My appointment lasted an hour. All thoughts were wiped from my mind as I lay prone in the chair, Mr Patel leaning over me with his lovely breath. Proddings and probings, sudden agonising pain, the rattle of instruments, murmured instructions to the dental assistant who moved around noiselessly, ministering to us like a vestal virgin. She was stupendously beautiful; I’ve noticed this, with dental assistants. Mr Patel gazed sorrowfully into my mouth like a plumber tut-tutting over a previous plumber’s work. It seemed I had periodontal disease due to shrinking gums, not unusual for someone my age, and what he was too polite to call a botched filling. Plus a significant build-up of plaque. He said he could clean my teeth himself and I insisted on injections to numb the pain. I was a terrible coward.

The sun was sinking when I emerged from the surgery. Across the street a Range Rover was parked on a double-yellow line, its engine running. I glared at it disapprovingly, until I saw who was sitting in the driver’s seat.

He opened the door and leaned out. ‘You got a car?’

I shook my head.

‘So? Want a lift?’

‘Can’t speak,’ I mumbled. ‘Mouth numb.’

My lips felt like bolsters. I was drooling, and my mouth was dragged down one side like a stroke victim.

‘Can’t hear a word,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’

‘You could take me to the station,’ I muttered, behind my hand.

‘What?’

‘To the station.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Muswell Hill.’

‘What?’

‘Muswell Hill!’

‘No worries, I’ll drive you there.’

‘No!’ I put my hand on his thigh. ‘No, stop! It’s miles.’

But we were off. He drove fast, his vast, silent car sliding like butter through the traffic. He reached down and passed me a box of tissues.

‘For the dribble, sweetheart.’

I was touched by his concern and mopped my chin.

‘You don’t look so bad,’ he said. ‘Honest, I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t told me.’

He said his name was Calvin. He’d trained as a paramedic in Australia, flying helicopters into the outback, but had lived in England for the past thirty-five years. ‘For my sins, I went for the big bucks,’ he said. For he now ran a fleet of helicopters, based in Elstree Aerodrome, and ferried celebrities and captains of industry hither and thither.

‘How exciting,’ I mumbled stupidly. ‘Bit of a daredevil, are you?’

‘Maybe, back in the day. My heart’s not in it any more.’

‘Why not?’

‘Since Angie’s gone, the stuffing’s been knocked out of me, to be honest. It’s my team who’re doing most of the flying now.’

‘Who’s Angie?’

‘My wife. She passed away three months ago.’

My heart leaped. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘She was a great gal.’

Well, well.