‘Well, you hurt your foot, yes . . . but it makes it a much longer week for us two . . . and I have my cycling club, you see, on Saturdays, and Alison, well, she’s got to—’

‘Fine. OK, I’ll do it,’ I said, unable to cope with hearing about Alison’s plans for the weekend. And my brain couldn’t even process the words ‘Linda’ and ‘cycling club’ being in the same sentence.

‘Thank you, Constance,’ said Alison. ‘It’s just that Kevin and I are—’

‘It’s no problem, Alison, really.’

A grim atmosphere hung for the next hour. We all intently got on with our work. In silence. The only talking that took place was with patients. This new way of working meant I had at least finished the report, but as I walked over to the printer to collect the sheets, my pulse quickened as I noticed you coming towards the desk.

‘Hello, ladies.’

From the corner of my eye, I could see Linda and Alison greeting you with syrup and giggles. I, however, kept my head down, cool, calm, counting the printed pages.

‘I’m off to Harley Street now for the remainder of the day and won’t be back till Monday. So can you take messages and ring me there if urgent?’

‘Will do, Dr Stevens. See you next week,’ said Linda.

‘Bye, Dr Stevens. Have a nice weekend,’ said Alison.

‘Thank you. You too. Bye. Goodbye, Constance.’ You projected your voice.

I looked up, slow-blinked, deeply unimpressed. ‘Yeah, sorry . . . bye.’ Then immediately returned my eyes to the papers and shuffled them intently, ensuring you understood that I was more interested in the sheets than your departure.

You left, and I was satisfied I’d deflected some of my earlier humiliation back onto you.

Being in the surgery on a Saturday was, frankly, weird and perturbing. It was cold in there. Even smelt different. Five minutes after I’d arrived, Harris plonked a cardboard archive box full of files onto my desk and instructed me to either update the database or erase if they were no longer a patient/dead. Even Call of Duty was preferable to that. The only thing that made it bearable was that as the surgery was closed, I was allowed to listen to the radio.

I came to terms with the fact that the only way through this was to work my bollocks off. Get it done as fast as possible, then escape. So I did. I worked harder than I’d ever done before. Which went totally against my nature. It was made marginally easier with the aid of Frank, Lesley Gore, Aretha . . . The sounds of my childhood. My life. My dad, blurred-faced, playing along on the guitar. Mum dancing in the lounge, laughing. Bending down, holding my tiny hands, wiggling me from side to side.

Despite the crappy work, I enjoyed being there. That parallel world within my mind.