The air, hot and clammy, made my nausea worse and I squeezed my stomach for relief. His Manchester United mug, half full with the tea I’d made him, looked lost. A large crumb – I’d guess from the stash of digestives he kept in his drawer – was stuck to the rim. During my interview, he’d picked up on my Mancunian accent. Presumed I was a Man United fan. I was by default, but I don’t care much for football. He told me he went to uni there. Lived in Fallowfield. The opposite end to where I was. He was full of nostalgia, yearnings for my hometown, and I’m certain that’s why he hired me. A link to his youth and happier times. Or maybe he just liked me. All I know is it wasn’t my experience or qualifications. I’d already felt lucky that I’d managed to immediately land a job pulling pints in a dive pub. But I saw the vacancy for the surgery receptionist in a copy of the Evening Standard someone had left on the Tube and applied that night on a drunken whim. When he called to offer me the job, I felt for that moment like I was a real person. Worthy of something good. But I soon remembered that I wasn’t at all.

I picked up the wooden-framed picture of him and his family, all smiles, and placed it face down in the box. Next, I reached over for the mug, but as I did, the nausea overwhelmed me, and before I’d had a chance to think, I’d run to the sink and thrown up. And again. And again. When it all seemed over, and I gripped the sides of the cold porcelain, breaths heavy, I felt a hand on my back and jumped.

‘Oh God . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was just . . . Are you OK? It’s a terrible shock all this, I know.’

I faced you. Aware of how I must have looked, I turned back towards the sink and pulled paper towels from the dispenser to wipe the remnants of vomit from my chin before throwing them in the bin. ‘Yes . . . yes, I’m fine. I . . . I don’t know what happened. I must have eaten something.’

‘Are you sick every morning?’

‘No . . . God, no. I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘No . . . I . . . Well, yes, I was getting at that, but I’m a doctor. That’s kind of what I do.’

‘Honestly, it’s nothing. I’ve probably just got a bug or something. Dr Franco went home with one on Friday.’

‘Dr Franco? I thought it was only Dr Harris and Dr Short?’