She clapped her hands together with excitement and followed me behind the reception desk while I removed my coat then the lime-green tissue paper that concealed the present. White furry cat-face earmuffs. Whiskers and all.

‘I made them myself,’ she said. ‘Try them on.’

I appeased her, attempting not to fluff up my hair, on which I’d spent more time than I’d ever remembered doing. ‘I love them, thank you. That’s really lovely of you.’ And it was the first time ever I’d not been sarcastic to Alison.

Even Linda wished me ‘many happy returns’ when she exited Dr Harris’s room.

‘We’ll do something in the staffroom this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Nothing fancy. Some Battenberg, perhaps.’

Her pleasantness was so shocking that I was uncertain if it was genuine or merely excitement at the opportunity to eat cake.

As touching as this all was, it was only you I wanted to see. To witness my happier state. Lack of black cloud. As if I’d been wiped clean. Reset at zero.

Once Mrs Tullings and her boy brat had finished their appointment with you, I took it upon myself to make you a coffee and take it to your room.

‘Hey, Constance. Goodness, you look nice. What a difference a day makes, eh?’

I turned to close the door, concealing the joy in my face at your noticing. That I’d dressed for you. Worn the same silk blouse that had turned your head in the beginning. ‘I’ve made you a coffee. Thought you might need one after Sebastian Tullings.’

‘Ah yes . . . Sebastard Tullings.’

I laughed and placed the mug on your desk. Leant forward.

‘You really do look lovely today, Constance. Glowing.’

We were close to each other. Like that day. The blouse draping open as expected. You looked at me. Nothing furtive this time. Bold. Obvious.

‘It’s my birthday,’ I said.

‘Your birthday? You never mentioned. Well . . . well, we must celebrate . . . We should get a drink or something. Oh, hang on, I can’t tonight . . . poker. Though I could do a quick one? After work? What do you say?’

Was that all it took? For you to see me differently? Me being less sorrowful, self-hating? I’m often nauseated by those motivational memes people share on Instagram. A picture of some perfect woman performing an impossible yoga pose on top of a mountain. Happiness depends on your positivity of thought, or some other bullshit. But for that moment, as you waited, wide-eyed, for me to agree to go for a drink with you, I must admit I wondered if those morons were right.

‘Yes . . . yes, I’d like that,’ I said.

From that point on I surfed the hours on a wave of excitement.