‘That’s OK – you can say “fucking”. I don’t mind.’ You smiled. A smile I knew you wanted me to reciprocate, as if you were attempting to pacify a scriking child. I obliged. You pulled tissues from the box on your desk and handed them to me. Until then, I’d been oblivious to the string of snot hanging from my nostrils. I quickly wiped it away, hoping to erase it from both our memories as well as my nose.

It was then you crouched in front of me. Undid my laces with care. Gentle. Slow. You removed the shoe, like a reverse Cinderella, exposing my sock and the hole in its toe (which definitely never happened in Cinderella). Then you peeled that off with precision, making me wince as it disturbed the bruised skin.

I fixated on you the whole time. Concentrated on you concentrating.

‘Oh dear,’ you said.

My stare was broken and I glanced down. My foot was already bluing and looked as though an egg had been inserted under the skin. Tears rose again.

‘Don’t worry – I’ve seen worse.’

Your cold hands cupped my heel. Cold hands, warm heart, Mum would say. My self-consciousness increased. I hadn’t been touched for so long. And it wasn’t just anyone’s touch; it was yours.

Following your commands, I attempted to flex, point and wiggle my toes. None of which I could do successfully. Or at least not without experiencing pain I wasn’t prepared to inflict on myself. You pushed up the bottom of my trouser leg, but it refused to budge past the ankle.

‘You’ll have to take them off,’ you said.

I was convinced I hadn’t outwardly shown my anguish at this request, but you followed with ‘Don’t be silly, Constance. I’m a doctor.’

After turning away, you gathered various items into a steel tray. I undid my zip. Pulled them down. It proved difficult, as I had to remain seated, and accidentally brought my knickers with them before immediately whipping them back up. I sat there. Stretching my shirt as far over my thighs as I could, noticing how your hair was more unkempt at the back, the bottom strands matted with sweat.

You turned back round, with the pretence it was a coincidence I’d finished undressing. Once dropped into your chair, you wheeled yourself over.

‘OK . . . let’s see what’s going on here. Can you straighten your leg for me?’

You stretched it towards you, my calf in your hands. The sensation trickled towards my inner thigh. You were unaware of my reddened face as your fingertips pressed my pale flesh, inch by inch, downwards from my knee. With each application of pressure, you asked if it hurt. It didn’t, until you reached my ankle and I made it clear with an almighty ‘Jesus, yes.’ You remained silent, focused. Didn’t make eye contact with me once.