Snapped from your trance, you pushed your hair off your face. ‘OK, I think it’s just bruising and swelling on the knee, but I’m not sure if you’ve broken your foot or not. It could just be a bad sprain and ligament damage, which believe me, can be as painful.’ Your tone was professional. ‘Let’s clean up your cuts and grazes quickly, then get you to hospital for some X-rays.’

‘What? I . . . I really don’t want to go to hospital . . . It’s fine.’ I stood. Then sat again, realizing that I was both half naked and the pain still immense.

‘Sure you are. Look, you’ve got no choice, I’m afraid. You can’t ignore a potentially broken foot.’

‘I . . . I don’t like hospitals.’

You didn’t respond but turned my hands over to expose my damaged palms and placed them on your knees. We were even closer. I could smell coffee on your breath. Your hair draped your eyes as you cleaned my grazes with an astringent wipe. It stung, but I didn’t flinch. Only watched as you cared for me.

‘Can I get a cab on the work account and pay it back? I can’t afford—’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m taking you.’

I went to thank you but couldn’t speak, because without warning, you were pushing my fringe away from my face and touching my cheek. I stopped breathing. Until I realized you were once again cleaning my skin. I wasn’t even aware I was hurt there. The antiseptic was cold. Your lips so close. They dropped open slightly. Urging me to cover them with mine.

The murky sky and rain meant I hadn’t noticed your car was metallic pale blue the first time, or, more importantly, that it was a convertible. The top was down, exposing the beautiful navy leather interior to the people who stared in awe as we crawled through the rush-hour traffic. Yet you were so blasé about it.

‘I’ve never really seen a car like this before. What is it?’

‘A 1966 Austin-Healey 3000.’

‘It must have cost a fortune.’

‘My father gave it to me.’

‘I love it.’ I mentally compared it to Blusha. The most precious gift my father gave to me.

‘So do I.’

After that interaction, you remained quiet for the entire journey. Appeared nervous. And I wondered why. In contrast, the novelty of riding in such a car calmed me, distracted me from the foot pain and the anxiety associated with our destination. I daydreamed we were heading to the seaside for a picnic. That in the boot was a huge hamper filled with champagne and posh titbits like strawberries, olives, fancy bread and my mum’s favourite Gouda. You’d lay before us a woollen checked blanket, which would billow as it caught on the soft breeze. Then we’d eat and laugh, and tell each other our deepest secrets before we’d kiss.