A sturdy blonde emerged. A younger Mrs Harris clone. Not quite breakfast-TV presenter. A weather girl, perhaps. She smoothed the fabric of her cerise tailored dress. I noticed how she sucked in her bulging belly. ‘Oh, you waited for me,’ she said, more plummy than royalty. I didn’t connect the jigsaw at first. Then I realized she was talking to you. And for some strange reason touching your arm.

‘This is Constance, one of the receptionists at the surgery. Constance, this is Fiona.’

‘Constance, I bet you’ve got lots of stories about this one.’ She placed her manicured hand on your shoulder.

‘Yes . . . yes, so many . . . Excuse me . . .’ I pushed past you both and went in the toilet, slamming the door. Threw my head back against the wood, shut my eyes and tried to regulate my breathing. Reason with my mind. She could have been anyone. I was fucking paranoid. But the effects on my body had already happened, and I’d barely got my knickers down before I’d emptied myself.

Downstairs, I grabbed another glass of champagne from a wandering tray and headed to the buffet area at the back of the lounge. It was no ‘paper plates, cheese and pineapple on toothpicks’ affair. It was an M&S advert. Not just a buffet. A wanker’s buffet.

I couldn’t face enquiring about vegetarian options so filled my gold-rimmed china plate with a hunk of artisan bread and safe leafy salad. While chewing on the heavy dough, hoping it would soak up the alcohol, I felt a tap on my shoulder. My stomach overturned, thinking it was you. But it was her. ‘So . . . go on, then . . . What’s he like to work for, Samuel? Sorry, I mean Dr Stevens. It must be weird for you, me calling him Samuel.’

I forced more bread into my mouth. ‘Not really.’ I chewed slackly, watching her lips squirm at my gob full of white paste.

‘Is he a good boss?’

‘He’s not my boss.’

‘Well . . . well, you know what I mean.’ She picked up a plate and dolloped practically every dish onto it.

‘No, not really.’

‘I mean . . . is he nice . . . to the staff? You know what they say – when dating a man, check how he treats the waiter as that shows more about the person than how he’s treating you.’

The bread stuck in my gullet and I spoke in a deep voice. ‘You’re . . . you’re dating him?’

‘Oh no . . . No, we’ve only met tonight. So not yet anyway.’ She laughed. I didn’t. ‘Well, go on . . .’

‘Go on what?’

‘What’s he like?’

‘I . . . I think he’s still in love with someone.’

‘How would you know that?’ Her face warped with contempt.

‘It’s just what I . . . you know . . . what I heard, but I don’t really know. I’m just one of the receptionists.’