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was only halfway in the door and drumming her fingers on the edge of it, impatient to be off. Mary annoyed me – we were constantly making allowances for her childcare crises. Later, of course, I changed my tune on that issue, but that afternoon, I lingered long enough over my answer to give her a moment’s doubt over whether I had been the right person to choose. ‘I was really hoping to finish this lot…’ I waved my hand vaguely over the papers on my desk, half of which were completed already. In truth, I wasn’t busy that day. When Mary tapped on my door, I had been thinking about whether or not I should join a dance class of some sort to keep fit. Flamenco, perhaps. I had been picturing my hand movements and wondering how long it took to get good enough to wear a frilly dress and those severe eyebrows. The Town Hall did Ceroc every Tuesday but I fancied something a bit more dramatic. With flamenco, it wouldn’t matter that I didn’t have a partner, presumably. I could concentrate on clapping.
    ‘Jamie’s off,’ said Mary, although she was too proud to allow a pleading note to creep into her voice, like most of us would have done, in her position.
    I sighed, shrugged. ‘All right then, tell your four o’clock where I am.’
    ‘Thanks,’ she said, stepping into the office and handing me the folder which she had ready in the other hand.
    While she retreated, I pushed my papers to one side and laid the folder down. I opened it and glanced at the registration form: David Needham.
    There was another light tap. ‘Come in,’ I said.
    I had the impression that he stooped slightly as he entered, although of course he wasn’t taller than the door frame – it was more a gesture of politeness, as if he knew he’d been fobbed off on me and was apologising for how much of him there was to fob.
    I glanced up and thought immediately, oh, it’s him, but again, he showed no sign of recognising me. Why should he? It was our third meeting in four years. He moved towards the chair in front of my desk but I gestured towards my examination table, which had a fresh sheet of paper on it. I looked down at his file as I said, ‘Would you remove your shirt for me, please?’
    He sat on the edge of the examination table and removed his shirt slowly while I watched. When he had taken it off, he stood up, took a step towards the chair in front of my desk and tossed the shirt over the back of it, then went back to the examination table and sat on the edge of it again, all without looking in my direction. His nipples were dark brown, and taut in the cool of my office. He had a thick mass of chest hair that tapered towards his belly button. He sat up very straight, holding his stomach in. I had noticed over my years of examining patients that men did that every bit as much as women. ‘Is that how you sit when you’re at your desk?’ I asked, allowing a note of scepticism in my voice.
    ‘Well, I work at a drawing board,’ he said, a little defensively, meeting my gaze. ‘It’s difficult not to hunch.’
    I looked down at his records and asked him some questions, then we went through the usual routine; stand in front of me, hands on hips, bend forward and back, then from side to side… My women patients usually respond well to this, understanding what I need and wanting to be helpful, whereas men are embarrassed by it, unused as they are to being observed. David, however, did not look embarrassed. He met my gaze steadily – it was hard not to take this as a challenge.
    ‘Would you mind lying on your front while I examine you?’ I gestured towards the bed. I stayed seated while he lay down, then said, ‘Actually, I think it’s better if we do this on the chair. Sorry. Would you mind?’ He raised his head. I indicated the chair. ‘Sorry,’ I said again.
    He sat up. ‘Should I put my shirt back on?’ There was a hint of irritation in his voice.
    I paused. ‘Not just yet.’
    As he walked to the chair, I rose from behind