I told myself it was fine. That he wouldn’t take long. That he was only trying to help. While massaging my skin, he talked about Call of Duty and a film he wanted me to watch. I feigned interest. Swallowed the dough with difficulty. Wanting every aspect of what was happening to be over. Then it was, because once again you saved me.

‘Who’s that ringing at this time?’ he said.

‘I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number. But it’s only seven thirty, Dale.’

My heart rate increased tenfold when I heard your voice. Foot aside, I could have skipped around the room. You were enquiring about the sprain, but it was more than that. You wanted me to know you cared.

I must have sounded so flustered. Could you tell? ‘It’s . . . it’s . . . a lot better, thank you. I’ll start walking on it more tomorrow.’ You told me Dr Harris had passed on my number when you’d informed him that I wouldn’t be in for a few days. Hoped I didn’t mind. You had no idea how much I didn’t mind.

I desperately wanted to talk to you longer. And I’m sorry if I came across as rude or ungrateful. I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all. I was so happy, but it was Dale. Lingering. Static. Listening to my every word. As our conversation wrapped up, he put the top back on the tube and stood to leave. I said goodbye to you and ended the call. He stopped at the door, requiring answers.

‘Dr Stevens. Just seeing how my foot is doing.’

‘Oh right. That’s so nice of him. Anyway, at least your headache seems to have lifted. You should eat up before it gets cold,’ he said, and left.

Able to feel my excitement in his absence, I took a bite of pizza and turned the TV back on. And there it was. Taunting me. That scene. The pain of lost love. What it can do.

My thoughts flashed to my mother. Forever haunting me.

I’m going to play Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 now. Hopefully, it will help me slip away and erase the image that has invaded my mind once again.

I made it …

I made it back to work on the Thursday. Off the crutches but sore-footed and limping. I couldn’t bear being cooped up any longer and all I could think about was seeing you.

I got the bus in. It took almost twice as long, but involved less walking, and when I’d envisaged being on the Underground, my breathing shallowed and I imagined being buried alive.