I touched his face twice, lightly, breathing in the scent of his skin, the faint tang of antibacterial soap, the primal sexual hint of male sweat, and the second time I did so I felt his hand tighten reflexively on my waist. I shifted onto my back and gazed out at the streetlights, feeling, for once, that I was not an alien in this city. And finally, I found myself drifting …

His eyes open on mine. A moment later he realizes where he is.

‘Hey.’

A lurch into waking. The peculiar dreamlike state that suffuses the small hours. He is in my bed. His leg against mine. A smile, creeping across my face. ‘Hey yourself.’

‘What time is it?’

I swivel to catch the digital readout of my alarm. ‘A quarter to five.’ Time settles into order, the world, reluctantly, into something that makes sense. Outside, the sodium-lit dark of the street. The minicabs and night buses rumble past. Up here it is just him and me in the night and the warm bed and the sound of his breathing.

‘I can’t even remember getting here.’ He looks off to the side, his face faintly lit by the streetlights, frowning. I watch as memories of the previous day land softly, a silent, mental Oh. Right.

His head turns. His mouth, inches from mine. His breath, warm and sweet. ‘I missed you, Louisa Clark.’

I want to tell him then. I want to tell him that I don’t know what I feel. I want him but I’m frightened to want him. I don’t want my happiness to be entirely dependent on somebody else’s, to be a hostage to fortunes I cannot control.

His eyes are on my face, reading me. ‘Stop thinking,’ he says.

He pulls me to him, and I relax. This man spends each day out here, on the bridge between life and death. He understands. ‘You think too much.’

His hand slides down the side of my face. I turn towards him, an involuntary reflex, and put my lips against his palm. ‘Just live?’ I whisper.

He nods, and then he kisses me, long and slow and sweet, until my body arches and I am just need and want and longing.

His voice is low in my ear. My name, pulling me in. He makes it sound like something precious.

The next three days were a blurred mass of stolen nights and brief meetings. I missed Idealization Week in the Moving On Circle because he turned up at the flat just as I was leaving and we somehow ended up an urgent mess of arms and legs, waiting for my egg-timer to go off so that he could dress and race to pick Jake up on time. Twice he was waiting for me when I returned from my shift, and with his lips on my neck, his big hands on my hips, the indignities of the Shamrock and Clover were, if not forgotten, swept aside along with last night’s empties.

I wanted to resist him, but I couldn’t. I was giddy, diverted, sleepless. I got cystitis and didn’t care. I hummed my way through work, flirted with the businessmen, and smiled cheerfully at Richard’s complaints. My happiness offended my manager: I could see it in his chewed cheek, the way he sought ever more feeble misdemeanours for which to tell me off.

I cared about none of it. I sang in the shower, lay awake dreaming. I wore my old dresses, my brightly coloured cardigans and satin pumps, and let myself be enclosed in a bubble of happiness, aware that bubbles only ever existed for so long before they popped anyway.

‘I told Jake,’ he said. He had half an hour’s break, and he and Donna had stopped outside my flat with lunch before I went off for a late shift. I sat beside him in the front seat of the ambulance.

‘You told him what?’ He had made mozzarella, cherry tomato and basil sandwiches. The tomatoes, grown in his garden, burst in little explosions of flavour in my mouth. He was appalled at how I ate when I was alone.

‘That you’d thought I was his dad. He laughed more than I’ve seen him laugh for months.’

‘You didn’t tell him I told you his dad cried after sex, right?’

‘I knew a man who did that once,’ said Donna. ‘But he really sobbed. It got sort of embarrassing. The first time I thought I’d broken his penis.’

I turned to her, open-mouthed.

‘It’s a thing. Really. We’ve had a couple in the rig, haven’t we?’

‘We have. You’d be amazed at the coital injuries we see.’ He nodded at my sandwich, which was still on my lap. ‘I’ll tell you when your mouth’s empty.’

‘Coital injuries. Great. Because there aren’t enough things in life to worry about.’

His gaze slid sideways as he bit into his sandwich, so that I blushed. ‘Trust me. I’d let you know.’

‘Just so we’re straight, my old mucker,’ said Donna, offering up one of her ever-present energy drinks, ‘I am so totally not going to be your first responder for that one.’

I liked being in the cab. Sam and Donna had the no-nonsense wry manner of those who had seen pretty much every human condition, and treated it, too. They were funny and dark, and I felt oddly at home wedged between them, as if my life, with all its strangeness, was actually pretty normal.

These were the things I learned in the space of several snatched lunch hours:

– Almost no men or women over the age of seventy would complain about their pain or their treatment, even if a limb were actually hanging off.

– Those same elderly men or women would almost always apologize for ‘making a fuss’.

– That the term ‘Patient PFO’ was not scientific terminology but ‘Patient Pissed and Fell Over’.