Yet.

When Maria first showed up at NA last March, I tried so hard to keep my distance. And when we did start talking, after a few months, I told myself that our connection was about our shared commitment to staying clean, nothing more than that. I convinced myself we only swapped numbers so we could keep each other on track, if our resolve weakened.

But some things you cannot ignore. Like the fact that when we’re together – or even when we’ve talked for hours on the phone – everything feels crisp and sharp, in a way even Wilcox and Joel’s supplies never achieved.

With her I feel – possibly for the first time ever – it’s all right to be me.

‘Why did you go to her after things went wrong, and not come home to me?’

‘Please, Kerry.’

‘Don’t you dare fob off a sick woman, Tim. I might die and then how would you feel?’

‘You’re not dying . . . But OK. I went to Maria’s because I didn’t want to disappoint you again,’ I say, tentatively, watching her face. When she stays silent, I add, ‘When I see your expression after yet another one of my failures, I feel terrible.’

‘But Maria loves you as you are, is that it?’ she says sarcastically.

‘I don’t know about love but . . . she knew me before she ever knew or cared about me being a doctor.’

‘That’s unfair. So did I. I’ve only ever wanted to help you be what you wanted, Tim.’

She’s right. But till Maria, I’ve never had the guts to tell anyone outright that I didn’t want a life of patients and crises and gossipy doctors’ messes. That I don’t want to be a doctor at all.

The porter comes through the double doors, ready to move her onto the ward. He coughs. ‘Ready to rumble? Heigh-ho, it’s off to gynae we go!’

The nurse gets the drip and monitors ready to move, and I prepare to walk with them.

‘Go home, Tim. You look knackered and I need sleep. Come tomorrow. I’ll need you then.’

I consider arguing but I can see from Kerry’s face there’s no point. I lean in to kiss her lips and she moves her head so my lips graze her cheek instead.

Home hasn’t felt like home since Mum died, not really, and as I unlock the front door into the hallway full of pictures, I long for the minimalism of Maria’s place. I hang up my coat and see that the 2005 Scottish Lochs and Castles calendar still shows a misty photograph from last July because neither Kerry nor I have noticed it needed changing.