In the kitchen, my heart beat an angry rhythm. I placed my arms either side of the sink to gather myself. Swallowed back down the fury. When able to breathe properly again, I stared at the washing-up that they presumably expected me to deal with. Put on the rubber gloves and ran the tap. When the bowl was full, I filled the kettle for your tea and went to wash a cup. Rage bubbling inside me like the Fairy Liquid in the sink. But there was Ms Kemple’s mug on the side. Looking at me. And before I knew it, I’d lifted out the snotty tissue, wiped it around the rim and dropped in a fresh bag.

Back in your room, I placed the tea on your desk.

You didn’t thank me until you’d taken a sip, then sighed. ‘Hmm, lovely. See, I told you.’

‘Did I make it right?’

You blew onto the liquid, then slurped again. ‘Perfect.’ You turned back towards your computer. Dismissing me without words.

‘Before I go, Dr Stevens, can I just ask you, how long do flu germs last on something?’

‘Flu germs? Well, it depends. On hard surfaces, they can last up to twenty-four hours. Why?’

‘I was just wondering.’

I went to leave. Then you said, ‘She’s stopped, by the way . . . Glenn Close . . . Not heard a peep. So all is good again in my world.’

‘Excellent,’ I said, and left.

They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. But I don’t think there’s a line at all. They’re the same thing. What we love we hate for loving. What makes us more vulnerable than love? What hurts as much? It’s a tightrope that we walk. Wavering from one side to the other. Desperate to keep our balance. But sometimes you can’t. Sometimes it tips and there’s nothing you can do.

‘On the day …

‘On the day you die, do you think you know when you wake up that morning?’

I was nine years old when I asked her the question. And I’d waited three hours to get it out. Death, including my death, had become an obsession. The nuclear bomb, a hand hovering over a big red button, terrorist attacks, spontaneous combustion – all a continual worry. And I’d instantly freeze at the mere mention of ‘the Big C’.

‘Maybe Dad’s dead? Maybe he knew he was going to die that day?’

She reached the bottom step. Stared at me, glassy-eyed. ‘For fuck’s sake, Constance.’

As if testing the temperature of the sea, she placed the tip of her big toe on the floor. As usual, the water was too cold and she quickly retracted her foot and took herself back up the stairs.