‘Mr Hancock? I’m lifting you up now,’ I say.

I follow the procedure I was taught in nursing school. I slide one of my arms under his legs, the other under his back. I lift his legs and shift them to the side, until they dangle off the edge. He is silent and compliant like a bag of old rags, and I can feel a trickle of empathy flowing back into me, warming me like a hot alcoholic drink. This is my job and I am good at it. My head hurts but I have got this. Mona will forgive me for being so late and everything that happened on Saturday will be forgotten. I will never go to another party again. I didn’t expect it to happen this way – having sex with someone else, after all these years. And I guess, objectively, it could’ve been worse. You certainly couldn’t fault the man for his looks. As Miss Phyllis would say, ‘What a looker!’ So why do I feel so fucking strange about it? Why can’t I stop thinking about Alanna? I lift Mr Hancock’s torso with my other arm. Then I push on the back of his shoulders to sling his arms around my neck, careful not to dislodge the IV drip sunk into the thickest vein. I hold him steadily around the waist.

‘Come on then, Mr Hancock.’