The second time was with a file you’d requested. You were busy sorting out your desk.

‘Hey, Constance. Come in. I’m just trying to make myself feel more at home.’

I’d already noticed that your hand was ring-free, but I still feared that the following day you’d be displaying a photograph of your own.

With the last patient gone, Alison and I tidied reception and prepared to finish for the day. I was hoping you’d leave at the same time. Prayed you got the Tube. But your door remained closed.

Outside, I stopped at the bottom of the entrance steps, breathed in the fresh air before digging in my bag for a desperately needed cigarette.

‘You shouldn’t be smoking, Constance. Not when working at a doctor’s surgery,’ said Alison.

Luckily, with the fag now hanging from my mouth, it was too awkward to tell her to fuck off. She lingered as I struggled to get a spark from my near-empty lighter. But thank God, she didn’t want to be late for her sewing class, so fucked off on her own accord.

Still determined to get the ciggie lit, I huddled into the adjacent wall and cupped my hand to shield it from the warm breeze. Finally it took. I turned back round and leant against the rough bricks. Closed my eyes. Thought about you as the chemicals performed their tricks.

When I reopened them, there was a face in front of mine that I wasn’t expecting.

We never talked …

We never talked about Dale much, I know. I never wanted you to think there was . . . that I had any romantic feelings towards him. I didn’t. Whatever I share with you from this point, you must believe that. I’d avoided discussing him to prevent you from enduring unnecessary jealousy. Regardless of what you did, I’d never want to put you through that.

‘I’ve been calling and texting you all day. Nearly forgot to process the payment run, I was getting so worried . . . Would have given Jean yet another reason not to give me the account-manager job.’

‘Oh, have you? I’m sorry.’ I removed my phone from my bag. Although we had to keep them on silent at work, I would usually check and reply to his messages, which were generally asking if I wanted to share a pizza or go for a drink at Connolly’s. There were nine missed calls. Numerous blocks of blue text. I looked up at his concerned face. ‘Sorry. I . . . It’s been . . . Dr Williams died.’

‘Shit, man, you’re joking. Which one’s he? How?’

‘Run over.’

‘Run over? Jesus, who gets run over?’

‘At the weekend. It’s weird . . . He’s the nice one. The Man U supporter.’

‘Still, he didn’t deserve to die.’

I didn’t fake-laugh as I usually would, which forced him to back-pedal.