“My biggest achievement is receiving the all-clear from breast cancer,” continues Annabel, reading from another slip of paper. There is a smattering of applause.

  “My biggest achievement is persuading my parents to buy me an Aston Martin on my thirtieth birthday.”

  Annabel rolls her eyes at this one, adding, “We always get one of those. I’ll have worked out who you are by the end of the morning and will be sure to give you a hard time!”

  I’ve already worked out who it is—it’s the smug-looking blond idiot who was doing his best to smarm up to Dr Leitner on the way in.

  “My biggest achievement is listening to my inner voice, then having the balls to act on it, even when I knew how hurtful it would be to people I loved. But it’s something I should have done a long time ago.”

  Annabel raises her eyebrows thoughtfully. “Ooh, we seem to have a deep thinker amongst us,” she comments pleasantly. “Such diversity on display already, guys!”

  Jay is looking down at his feet, that cute pink flush in evidence again. Dr Leitner snorts derisively. God, that man’s a twat.

  “My biggest achievement is securing VIP tickets to see George Ezra play at the Isle of Wight Festival last year.”

  “My biggest achievement is rescuing my brother from a hospital in Ecuador after he broke both his arms skydiving.”

  And so it goes on, with my biggest achievement managing to stay awake and in my seat. Fortunately, my role in the day’s events is as a passive, supportive listener. And as Dr Sorrentino and his rather scrummy thighs appear perfectly capable of negotiating the programme on their own, equally as passively, I can be even more of a bystander than I anticipated. The last few minutes of the morning session are set aside for us to have a quick one-to-one with our individual trainees before lunch. I’m disappointed to see that Jay has disappeared as I was planning on buying him a drink. I vaguely wonder if he’s avoiding me. Thus, as minister without portfolio, I find myself surplus to requirements, and fearing I’ll be assigned to someone else or, heaven forbid, have to make small talk during the lunch break, I make a sharp exit for my room and have a quick snifter from the minifridge.

  Jay reappears for the afternoon session, and a whiff of a beery smell when I stroll past him confirms my suspicions that he fucked off to the bar without me. It hasn’t escaped my notice that he seems a little short on friends himself today, which I’m guessing has something to do with the recent turmoil in his personal life. Slightly dozy after my liquid lunch, I decide his olive-skinned face with its stupidly long eyelashes and oh, so lovely mouth, is extremely handsome, and thus spend most of the afternoon daydreaming in the back row about a repeat performance of his lips round my cock. With a bit of luck, he’s booked a room for the night here too.

  A few hours later, at the mediocre Italian restaurant on the ground floor of the Hilton, I find myself wedged between Annabel, who I’ve already scolded for the infernal ‘guys’, and a semi-retired colleague called Geraldine, whom I know from past experience only ever talks about her cats and her Oxford-educated nephew. I push my tepid carbonara around my plate—the closest item on the menu to macaroni cheese—wishing I was tucked up in bed wearing my favourite nightie, with a glass of Campari and the day’s Telegraph crossword for company. Sitting opposite me is Dr Leitner, his jowly face already as red as a beetroot from half a bottle of Rioja. Next to him, Jay Sorrentino looks devilishly handsome in a grey round-necked sweater. Actually, I’ll ditch the Campari and the crossword; I’ll just have him tucked into bed with me instead.

  I generally tend towards a penchant for boys with physiques similar to my own, on the thin side of slender. More yin and yin, over yin and yang. Cool Loki, not muscle-bound Thor. But there is something about my Dr Sorrentino that draws me in. When I sniff his soft hoodie (granted, a bit needy and pathetic, but I’m not ready to return it yet), I imagine him wearing it while lounging on my sofa. And I’m resting my head on his broad chest, encircled by his brawny arms, and being, I don’t know, cherished maybe? And maybe he’d be watching sport on the telly, a football match or something, perhaps sipping a beer. Every now and again, he’d lean down and kiss my lips, just an absent-minded peck, or ruffle my hair. It’s not even a sexual fantasy, although his chest without the hoodie would be rather spiffy too. But as I’ve been such a dick to him, none of that’s going to be happening any time soon. Billy-Ray was right to call me a twat. I’m astonished Jay’s not put in a request to change his Ed Supervisor already.

  Apart from the food being tasteless and the company tedious as hell, the evening is proving unexpectedly tolerable. Every time I look up, the heavenly Dr Jay Sorrentino is in my direct line of vision. He’s knocking back a few beers, with red wine chasers, and I can’t blame him. No doubt, Dr Leitner is boring the tits off him about the good old days of working seventy-two hours a week, and how this young lot have never had it so good. Although, aside from the attempt to drink his own body weight in beer, you’d never know how bored he is because he nods at all the right moments and laughs at the weak jokes. People are drawn to Dr Sorrentino, and it’s easy to see why. With an easy, open smile and a cheerful confidence, he charms people, a natural social animal. I used to be like that once, believe it or not, but since the accident, well…not so much.

  Geraldine is giving me a blow-by-blow account of her Siamese’s latest bowel movements, and Annabel is determinedly not rescuing me. She thinks I need to socialise more and hasn’t forgiven me for pulling her up on the ‘guys’ thing. Thanks a bunch, Annabel. Zoning out of Geraldine’s ramblings, I focus on ogling Jay.

