‘Yes, of course . . . If you’ve done everything Dr Harris wants you to do?’

I nodded.

‘Well then, get off with you. Enjoy the weekend.’

As usual, the first hit of nicotine made everything better. Aside from my cough. Pausing at the top of the steps, I closed my eyes, relished the sensation. My head light with chemicals, I gathered my senses and set off towards the station.

It’s difficult to relay exactly what occurred next, as it happened in simultaneous fast forward and slow motion. I’m unsure if I made a noise. Or swore. But I recall my arms circling the air one moment, then the next my legs buckling beneath me. Immediate pain dispersed through my ankle, and my cheek burned against the abruptly met slab of cold pavement.

Dazed, I looked beyond the bottle top that brushed my lashes as I blinked towards my bag and its scattered contents. Just able to make out my phone, a Tampax and the Crunchy bar I’d searched everywhere for the previous night.

I’m not sure how long I was down, waiting for someone to come to my aid, but no one did, so I pushed myself up to reveal grazed, bloody palms, ingrained with tiny stones and particles of dirt.

A car sped past. My already pounding heart accelerated faster than the vehicle. Several attempts to stand ended in failure. The agony when I tried to put weight on my right foot was unbearable, making me want to chuck. Shock subsiding, tears came.

After hopping towards my bag, and managing, with difficulty, to bend down and retrieve both it and the contents, I turned back, and noticed the culprit. That same bastard bit of pavement I tripped on with Dale.

Gathering my remaining energy, I hopped back towards the steps and levered myself up the flight, the handrail acting as my crutch, then pushed the door open and called out your name. It must have been loud. Perhaps hysterical. As within seconds both you and Dr Harris were standing in front of me.

‘What on earth, girl?’ said Harris.

You placed my arm around your warm neck. Dipped to even our heights. ‘Constance, what the hell has happened?’

‘Did it happen in here?’ said Dr Harris.

I shook my head and gave in to the sobbing. ‘Outside, on the pavement.’

‘OK. Good . . . Well then, there, there . . . you poor girl.’ He turned to you and said, ‘Will you see to her?’ Then disappeared back into his room.

‘Come on. Let’s look at you.’ Cheek to cheek, an uncomfortable tango, you manoeuvred me into your office and lowered me gently onto the patient’s chair. It was strange being in such proximity to you and I was overwhelmingly self-conscious.

‘So, go on. What the hell did you do?’

I attempted to stop crying, though my words remained staccato. ‘I . . . I don’t know . . . My foot, it’s . . . killing me . . . It was . . . the fucking pavement. Sorry.’