‘No . . . no, I know . . . but it’s inappropriate.’ You marched back towards me and grabbed my blouse from the chair before gesturing for me to put it on. Turning around until I was less embarrassing to you. As if you could rewrite history. Wipe me away.

I pulled my hair from beneath the neckline. ‘More inappropriate than fucking me on your desk?’

You spun back around. Furrowed-faced. Cheeks bruised. Could you not believe I’d dared say such a thing? To speak the truth.

‘That’s . . . Don’t say it like that, Constance . . . You know that was different.’

We remained suspended in time. Until finally, you pressed the cold metal disc against my furious heart. Both of us knowing that for that moment I’d won. Disclosed you for what you were.

‘There’s a definite crackle – a chest infection.’ You appeared relieved that there’d been a valid reason for you to have seen me topless and wrapped up the appointment like I was one of your patients. Prescribed me antibiotics. Told me that I mustn’t stay in work. That I needed to go home and rest.

Back in reception, Linda called me a cab and within half an hour I’d left the surgery.

But I had no intention of going home.

The small hipster …

The small hipster cafe was directly opposite your chosen wine bar.

I grabbed a window seat and prepared to hunker down. Tell me, was it somewhere special to you? Vini Italiani? Somewhere significant for you both? Did it hold romantic memories? It’s a shame we never had a place like that. I’m not sure the alley behind the Wheatsheaf counts.

The frosted lettering that spelt out the word Cafe across the window hampered my view a little, but your lovers’ venue was ideal. Glass. Ceiling to floor. Ensuring its rich-prick punters could be clearly seen by the poor and miserable rough sleepers.

I ordered tea rather than coffee. It was more soothing. Although in hindsight perhaps additional caffeine would have been helpful. And a plain muffin to pick fluff from, to line my stomach for the paracetamol that I hoped I’d keep down.

A young waitress with a Spanish accent and Kate Bush hair served me.

‘It’s so cold,’ she said coincidentally, then placed down the pot and cup.

‘It is,’ I said.

The truth was, I couldn’t wait to rid myself of my coat, unravel the scarf from my neck. I felt nothing but burning heat.

When paying Kate, I noticed the prescription folded in my purse. But I assured myself that a couple of hours wouldn’t make much difference and I’d go to the chemist on the way home.