Even Harris seemed impressed with what I’d achieved and told me to have a tea break at eleven. By half twelve I’d done so well I was singing along to Dusty Springfield, finishing off my last file.

Then there was a knock at the door.

I stopped. Confused, I looked towards Dr Harris’s room in case he was expecting someone, but he didn’t emerge. The knocking came again. This time harder, longer.

Presuming someone had got the wrong address, I went over to open it. As I pulled inwards, my free hand automatically shielded my eyes from the blinding sun. And so it took a moment for me to realize that it was you.

‘Oh . . . thank God you’re still here.’ You walked in past me as I opened the door fully.

‘Is everything OK, Dr Stevens?’

It wasn’t the ‘you’ I was familiar with. It was a sweaty, dressed in shorts and damp T-shirt, exposed muscular legs ‘you’.

‘Apart from being a total moron, yes, I’m fine . . . I . . .’ You could barely get your words out. Placed your hands on your hips and leant forward. ‘Sorry . . . stitch . . . I thought I’d do something positive this morning . . . Got up, went for a run. I haven’t run for ages . . . clearly. So I do five miles—’

‘That’s good—’

‘Yes . . . five bloody miles. I make it home . . . thinking I was going to die . . . which, as a doctor, means there was a lot of evidence to back it up—’

‘Do you want some water?’

You nodded, your energy for speaking used up. I hurried to the kitchen, letting the tap flow, so it was cold enough for you.

When I returned, you took it off me and gulped it all. Wiping the excess from your mouth before running your fingers through your wet hair, revived.

‘And so I make it home, barely alive . . . then realize I hadn’t taken my bloody keys with . . . Didn’t have my phone.’ You handed me the empty glass.

‘Oh no . . . Shall I call a locksmith?’

‘No, no. Thank God I always keep a spare in my desk. It’s not the first time I’ve done this: I have form. I’m so bloody lucky that Harris was in today . . . Thank fucking Christ, eh?’ You headed towards your office. I followed you. ‘Why am I such an idiot, Constance?’

‘I don’t know, Dr Stevens.’

I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Though I don’t think you were listening anyway, as you continued babbling.

‘I asked someone for the time . . . then regardless of the heart attack I was already having, I ran here too, to catch you. Constance . . . can you open up for me? No keys.’ You smiled, but your face flooded with blood and irritation.