‘Well, I . . . I wouldn’t have gone to get my stupid hair cut . . . left her—’

‘Ever? You were only gone a short while.’

‘I never checked her pulse.’

‘Because she was already dead, Constance. You knew that. She was dead.’

‘I would have encouraged her to remain positive about the trial—’

‘There was no trial. He said he’d see if there was anything, but, Constance, they are rare—’

‘For fuck’s sake, he didn’t say that.’ I shouted so loud the words ricocheted off the walls and slapped me across the face.

He slumped back in his chair, lowered his head.

‘I’m sorry, Dr Franco . . . I shouldn’t have troubled you. I get paid next week. I’ll pay you for your time—’

‘Constance, I don’t want your—’

‘I’ve got to go, Dr Franco . . . Thank you.’ I unravelled the scarf from my hand, placed it calmly, neatly, around my neck and picked up my bag. ‘Will this go any further? I mean . . . am I safe?’

‘Safe?’ He repeated the slow blink, half-smile, then nodded.

I sensed him watching as I walked towards the door. When I was about to shut it behind me, he said, ‘I hope you start to feel better from now on, Constance. Please think about what I’ve said.’

I pretended I hadn’t heard and pulled the door to.

Outside, I lit a cigarette. The first since I’d been ill. My adult pacifier. At the bottom of the steps, I rested my back against my usual wall. Dizzy with nicotine, I closed my eyes. Remaining tears squeezed out to mix with the freezing air, biting my cheeks. I reopened them, looked up to the clear black sky.

‘Is he right?’ I whispered. ‘For fuck’s sake, tell me somehow. Is he right?’

I waited. There was nothing. No answer. No sign. Nothing.

I gave it until I reached the filter, then wiped my face with my scarf, pulled the collar up over my ears and set off down the road.

As I did, it began to snow.

Which brings us …

Which brings us to my birthday.

The day.

It started so well. Waking for the first time unladen, without guilt pressing against my chest, my skull.

I’d slept in my room the previous night. Told Dale I had a banging headache, enabling me to both dress my arm and compute all that had happened with Dr Franco.

Surprisingly, Dale had left before I’d woken. His only communication a card with a picture of Princess Leia on the front, slipped under my door. Happy birthday to my own princess. Dinner at 6.30 sharp, it said inside.

Once at the surgery, I was accosted by a grinning Alison holding out a pearly-pink gift bag with a glittery unicorn on the front. ‘Happy birthday, Constance.’

‘Oh . . . oh, thank you. How . . . how did you know?’

‘It’s on our system, silly . . . You look nice.’