I was already old news. People stopped gawking, or were doing so more subtly at least. They returned to their arguing, laughing, avoiding. Heads magnetically drawn down to phones. But then came the flashes. There was no doubt I’d feature heavily in conversations that day. Photo evidence was needed. I’d be trending on Twitter.

Reading Man glanced up from his book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Perhaps he was wondering which one my habit was. But then that’s what I love about London. Rather than staring, why didn’t they ask if I was OK? I was not fucking OK, people. In Manchester, I’d have been in someone’s house by then, being handed a cup of tea with six sugars and a Blue Riband.

The Tube slowed to a halt. Earls Court. I could see them on the platform waiting for me.

My tooth dropped onto my lap.

My darling Samuel …

My darling Samuel,

I’ve never written a letter before. Love or otherwise.

As much as I’ve been desperate to tell you how much I miss you, think about you until my head spins, my stomach constricts, it was Dr Franco’s suggestion that I write.

You must know I intended to join you. I promise I did. But when it came to it, I couldn’t. Not now I have something to stay here for. I’m sorry.

It’ll be some time before I see you again and I can’t stop fretting that I never got to explain myself fully. Aside from the brief, clumsy attempt you allowed me that day. That terrible day. I can’t even steady the pen as I write these words.

Anyway, I’ve decided to take his advice. Tell you everything. From the beginning. My account of it all. My side. Moment by moment. Hurt by hurt. Though Dr Franco insists there are no such things as beginnings. Only the point from which someone is prepared to start telling their story. So I’ll start from our beginning. And I promise it will be the entire truth. Something no one else shall know.

I often think …

I often think about the first time I saw you: when they broke the news that Dr Williams had been killed at the weekend.

Dr Harris and Dr Short had gathered everyone into the surgery waiting room, even menials like myself, and Harris relayed the shocking details. ‘You may as well hear it from me as there’ll only be speculation.’ Mrs Williams. An argument. The car that hit him as he ran across the road after her. How he was still alive when the ambulance arrived. How he was dead before they could get him into it. I heard it all. The terrible events. The intakes of breath. Linda blubbing next to me. I heard. But it was you who held my concentration.