This time she kisses me. I haven’t touched a girl since 1999. Ant says I’ll want to when I’m ‘on the mend’. But what if I brought a girl home and she was revolted by the raw scar under my ribcage and the freakish bulge where the metal edge of my implant pushes out the skin?

Plus, what will happen to my heart when I come? I haven’t even dared to have a wank, I’m so scared of my defib going off.

But with Kerry, it’s safe. She’s a virgin, so nothing more is going to happen. This is just about making her feel amazing. I relax into the kiss and I feel like I’m thirteen again. No pressure, no expectations.

Except she’s moving my hand towards her breast, slipping her dress off her shoulders . . .

‘Kerry. You’ve had too much to drink. The kissing is fine.’

‘No. I’ve been waiting so bloody long.’ Her voice is a whisper. She reaches towards my jeans and tries to undo the top button.

‘You should wait until you’re really sure, or at least sober.’ I’m not the kind of guy who takes advantage of a girl who has had too much to drink, but I don’t know if I can keep protesting much longer.

‘I fancied you since the first time I saw you, Joel.’ She takes my other hand and pulls her knickers aside so I can touch her. The look on her face makes me feel like a god, not a tragic cardiac patient. Like the old Joel.

She won’t be shocked by my mutilated body: the night after my operation, I showed her the line of stitches and the bump where the implant sticks out.

Kerry wants me despite all of it.

And I want her too.

I take her hands to help her raise herself off the sofa. She stumbles slightly.

‘Are you sure you won’t regret this?’

She kisses me again, and I reach behind her to unzip her dress, which falls to the floor with a sigh. Underneath, she’s wearing a light pink bra with a rosebud at the centre between her breasts, and matching knickers. I want her now but I try to take everything slowly. I take off my jeans and lay the sofa throw over the wooden floor and draw her down towards me, so we’re kneeling facing each other.

I kiss her lips, her neck, her collarbone, as I unclasp her bra. My lips move towards her nipples. I hear her heartbeat and my own.

I take her hand and guide it across my ribcage, tracing the line of the wires along to the defibrillator. The skin is still sore most days but not now.

‘Is it going to be OK?’ she asks me. ‘Is it safe?’

‘I hope so.’ But I no longer care.