However, amid all the happiness, there was one of our rendezvous that I didn’t enjoy at all. That time we ate pizza as ‘Purple Haze’ blasted out. I leant over and removed the string of cheese that clung to your chin and said, ‘I wish we could go out one evening at least, get a nice meal somewhere.’

‘Constance, doctors aren’t supposed to fuck their receptionists, you know.’ You pointed to the last slice of pizza in the box. ‘Are you eating that?’

I shook my head. You tilted back yours and eased the triangle, point first, into your mouth. Chewed with your lips apart. The pulping of the reddened dough made me want to retch. Though not as much as what you’d said. How you’d said it. But I convinced myself it was born from the same frustrations I had.

Then came the day of the funeral.

We were all dressed in black. Apart from you. You wore your pale blue shirt with the bottom button missing, and a minute iron singe on the collar, of which you were probably unaware. I’m sure you remember what I wore, because I noticed you trying not to stare at me in my mum’s black skirt and the fine-weave blouse I hadn’t realized was slightly see-through when I’d panic-bought it for the funeral from a charity shop.

Immersed in our relationship, I’d successfully pushed the funeral towards a secluded area in the back of my mind. But once it had arrived, hurtling towards the forefront, it brought with it reactions that I couldn’t disguise.

‘Are you cold, Constance?’ asked Alison. ‘You’re shivering.’

‘Yes . . . It’s not as warm as it has been, is it?’

I was desperate to talk to you. For you to ease my nerves. But you were busy with patients. Then the opportunity finally arose when you asked if I could quickly grab Mrs Randall’s referral letter before I left.

Placing it on your desk, I let the blouse drape open near your face. Waited for your whisper to infiltrate me.

‘Thank you, Constance,’ you said formally.

I turned, presuming Mrs Randall was behind me. But no one was there.

With the surgery closed for lunch, we gathered in reception to await the cabs. You remained in your room. A hushed atmosphere spread. Any words spoken were muted, sombre. Dr Franco sat with Dr Short. Alison was still behind reception. Linda stood talking to Dr Harris, the tissue in her hand becoming more crumpled with each moment. She was dreading it as much as I was. Albeit for different reasons.

I sat alone. Distracting myself by leaning over the glass table and scanning the covers of the Country Life magazines. (Flicking through one felt inappropriate somehow.) ‘£18 Million House’; ‘What Really Goes On In Private Members’ Clubs?’; ‘How to Draw Dogs’.