To compensate, throughout the day she topped up my fluids with a constant stream of hot lemon and honey after sending Alison out for the ingredients, and also got me some more paracetamol from the on-duty Ratched. Alison seemed oblivious to my state, prattling on about the yoghurt-making kit she’d bought the night before on QVC. Perhaps she was being kind, thinking death by boredom would put me out of my misery.

As for you, I expected you not to notice either. Not with your approaching date and rekindled love to keep you occupied. I hadn’t seen you all morning, as you were with patients and Alison took in your coffee to save me getting up. I was desperate to know if you’d asked after me, but she never said, so I presumed not. But in the afternoon, when you entered reception with a file to copy, you appeared taken aback.

‘You look terrible. Why did you come in?’

Linda reddened. Sipped her coffee.

‘Alison, can you copy that, please, while I check on Constance.’

Once again we were alone in your room.

‘Take a seat.’ You spoke as Dr Stevens. Not Samuel. Didn’t you realize it was too late for professionalism?

As you felt around my neck, for once I wasn’t concentrating on your scent. Or your heated breath fluttering across my face. Or our lips, kissing distance apart. Instead, I imagined how soon your soft hands would be touching her. Your mouth on hers. Your heart, which visibly pumped under your shirt, would be beating for her.

You pressed my tongue with a lolly stick, then shone a light down my throat.

‘It’s inflamed, but there’s no infection.’

The thermometer double-beeped in my ear.

‘It’s a nasty virus. Possibly flu. When people say they’ve got the flu, they usually haven’t got the real deal, but it’s fairly prevalent at the moment. Ms Kemple came in with it. You really should get a flu jab next year, like I do. I’m surprised Dr Harris didn’t mention. The nurse would have done it. If you’ll just remove your top, I’ll check your chest.’ I didn’t respond. You thought I was quiet because I was ill. You were wrong.

It amuses me to remember what happened next. You were over at the cupboard getting your stethoscope, and I undressed, as you’d asked. Removed my jumper then blouse. But as I’d been unable to bear anything tight against my battered body that morning, I hadn’t worn a bra. And once you’d turned around, stethoscope in hand, you were faced with my nakedness.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I thought you were listening to my chest?’

‘Yes . . . but . . . you should have kept your bra on.’

‘I didn’t put one on this morning. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.’