And when either suggest I date, meet people, start afresh… Well, they don’t see how the very idea of re-entering the dating game, if and when I choose, makes the pit of my stomach fall through my shoes. The thought of first-time sex with someone who hasn’t grown to love my stretch marks… Though perhaps, on reflection, Daniel didn’t love them as much as he said he did when trying to extract me from my pants... Well, anyway, the thought of it. Ugh. And besides, what would they make of my plain black, in-a-long-term-relationship-and-can-admit-a-thong-is-in-fact-a-crime-against-one’s-nether-region pants? Emma clears her throat and I pull myself together. ‘Can we stop talking about Mr Barnes and get on?’ I say, taking a deep breath to lock back up the tears that now sting the backs of my eyes. I waft authority and my paperwork in her face. ‘Your shift finished twenty minutes ago.’

‘Alright, mardy bum. Who got you up on the wrong side of bed this morning?’ She winks and I glare, just long enough for my eyes to fill and Emma to spot we’re hurtling towards a line neither of us wants to cross. ‘Okay, okay.’ She surrenders, hands up. She backs off to the light box, attaching an X-ray. ‘Susan Smith then. According to eyewitnesses, Susan got up from her seat outside the coffee shop and walked straight into the flow of moving traffic. It was Ecclesall Road so, you know, busy. She was flipped by a motorbike undertaking a bus. Frankly, she’s lucky to be alive. Her notes are all here.’ She passes me the file. ‘Along with these.’ We study ghostly images of before surgery and after. A clean break, set and plastered. ‘She’ll need physio on her left arm too,’ continues Emma. ‘It’s pretty badly bruised, though no break there. Her pain relief seems to be working and there are no latent signs of additional damage.’