Mr Newcombe says nothing and before I can change the subject, a couple of the sixth formers launch themselves at him. The coffee tastes stale. I have a sense that my wedding ring has made whatever I said in my interview utterly pointless.

So I am down to two chances of getting what I want.

On the train home, my anger at the way the surgeon dismissed me festers.

Yet even though I loathe his blatant sexism, it’s made me wonder why Tim and I have never discussed having kids. During his training, he even enjoyed Ob/Gyn, but it never led to a discussion about us having a family one day.

I can’t imagine Tim as a father. It seems too messy, too risky, too full of uncertainties to be something he’d want to do. And although I don’t blame him for his struggles with empathy, could I make up for that lack if we had a child?

I let myself into the bungalow, always half expecting to hear the trill of Elaine’s hello there, hen. I bend down to pick up the post: bills and more bills. We should sell up, clear the debts, buy a smaller flat, but there’s no point till we know if I’ve got a place at med school, and where.

As I rifle through the envelopes, the last one is addressed to me. It has an NHS frank, and for a moment, I am convinced that today’s interview panel have somehow conspired to get my rejection to me even faster than I could travel back.

My mood plummets even further when I realize it must have come from one of my other two interviews. The envelope isn’t thick enough for it to be good news. Still, I open it.

Dear Miss Smith,

Thank you for attending our interview day. I’m sorry to inform you . . .

Disappointment feels like a wave of physical pain. On paper, I have everything they’re asking for. I have worked so bloody hard. The first time I failed, I knew that my exam results weren’t me, they were a result of what I’d done or hadn’t done.

The years between then and now were tough, but there was still the promise of something better ahead. I had, as all the teachers said, all the time in the world.

But life moves on. Miss has become Mrs. Tim is Dr Palmer. Everything has changed. Maybe I’ve been fooling myself by believing I might ever become a doctor.

Chapter 45: Tim

6 February 2006

Grief has peeled away the thick skin that used to protect me from the world.