‘I went to India last year, observed a few clinics. There was a man with gangrene in his leg. When the nurse moved the dressing aside, there were more maggots than flesh.’

She looks unimpressed. ‘That all? I’ve seen that on the streets, it’s no big deal. I was hoping for a crossbow through someone’s chest. Or someone with a firework up their arse.’

‘Does a bicycle pump count?’

She laughs. ‘Did you try blowing it up?’

‘It was tempting. Might have stopped him doing it again.’

Zoë’s face changes. ‘Have you delivered a baby, then?’

‘Not on my own, but I’ve seen three births since I’ve been here.’

Her hands are gripping the mug so hard her fingers have gone white. ‘And those births didn’t count as the goriest thing?’ Her eyes dart up to meet mine, then she looks away.

She’s scared. Of course she is.

‘It can be messy but . . .’ I try to think of a way to reassure her, without lying about what lies ahead. ‘It’s a productive mess. Most things I’ve seen in hospital are where something’s gone wrong. Birth is different. Human bodies – women’s bodies – are designed for this.’

Though it was having me that kicked off my mother’s lupus: more than once, she’s called me a parasite. Technically, she’s right, though it’s an odd way to think of your child.

‘Hurts, though, right?’

‘They won’t let the pain get out of control.’

She bites her lip. ‘Mate of mine said they don’t give you anything if you’re a user, because the baby’s hooked enough as it is.’

‘Honestly? I don’t know quite how it works. But they’ll do what’s best for you and for the baby.’

‘Don’t know much, do you? When do you become a proper doctor?’

‘I’ll have my final exams in April, and if I pass those, they let me loose on the wards in August.’

‘That’s fucking soon, considering you know nothing.’

I laugh. ‘You took the words out of my mouth. What work do you do, Zoë?’

‘Casual pub shifts. Not round here. I’ve been in the West Country for a bit. But when I got too big to stand up for hours, I came back to Brighton.’

‘Are you still with the baby’s dad?’

She gawps at me and I hope she’s not going to make a complaint about me asking inappropriate questions. ‘Yeah. He’s popped out for champers and the biggest bunch of red roses you’ve ever seen,’ she says, putting on an accent like the Queen’s.

Her voice is transformed and I smile. ‘Amazing. You sound like a member of the royal family.’