Arriving at St Mary’s, the dream evaporated and my anxiety returned with force.

I hadn’t been inside a hospital since Manchester. And I’d vowed never to enter one again.

You pulled the car into a forbidden area and went to collect a wheelchair. After chivalrously seeing me into it, you instructed me to stay put while you parked up.

I tried to remember the list of negatives I’d conjured up about you, but I couldn’t. It was a pointless exercise, anyway. You can lie to other people easily, but it’s impossible to lie to yourself.

After lighting a much-needed fag, I took in the building’s vastness. Forced my mind to accept that inside, as babies were being born, people were also dying. Some already dead.

I took out my phone. Six missed calls. All from Dale. I called him back.

‘Hey. It’s me. Sorry.’

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘I had a fall . . . but don’t go crazy – I’m fine, but I may have broken my foot.’

‘Oh, you’re joking. Well, where are you? I’ll come now—’

‘No, no . . . I’m fine, honestly.’

‘But you can’t be on your own.’

‘I’m not . . . I’m not on my own. Dr Harris is with me. Look, I’ve . . . I’ve got to go – they’re calling me in.’ I pressed the red circle and blew the guilt into the air with my smoke.

An ambulance pulled up nearby. Paramedics opened its doors and wheeled some poor bastard out on a stretcher as they urgently babbled medical terms, most of which were foreign to me, except the word ‘stabbing’. I turned away, my heartbeat rapid. But, thank God, I saw you coming to rescue me.

Inside, I gave my details at reception. Citing Dale as my next of kin. They asked for my GP, but I hadn’t even signed up with one yet.

‘I’m her GP,’ you interjected, and gave them your full name. Dr Samuel Stevens.

Sam-u-el.

You’d gone to fetch us some tea. Alone, I scanned the waiting room. It was a typical line-up of London all-sorts. Bearded hipster with an ice pack on his arm. Farrow & Ball couple constantly checking the forehead of their little girl, who was clearly well enough to keep running around. I prayed she’d stay away, so I didn’t catch whatever it was she had. Then a man in a football kit sat in the row of chairs right opposite. The white towel he held against his head was gradually turning red. I tried to look away, but he was too near to avoid, and as the scarlet blot grew, I felt my own blood drain towards my feet.

‘Hey, are you OK?’ You were standing next to me holding two flimsy plastic cups. ‘Machine only, I’m afraid.’

I extended my tense hand out to retrieve mine, noticing you clock the bleeding man.