Your foot dropped to the floor with a thud and you leant forward, placed your hands together, like you were praying, deep in thought. Then you sat up and said, ‘Is it going to be a problem, Constance? Us working together? I hope not. Because I enjoy working with you. Really, I do.’ You looked at me in a way I’d never known before. Cold.

‘No . . . no, of course not . . . I’m sorry.’

‘Hey, it’s fine. Friends?’ You extended your hand for me to shake.

I slowly walked towards you and met it with mine.

‘Excellent,’ you smiled, gripped. ‘Now . . . you couldn’t get me a coffee before Mrs Charles arrives, could you?’

It felt as though five o’clock would never come.

While you consulted in your office, not thinking about me, I could do nothing but obsess over you. I’m sure as far as you were concerned, that should have been it. As a doctor, you may have been knowledgeable about the aorta and the ventricles, but you seemed unaware of the real workings of a heart.

When home time finally came, I waited for you outside. To walk with you. Attempt to at least articulate myself better.

As soon as the fresh air hit, I pulled out a fag. Luckily, Linda and Alison didn’t wish to linger, so said their goodbyes and left. I headed down towards my usual corner between the steps and the wall. My hands clammy as I rehearsed what I might say, pulling hard on my cigarette until it depleted, pacing like a deranged tiger in one of those shitty concrete zoos.

The door opened above. I held my breath. Pressed my back against the wall. The sound of soles against the stone of the steps. A hand on the rail. I exhaled. It wasn’t your hand. I recognized Dr Franco’s gold pinky ring. Once he’d reached the bottom, he walked in the direction of the surgery car park around the side of the building.

I relaxed. Not completely, but enough to breathe and begin another fag. Although it made me nauseous, I needed the assistance.

Once again the door opened. I could sense it was you this time, and I was right. I pressed myself back against the wall. Your buffed, unworked fingers slid down the rail. You were talking. No one else was in view, but as you neared, I could see your headphones were in and realized you were on the phone.

‘Yep . . . definitely. Not the green one, no, the other one. OK, so the one on the opposite side, then. The big one. The Wheatsheaf, I think it’s called. Yep . . . Friday . . . about seven. OK, Jimbo. Cool . . . See you there, mate . . . You’d better bloody not, you arse . . .’

Engrossed in your conversation, you hadn’t noticed me at all.