Inside, it’s smaller than I expected. Camera rigs slide around on wheels, circling the set. There’s an L-shaped sofa in front of a fake window lit with fake sunshine. To the side, I see a raised circular podium and a kitchen area where a moon-faced chef is currently showing the two presenters how to burn custard in a heart-shaped dish using a blowtorch.

The burned sugar fumes catch in my throat.

‘. . . and we’ll be back after the break, with a review of Toy Story 2, plus the incredible story of how a teenage kiss helped to save the life of a brilliant young footballer.’

I catch Kerry’s eye. Where did they get that from? For the first time in weeks, I remember the story we’ve been telling about what happened that night is just that: a story.

No. It’s worse than that. A collection of lies.

‘And we’re off-air. Reset, please. Can someone get rid of all this bloody smoke? We have three minutes sixteen.’

Staff with headsets and clipboards appear from nowhere. One ushers out the chef, another turns on a noisy extractor above the hob. The researcher tells us where to sit on the yellow sofa. ‘Kerry in the middle, please, Joel nearest the presenters, Tom at the end.’

‘My name is Tim,’ I say, but quietly. While the female presenter’s make-up is retouched – no universal orange powder for her – her co-host and husband greets us with presidential handshakes.

‘Guys, it’s great to have you here. And especially you, Joel. What a story! We’ve worked with your mother over the years; we couldn’t believe you’d got sick, but you’re looking in great shape, really great.’

Joel does not look in great shape. It’s only six weeks since his heart stopped, and four since they implanted the box.

The female presenter joins us. My mum loves them, though Joel’s mother was less complimentary on the journey up. They cater to the lowest common denominator, but at least it’ll get the first-aid message out to the widest possible audience.

‘I couldn’t have done what you two did,’ the woman gushes, giving each of us a hug in turn. Her cheek brushes against mine, the skin damp.

‘It’ll be over before you know it,’ the man is saying, as he smooths down his hair with his fingers. ‘You’ll forget the cameras are even there. It’s just a relaxed conversation.’

The musical jingle is playing and the man with the biggest headset is counting down with his fingers.

‘Off we go,’ the woman presenter whispers out of the side of her mouth.

‘Welcome back to our Valentine’s special! We have the most incredible story for you now, one to restore your faith in teenagers, the NHS and the power of a kiss.’