Now I’m older, but not much wiser. The waiting room is full of sixth formers: only six years between me and them, but it might as well be sixty. They look so fresh and hopeful and I can’t imagine how the panel will be able to judge who might grow up to be decent doctors, and who should never be let within five hundred yards of a patient.

The ‘kids’ have all been chatting about their applications and UKCAT scores, and though they haven’t deliberately excluded me, I’ve kept quiet. Even though I have the right grades at last, one of my four choices didn’t call me for interview. I’m still waiting to hear if the two entrance panels I did face liked me enough to choose me over a malleable teen.

Today is my last chance.

‘Kerry Smith, please?’

As I stand up, the room seems to sway, but I take a breath to centre myself before I follow the administrator into the corridor, towards the interview room.

Come on, Kerry, I tell myself, you’ve saved people’s lives, this should be a doddle.

I open the door and see the panel sitting in front of me, silhouetted against the bright sun streaming through the window. Here goes.

Afterwards, I try to call Tim but it goes to voicemail and I leave a message.

‘Hi. I guess you might be delving into someone’s small bowel, but call me when you get a chance. It went all right, I think. A bit more old school than the other two interviews, but nothing I couldn’t handle. We’ve got some hideous tea-break chat ordeal to get through now; bet I end up spilling boiling liquid over someone. Speak later.’

Tim hasn’t been back home for a fortnight and I miss him. He’s halfway through his second rotation, in GI surgery, and the hours are so insane that he’s now staying in digs when he’s rostered for several days. Driving home would be too dangerous.

Is that why I still don’t feel married? Elaine dying only days after our wedding meant we spent our honeymoon period waiting for her funeral. The day after, Tim started his F1 while I went back to work.

At least I’ve found a kind of peace alone in the bungalow, sorting Elaine’s meagre things into piles: keep, charity shop, rubbish. Tim hasn’t had enough time to mourn her – doctor foundation training cannot accommodate personal tragedies – and when we do spend time together, he behaves oddly. Sometimes he’s distant, almost dreamy. Other days, he’s hyper. But he’s still going to NA and surely that has to mean he’s not back on the pills . . .

‘Miss Smith!’

I turn towards the voice, already knowing it belongs to Mr Newcombe, the patrician surgeon who chaired the panel. My smile falters as he looks pointedly at my ring finger.