‘The baby? Oh yes . . . She had a little fall last week and had been fretting. All is OK. I wouldn’t be surprised if she asked me to be the bloody godfather now or something. Jesus, I hope not.’

I felt faint, bent forward, whispering, ‘Thank God.’

‘Are you OK, Constance?’

‘Yes . . . I’m fine. It’s been a bit much today, I think. My first day back and that. I should go.’

‘Of course. Sorry. Do you want a lift somewhere?’

I shook my head. I couldn’t bear it. What I’d put myself through for nothing. The person I’d become.

In reception, Linda and Alison were putting on their coats and shutting down their computers. I too dressed to leave and gathered my belongings. The heaviness of the coat material scraped against my wounded arm. It was clear I needed to apply ointment and a dressing, though ironically I had to leave the doctor’s surgery in order to do it.

The girls left me behind. I was alone. Aware. Not just of the throb of my cut but why I’d done it. It wasn’t right. I wasn’t right. And I knew it was time. To say it. Confess.

‘Is everything all right, Constance?’ Dr Franco had on his coat and scarf, and was standing in the middle of his room, briefcase in hand, which he slowly placed down onto the rug. ‘Come . . . sit down. What’s happened?’

I allowed him to guide me to the chair, gently pressing my shoulders, giving me no option but to lower myself. I was aware of my thumbs circling each other, round and round. Unable to stop.

‘Take your time.’ He sat himself, pulled his chair closer.

I remained silent. Felt stifled. He must have sensed this as he moved further away from me once again.

‘Has something happened?’ He handed me the box of tissues. I presume I must have been crying.

I shook my head.

‘Then what is it?’ He leant back, allowed me the freedom to talk.

The clock tick-tocked slower than time itself. The wind rattled against the window.

‘I killed her,’ I said.

The pollen was …

The pollen was high, and the trees candied.

The bus ride from our house to the Christie was long, requiring two changes: one in the overwhelming bustle of Piccadilly, the other in Fallowfield. So near yet so far away without a car or a body strong enough to walk the additional stretch. As usual, she wasn’t talkative throughout any of it. Neither was I. Never was on result days.

On the last bus, a single-decker, she sat in the window seat, staring beyond the glass etched by youths, holding her mouth to control the nausea. She’d already thrown up that morning. The same noise of retching that rung in my ears from being a kid. Except the source had changed from booze to chemotherapy.