I was about to invent a story when the door opened. I recognized the tip of your shoe and pivoted, knocking the stapler on the floor. When bending to pick it up, I stayed there longer than required, eyes glued to my knee.

‘Morning, Dr Stevens. I was just telling Constance about how lovely the wake was.’

‘Oh, I’m pleased to hear that, Linda. Though I can’t deny I avoid funerals whenever possible.’

Did you say that for my benefit? To remind me of our core bond.

I felt you leaning over reception. ‘You couldn’t bring me in a coffee, could you, Constance?’

In the kitchen, I was back to day one. Nervous, unable to get the colour right, accidentally double-sugaring and having to make it again from scratch. Once satisfied, I poured some out into the sink to prevent my jitters from causing it to swill over the edge.

As I walked to your room, another memory was triggered from the previous night. Dale’s dank fingers stroking my face. Pretending to be asleep. His shadow over me. His breath. Garlic. Beef Monster Munch. His lips touching mine. Me turning over. Fake sleeping groans. Praying. Waiting for the shadow to leave. Relief as it lifts and turns.

You were writing in your notebook when I entered. No acknowledgement. I quietly walked over and placed the mug in front of you.

‘Thanks, Constance.’ You caught sight of the bandage and put down your pen. Bothered to look at me. ‘Oh no, what have you done now?’

‘I fell over.’

‘Again? You’re very clumsy, aren’t you?’

‘It’s fine. I’ve put TCP on it.’

‘I want to see. Sit down.’

I did as I was told. You wheeled over to me, took my wrist in your warm hands – Warm hands, cold heart – and unravelled the dressing.

‘So how did you fall this time?’

‘I’m not sure.’ You smiled at me, expecting more of an explanation. ‘I think I tripped on my laces and knocked my hand against a wall.’

‘That could only happen to you, Constance.’ You removed the last bit of bandage. ‘It looks like you’ve given someone a left hook.’

I looked down at my exposed hand. Blue-black knuckles crisscrossed with red. ‘I didn’t, though.’

‘I was joking . . . I mean, if you were going to punch anyone, it’d be me, right?’ You stood and crossed the room to gather antiseptic and such into a dish.

Once again I watched you. That unruly section of your hair. Your shoulder blades slicing beneath your shirt. We’d come full circle.

I’d planned to keep quiet, but with your back to me, I developed bravery.

‘So how was the Castle? Did you have a nice time?’