“Take your time and tell us exactly what happened.” That’s what the police said. But it didn’t matter how many times they asked me, my answer was always the same.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Various neurologists have tried to explain it to me over the years, how there isn’t always time for what happens immediately before a seizure to be fully incorporated into the memory system. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if all my lost memories came back. Like missing pieces of a jigsaw, slotting into place. Making me whole again.

Other times, I wonder if it’s better I don’t remember.

Ross drains his coffee. “By the way, I’ve spoken to our practice manager about that part-time job on reception. She said to give her a ring if you’re interested.”

I clear the rest of our breakfast things away, relieved he’s changed the subject. “I’ve been thinking about that,” I tell him. “Maybe I should look for something full time instead. Something a bit more interesting.”

Ross frowns. “Are you sure that’s wise? You don’t want to push yourself.”

“But that’s just it. I do. If I hang about here all day, I’ll go mad.”

If only I’d gone to university and got a degree, I might have had a proper career by now. I missed so much schooling because of my epilepsy, ended up taking my GCSEs and A levels two years later than everyone else. The last thing I wanted to do after all that was more studying. Now, though, I’m beginning to wish I had. The only jobs I’ve had since leaving school have been tedious admin or reception posts. I’m not sure I can bear the thought of another one, and yet I have to do something. I think of that advert I saw in the local paper recently, for an open day at Greenwich University. Maybe I ought to go and investigate.

Ross puts his arms round me from behind while I’m washing up and kisses the back of my neck. His hands start creeping up from my waist and I flick soapy water over my shoulder at him with the washing-up brush.

“Spoilsport!” he says, wiping bubbles from his eye. “Anyway, you wouldn’t be hanging about here all day if you got the job at the surgery. And you’d be able to catch tantalizing glimpses of the gorgeous Dr. Ross Murray when he comes into the waiting room.”

I snort with laughter. “Is that one of the perks of the job, then?”

“You bet.”

“But seriously,” I say. “The pay’s rubbish. You said so yourself.”

“It’s not about the pay, though, is it? It’s about your health. We can manage perfectly well on my salary.”