We moved in together the following month, November – or rather, he moved into my place. He had been flat-sharing for the whole year he had lived in Peterborough, he said – although he had also said at one point that he had only been sharing with Richard for four months. He owned a small place in south-east London, in a suburb called Brockley, that he rented out. It made sense when he could be moved almost anywhere for the next registrar’s job – really until you were a consultant it was impossible to have any kind of stability, so he hadn’t wanted to sell the London place and buy somewhere in this region until he was sure he was staying. Are you sure now? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. He had made it clear his life was provisional – that was just the way it was, in his line of work, and a lot of people didn’t understand. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be Understanding Girlfriend.

It was never properly discussed, our cohabitation – he spent more and more time at my flat when he wasn’t on a shift. I lived alone and he shared with the glum Richard and his sarcastic remarks, so it made sense. I had given him his own set of keys because of his unpredictable working patterns. One evening, as we were in his car – he was dropping me home before going in for a night shift – he said, ‘I don’t know why I bother paying rent on that place just to leave my stuff there with a guy I don’t even like.’

I shrugged. ‘Then don’t.’ How triumphant I felt after that remark; how casual it was. ‘If you moved your stuff into my place then you’d save a bit of money at least.’ I kept looking straight ahead as I said this. He had cancelled the last three dates in a row because of work and I had very carefully not-minded because I was determined not to be like the crazy Helen – but I had minded, of course. The previous week, we had arranged to meet in a pub at 8 p.m. and he had been two hours late. I was thinking how, if we lived together, then it wouldn’t matter when he came home, I’d just be at home and could get on with my marking. Oh, the loop-the-loops we do when we want somebody.

Your stuff. How clever of me. As if it wasn’t him that was moving in, just his shirts and boxers.

He was quiet for a bit and I wondered if I had pushed my luck, revealed my hand too early. ‘Do you think you can cope?’ He said it quietly, seriously.

‘What, with your unpredictable shift patterns and your being knackered all the time and never knowing when you’ll be home?’ I asked.