You were about to leave for a house call. I hoped that you’d not come back and all would be forgotten by the Monday. Alison said goodbye to you. I concentrated on the form as if oblivious. As you walked towards the door, I could feel my anxiety leaving with you. But it returned, reinforced, when you turned back around and headed over to the reception desk, with a summoning finger, calling my name.

I dropped the pen onto the sheet and, though petrified, magnetically responded to your request.

‘Yes, Dr Stevens.’

You slipped a piece of paper into my hand. ‘I almost forgot . . . I’ve got a new number. Can you tell the other girls as well?’ You didn’t notice the paper pulsating between my fingers, and must have misinterpreted the outward evidence of my internal panic for curiosity, as you whispered, ‘It’s a long story . . . Can we catch up after work?’

I nodded.

You smiled, then counteracted our intimacy with a loud ‘Goodbye, Alison. See you in a couple of hours.’

As you can imagine, I was in a swirl for the rest of the day. Intoxicated on a cocktail of excitement and fear. Unsure if I’d imagined it. Got the wrong end of the stick. Or perhaps it was a trick and I’d been caught out. But I chose to focus on your smile, which indicated that I was safe.

Dead on five you came into reception, coated up, and said goodbye to us all. I took this as confirmation of my insanity and felt the disappointment resume. Then, when no one was looking, you mouthed, ‘Meet me up the road.’

It was the first time we’d walked side by side for so long.

We were propelled back to the beginning. The ease, the friendship. I playfully touched your arm and joked that the wind had given you a Bobby Charlton.

‘You’re twenty-six. How do you even know Bobby Charlton?’

‘Erm, hello? I’m from Manchester.’

I braved asking what you’d wanted to talk about, but you said you’d tell me when we were warm, inside somewhere. As I nodded, my teeth chattered. Do you remember? How your woollen-clad arm encased me, rubbed my shoulder, until that ten-pound note flew from your pocket, taunting you as it danced away whenever you got close. When you finally caught it under your foot, saying, ‘I’ve got you, you bastard,’ you were oblivious to my dropped smile. I was so content that I knew it was no longer enough for me to walk behind you.

On your suggestion, we went to the Wheatsheaf. You didn’t mention the ‘kissing’ we did there. Not even as a crude joke. Just referred to it as somewhere we ‘both knew’. When we walked past the alleyway, nothing even registered on your face. Whereas I flinched at the image of my bare body bruising against the brickwork.