By Monday I was calmer about the whole situation. And by Tuesday I’d convinced myself I’d been fretting unnecessarily. That it was probably an old friend that you’d been speaking to. Perhaps from university. Possibly not even female. And I was relieved I hadn’t let my imagination ruin things. Taint what I’d looked forward to all week.

Peculiarly tired, I clock-watched the entire day. Culminating in me willing the big hand to complete the extra ten minutes to bring it to five o’clock.

‘Are you doing anything nice this evening, Dr Stevens?’ I asked as you said your goodbyes.

‘Just poker with the boys. Need to recoup my losses from last week.’

Alison giggled like an imbecile, and Linda smiled with a disapproving moralistic air.

‘Oh, well, good luck,’ I said.

‘Thanks. I’ll need it. I’m a much better doctor than poker player.’ You winked at me, then left. Once again releasing the butterflies from their chrysalises.

Edward was fully dressed and sat in his chair, listening to a book-reading on Radio Four when I arrived. I was so relieved he’d returned to his original dapper self.

‘Constance, thank Christ you’re here. This book is utter tripe. Tell me, what do you like to read?’

‘Me? Well, I . . . I don’t really . . .’ I took my seat. ‘Reading wasn’t really a thing in my house. How are you feeling today?’

‘Well, you must read, darling girl. You’d love it. Being completely absorbed in other worlds, lives . . . Are there any books you’ve ever fancied reading?’

I shook my head, then remembered the card I bought you. ‘Oh . . . well, Wuthering Heights, I guess.’

‘Really? Well, I must have a copy somewhere.’ He pushed himself up, stopping halfway. Wheezing.

‘There’s no need to look now—’

‘You know, Constance, I was a journalist for many years, among other things. Worked for a few of the rags.’ His breathing got the better of him and he stopped in his tracks, then returned to his chair. ‘I’ll have a look for you later . . . if that’s OK, darling girl? I’d better have a think first, where it would be . . . Anyway, what I really wanted to do was write a novel. Not the sensationalized claptrap I was churning out every day for the papers but something with depth – something people would remember me for. So I got up every day, wrote before work. Sat at my typewriter and bled, as Hemingway would say. An Explanation of Love, it was called. But sadly I never finished it.’

‘Oh no, why not?’

‘Because I realized, there really isn’t an explanation of love. And of course, it also turned out to be sensationalized claptrap. Just longer.’

I laughed. ‘You’re looking good today, Edward. Nice to see you dressed. Are you feeling brighter?’

‘Of course, look at me.’ He spread his arms to show off his navy jumper and paisley cravat with pride.