You were the stranger among us. Kept your head down in respect. Or was it embarrassment? Your hair fell forward, draping your face in that way it does, and when you glanced up, your eyes, pale, unsettled, unsettled me.

Dr Harris hadn’t been speaking long before Linda felt faint. With difficulty, her being built like a walrus, I eased her round the Country Life-covered coffee table and onto the nearest section of modular seating, before fetching her a glass of water as instructed.

You stood in the doorway. I could smell you. Lemons. My hand brushed yours as I passed, but I didn’t acknowledge you or smile, merely walked on as if you were a ghost. On my return, you’d moved further into the room, meaning there was no accidental touch.

As I’m sure you’ll remember, Linda’s reaction was stronger than everyone else’s. Possibly even than that of Mrs Williams. It was always obvious she’d had a thing for him. We – Linda, myself and Alison – were responsible for all the doctors’ admin, as you know. But Linda coveted Dr Williams’s work. I could identify the glint through her cloggy eyelashes each time she had to go to his office. Poor Linda. The ‘speculation’ was that Mrs Williams was running away because she’d caught him with another woman. Another woman who wasn’t Linda. It wasn’t just his wife whom Dr Williams had betrayed.

I remember feeling conscious that I didn’t look upset enough. Or shocked. Even the unfriendly agency nurses, or the Ratcheds, as I called them, looked emotional. But I was just as shaken and moved by Dr Williams’s fate as everyone else. Only, I’d lost the ability to express. As you know, with me, it’s all inside. Always inside.

With Linda now settled into a low-grade wail, Dr Harris brought the meeting to practical matters. As a private practice, there wasn’t the option of telling people there was a three-week wait for an appointment. He wasn’t prepared to lose money, dead partner or not. That was when he introduced you.

I never liked Dr Harris. Mainly because he was a wanker. But also, the way he’d always point – no, jab – with his party-sausage fingers, onto which he’d somehow managed to stuff a ring. I wondered about the woman who’d screw such a man for a nice house and car. I presumed that was her motive. But I couldn’t imagine a house or car spectacular enough.