I didn’t reply. Merely blew smoke into the air and watched the white strings infiltrate the atmosphere. Because we both know the answer to that, don’t we?

It was you.

For the next …

For the next three weeks, every thought, feeling, was consumed by you.

Meeting you. Touching you. Kissing you.

I enjoyed the thrill. The excitement of the show. Remaining professional. ‘Of course, Dr Stevens . . . Yes, Dr Stevens.’ But when alone, with the excuse of a coffee or a file, which I’d place on your desk, brushing against the skin exposed by your rolled-up sleeve, leaning forward, heart rates in sync, I’d feel your hot breath against my ear, whispering, ‘I wish I could have you right now.’ If interrupted by Linda or a patient, I’d switch. ‘Yes, me too, Dr Stevens. I’ll do that for you as soon as I can.’

Whenever able, we’d arrange our trysts, which, as you know, only ever took place in your flat. I’d either walk and meet you there or sometimes, if you had the car, you’d pick me up halfway. It was strange that now we were close, intimate, we couldn’t walk together as before.

‘You know you can’t tell anyone about us, Constance. Not your housemate, anyone. If we got found out, we’d both be in the shit.’ I’d always nod in agreement, but the truth is, inside I didn’t agree, didn’t understand. Surely even Dr Harris understood love.

As instructed, I didn’t tell Dale. I never wanted to anyway, yet I wasn’t entirely sure why. Although, I recently saw a documentary about female prisoners and a psychologist said we all subconsciously know the whys of everything we do.

To make the process easier, I never stayed over at yours. ‘You know I’d love you to, Constance, but it’ll only make him more suspicious. If he’s your friend, he’ll be asking who you’re with, won’t he? You don’t want to have to look your friend in the eye and lie, do you? And if he fancies you . . . well, he’ll want to know even more.’

I scrutinized you for signs of jealousy, of you dreading that was true. But you were using your poker face as a mask of pride. I instantly defused your anxieties. ‘He . . . he doesn’t . . . He’s just a friend . . . But I’ll go home soon, don’t worry.’ And so I did. Every time. Except that one Friday night.