Afterwards he sat next to me on the bed as I dried my hair. ‘Mum’s disappointed you’re not coming . . . Here, make sure you dry it properly.’ He leant down to the floor and stretched the hairdryer and cord towards me, smirking in an unfamiliar way.

‘Yeah . . . I’m disappointed too.’ The dryer felt heavy in my weak hands.

‘Anyway, it may be for the best. I can kill two birds with one stone, Birthday Girl.’ Wink.

‘What do you mean?’

He tapped his nose, then left. I didn’t know what he was referring to. He was happy: it was obviously something nice. Yet it perturbed me, and my insides twisted.

Before settling down, I called Edward. ‘Well, when are you going to be better? I’ve run out of prunes, and Maxine is horrendous. She’s arranged for a doctor to come out on Wednesday. Says she’s staying to make sure I let him in.’

‘Well, thank fuck for Maxine, I say.’

Calmed by this news, I temporarily avoided thoughts about you and her by watching Vertigo, which had just started on TV. The ending had always made me sad. I wonder if it would make me more or less so now. The way he watches her fall to her death. Knowing it was his fault. I’ve always imagined my dad as James Stewart. Not only because I can’t remember him properly, but what better father to invent than Jimmy Stewart?

Is there a syndrome, Doctor? Where the stricken obsessively loves a person they despise? And if it exists, what’s the cure? Was your mother cursed with the same illness? Was I inconvenient to you in the same way she was to your father?

On the Monday, thankfully feeling well again, I sat in reception, which was now adorned with silver and blue Christmas decorations. Desperately hoping your presence would somehow ease my internal agony. That being near you would calm me as it had done in the past. But I was mistaken.

You arrived, carefree, smiling at us ‘girls’, saying, ‘So glad you’re feeling better, Constance. I’d love a coffee,’ and an entity formed inside my belly. Again created by you. But not a perfect baby. An eroding, acidic rage.

In your room, we talked about the forecast of snow. You said it turned you into a big kid and that being able to go sledging was a valid reason to have children. I smiled and agreed. How did you not sense? A doctor. An intelligent man afflicted with such fucking stupidity.

When my fake-laughing at your accidentally-throwing-a-snowball-at-a-policeman story had stopped, I turned to leave.

Then you said, ‘Oh, before you go – my friend’s coming in for a consultation at about one. It’s during lunch, so she’s not on the appointments. Tall, pregnant. Can you send her straight through?’