Once inside, I was desperate to get back to my computer to finish up, in the hope that we could leave together, but you kept talking. Mainly to yourself, but it felt rude to walk away.

‘Right, well, I’m certain I put it here.’ You scrambled inside the top drawer of your desk. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . don’t tell me that I— Ah . . . yes . . . Thank you.’ You lifted the two keys that hung from a red plastic fob and kissed them. ‘Sorry . . . Thanks, Constance. Where’s Dr Harris? I’d better pop my head round.’

You dropped the keys into your pocket before lifting the bottom of your T-shirt to wipe your face. I tried so hard not to look at your stomach.

It was one o’clock. I’d finished everything, so I knocked on Dr Harris’s door to ask permission to leave.

I’d interrupted your talk. Harris was sat back in his chair, chubby hands clasped behind his head. You were leaning against the filing cabinet. Molecules of sweat covered every inch of your exposed skin. I imagined zooming in on them like a photographer. Perfect spheres filled with your natural perfume. It wasn’t exactly lemons you exuded that day, but neither was it something I could add to my negative list.

‘Yes, yes, you get off, Constance. I didn’t realize the time. And thank you for today. I’m suitably impressed with all you’ve done.’

I felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. Pride, perhaps. I didn’t dare look up as my face grew warm. To conceal it, I turned to leave.

‘Wait for me, Constance . . . I should get off as well, Bill . . . but yeah, let’s look into that properly next week.’

You had no idea how happy walking with you made me.

Good things come to those who wait, Mum would say. Usually when I’d grow impatient at her taking forever to pack the shopping at the till in Morrisons. Or when she’d forget to make the cup of tea she’d offered two hours previously. Situations that never truly fitted the phrase. But as I hobbled side by side with you, it was finally relevant.

‘Should I run ahead and get the car? Drive you to the station?’ you asked, looking towards my limping foot.

‘No . . . no, I’m fine. It’s doing me good. Just slow down a bit.’ It hurt like crazy, but I didn’t care. My joy overrode the pain.

It was so easy between us, wasn’t it? How we talked. The seamless flow of conversation. From the fact you were wearing uncomfortable socks, to how men shouldn’t wear Lycra, to you having run a marathon in your late twenties.