‘What area were you working in before?’ I ask as I study the screen. The woman’s blood oxygen levels are lower than they ought to be. ‘Mrs Corrigan?’ I raise my voice and two cloudy blue eyes lock on to mine. ‘Can you take some deep breaths for me, please?’

‘I was in geriatric care,’ Luke whispers as I watch Mrs Corrigan’s fragile chest rising and falling. ‘Hip fractures and pneumonia were the two biggest signs that a patient was starting their final decline.’

‘That’s looking much better,’ I tell Mrs Corrigan brightly as the oxygen levels on the screen come up to normal levels. ‘Make sure you breathe deeply every so often, OK?’

‘That’s all lovely,’ I tell Luke quietly, so Mrs Corrigan can’t hear, ‘but irrelevant in this role. For all I know, Mrs Corrigan might make a full recovery and spend many years waltzing round a ballroom with her surprisingly ardent lover. Our job is to assess her and, in conjunction with the consultants, decide what treatment path is going to be best for her. Whatever happens, she won’t be staying here. So, what are your thoughts, doctor?’

He stares intently into my eyes, and I can feel my skin prickling under his gaze. The last time someone looked at me with that level of intensity, it was my last boyfriend, I was naked and underneath him. To my horror, my mind starts to imagine Dr Luke Milne in that position. Thankfully, he breaks the spell by speaking.

‘It’s unlikely that anything could be done for her surgically,’ he murmurs. ‘But she can’t be discharged without an appropriate care package in place, so I guess I’d admit her on to a ward and keep her under observation while social services sort out the relevant bits and pieces.’

I smile at him. ‘Good plan. Given that she’s broadly stable, shall we go and see if Dr Patel agrees with you?’ I raise my voice again as I carefully remove the blood pressure cuff from her arm and ease her finger out of the oxygen monitor. ‘Mrs Corrigan, are you in any pain at the moment?’ I ask.

‘No, dear,’ she replies in a wavering voice. ‘If you’re finished, I’ll be on my way.’ She starts to try to sit up and winces.

‘Try not to move, Mrs Corrigan,’ I tell her firmly. ‘You’ve broken your pelvis, so you need to stay in bed for now, OK?’

‘I can’t stay in bed, dear,’ she says, her eyes filling with tears as she sinks back onto the pillow in defeat. ‘I’ve got to feed my cat.’

‘We need to keep you here for a while. Is there someone we can call to feed your cat? What’s his name?’