‘Where are you going?’

Your breathing was heavy above my head. ‘Sorry . . . sorry. That was a friend of my ex and I didn’t want to deal with her, sorry. We split a couple of months ago, but I swear she’s gone crazy, Constance . . . Won’t let it go. We keep going round in circles. God knows what bullshit she’s said about me.’

‘Oh no, I’m sorry. Well, maybe you’ll get back together?’

‘God, no. I just want her stuff out. I think the only thing we agree on now is that we hate each other.’

I was glad you were behind me, unable to see the delight overtake my face.

The drive back was quiet. But unlike before, we were both swathed in calm. The tiny clock inserted into the walnut dash said it was nearly ten. The motion lulled me into a hazy tiredness and so I rested my head against the back of the seat.

You turned on the radio. ‘Do you mind? It relaxes me. I’ll keep it low.’

It was classical music. I had no idea what. I thought I hated classical music, but it turned out it relaxed me too. We listened in silence. I was so comforted, being with you, that I almost nodded off, until you said, ‘I was lying when I said it was to make you feel better. I really don’t like hospitals.’

I pushed myself up straight, opened my eyes but didn’t look at you. Sensing allowing you to talk was the right thing.

‘My mother . . . she died . . . in a psychiatric hospital . . . when I was fifteen. She was there for just over a year. The constant visiting, the walks down the corridors . . . Now the smell of those places makes me . . . I don’t know. She wasn’t mad, though. My father . . . she . . . she’d react to his womanizing. He deserved it. But she loved him, you see. And was, I don’t know . . . inconvenient.’

‘So he put her there?’

‘He’s a top neurosurgeon. All the Stevens men are doctors. Whether we hate hospitals or not. Obviously, though, as a GP, I’m a terrible disappointment.’ Your laugh that followed was tinged with hysteria. ‘Anyway, he followed the procedures, but . . .’

‘That’s horrible.’ In that moment everything made sense. Why our souls were magnets. ‘Did she kill herself?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. She just died. They didn’t know why. Sudden adult death syndrome, the coroner concluded. But everyone knew why, really.’

‘That’s . . . I’m so sorry, Dr Stevens.’

‘Hey, I think “Samuel” now. Especially after telling you that. I’m not sure what made me blurt it out in that way.’

I did. I knew.

‘Oh, this is beautiful.’ You turned up the volume. ‘Shostakovich. Symphony No. 5.’