She checks my face to make sure it’s okay to leave, then nods in approval. ‘Right, I’m off.’ She kisses me on the cheek, then heads off down the corridor. ‘By the way,’ she shouts, ‘congratulations!’ Her thumbs up are swiftly followed by a heel click towards the exit, à la Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.

‘Thank you.’ I smile, glancing to my shoulder at the temporary stripe I now wear three days a week. Acting ward sister. This is the new focus. This could be the very making of me. It’s seven years since I qualified, almost eight. They’re putting a lot of responsibility in my hands. I have to ignore the feeling of complete inadequacy and prove to my boss, Gail, the powers that be, and perhaps myself, for that matter, that I am up to this.

I look around again, at the files, the notes on the board, the corridors with bays and patients and nurses, all under my responsibility. I try to blow out a nudge of fear at the reality before me. Accepting promotion, albeit temporary, is fine by phone. It was good timing. A challenge to distract myself with, I thought. Now, though, it feels different – here, on the ward. My ward. I swallow. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I whisper, but Emma’s already gone.

I push back my shoulders and look down at the piles of paperwork around me. Susan’s file is on the top.

I sigh, then shove a Jaffa Cake in my mouth.

Can I do this?

I can do this.

I have to.

Chapter Two

RHYS

It’s hard to tell if the grim, bleary-eyed, bitter-tasting disappointment is fuelled by hangover or guilt. Whilst feeding uncooperative limbs into my jeans, I felt sick. The stumble back to my place like some carefree twenty-something on an unavoidable weekend walk of shame gave oxygen to the self-loathing. I’m thirty-nine, it’s Tuesday, that was my brother’s girlfriend.

Untangling myself from the sleepy hangover of her X-rated grasp, I’d closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them again, it would be somebody else. Anybody but her. I’d held my breath, tiptoeing out of her room, stopping at the squeaky floorboard by her door, just in case she stirred. Like a dick. I had no idea what I was going to say if she woke, or what I should say now. I pinch at my aching forehead, barely able to remember the conversation that led us to this.

Should I send a text? Say sorry? Or thanks? Or perhaps that this shouldn’t have happened and can I have my Calvins back? It was supposed to be a night to support each other. To remember him. To help each other deal with the pain of losing the person we loved. But now I hate him. And I hate me. And I hate what she and I did. However good it was.

Our David always knew I liked her.

Jesus.

I pull up to my first appointment, take my phone out of the cradle and type out the first morning-after text I’ve ever sent: ‘Sorry I had to leave, loads on. Talk to you later. R’