  The newspapers over the last few days have been full of the death of a Russian gazillionaire, who somehow succeeded in ramming his superyacht into submerged rocks south of the island of Santorini. The whole thing sank rapidly (the yacht not the island), taking him and his poor, unfortunate harem with it. According to reports from one of the surviving crew members, this brainless oligarch insisted on taking the helm when he was pissed, showing off to the women, and none of the flunkies on board had the balls to stop him. The other side of the table are discussing it.

  “Not a mode of death most of us are at risk of,” observes Annabel drily. “I stand more chance of drowning in the bath than aboard a sinking superyacht.”

  “Rich people do have exclusive ways of dying,” sneers Dr Leitner. “Even in death, they have to separate themselves from the rest of the great unwashed. Just as they insist on exclusive schools so that their darling Sebastian’s and Saskia’s don’t have to mingle with everyone else’s kids. Private hospitals. Invented illnesses! Heaven forbid they die of something as common as a stroke!”

  Here he goes, well balanced, with a chip on each shoulder. He’s partly doing it because he loves endlessly voicing his own opinions, but also partly because he’s spotted that I’m listening. He doesn’t know much about my background, but I never hide the fact that I’m obviously posh. Why should I? I couldn’t influence into which family I was born. But he’s just warming up; he’ll no doubt move on to sly homophobic digs next. Christ, he’s still bloody talking.

  “Hah! Do you think they try to outdo one another by killing themselves on luxurious private jets, or helicopters that crash when they shouldn’t even be flying? Much more exclusive, much more interesting than a simple old heart attack. There was that multimillionaire who owned that football club a couple of years ago, remember? Fell out the sky like a stone, took a load of other people with him, slap bang outside the stadium. And then there was that one last year—some aristos with more money than sense—the whole family wiped out in a helicopter, flying low in bad weather, the bloody fools. Actually, I recall they were from this neck of the woods, weren’t they, Annabel?”

  I’m vaguely aware of Annabel agreeing that she believed they were, and then Leitner chipping in with, “And no one remembers the poor pilot just doing his job in all of this, do they? Unless it’s to blame him, of course. Oh no, just poor old Lord so-and-so and his precious heir to the bloody empire. Bloody deserve it, that’s what I say. Vive la révolution!”

  I knew there were solid reasons I avoided socialising. Ideally, I’d like to stand up and hit Dr Leitner really hard, pounding my fists into his fat red face, but I’m totally incapable. And I’d come up with a perfect rejoinder after I’d hit him so I could knock him down verbally too. While not prone to violence, I’m usually pretty good with my tongue. I’d humiliate him in front of everybody. But mostly, I think I just want to kill him.

  Yet, for all of these grandiose, aggressive ideas, the only action of which I’m capable—and even that’s hanging in the balance—is to rise from the table without crashing to the floor. My head and guts spin wildly, and I make for the gents. Knowing I’m not going to get there in time, I veer outside, banging through the fire exit next to the kitchens only seconds before my belly spews forth an arc of hot acid and lumps of carbonara. I manage to miss my shirt, with most of it spraying over a spiky bush behind the door.

  Afterwards, when I’m all emptied out, I lean against a giant rubbish bin, panting and drooling saliva, my heart hammering in my chest and my eyes streaming. Eighteen months ago it all happened, that helicopter crash, but sometimes the phone call that followed feels like only yesterday.

  My own private hell turned into idle dinner party entertainment.

  With my breathing less panicky but my stomach still churning, I fish out a cigarette and light it with shaky hands. My whole body is shaking or shivering, I’m not sure which. Regardless that I’m probably over the legal alcohol limit, I’d like to get in my car and disappear. But this alley behind the building is a dead end, and I’d have to walk back through the restaurant to collect my belongings from my room. I’d have to face them all with some feeble excuse. They think I’m peculiar anyway, so it wouldn’t matter too much. But then Annabel and Emily would ask if I’m okay; they’d fuss and be nice, and then…and then I might cry, and I couldn’t bear them all to witness that.

  The kitchen door bangs open. I quickly turn away, shielding my face, hoping I look like a chap who’s come outside for a quick fag and taken a wrong turning. A big warm hand tentatively squeezes my shoulder.

  “Dr Avery, are you okay?”

  Jay’s flattened vowels, full of concern. I don’t trust myself to speak.

  “Hey, Dr Avery…Lucien. What’s wrong? One minute you were there, and the next, you looked like you’d seen a ghost or something.”

  That hand still rests on my shoulder. Humiliatingly, hot tears trickle down my cheeks and there’s nothing I can do to squeeze them back in. That’s the trouble when people are kind; it’s so much easier when they aren’t, when nobody knows you’re suffering. I brush at the wetness with the back of my hand, then take a shaky drag on my cigarette, willing him to go away. If I pretend he’s not there, then he’ll give up and go back inside.

  “Are you ill, Lucien? Maybe the food didn’t agree with you? I chose the carbonara too. It was very stodgy.”

  He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. Keeping my back to him, in the iciest voice I can muster, I say, “I’m fine, Jay. Really. Go back inside.”

  He doesn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere, Lucien, not until I can see that you’re okay.” That soft, kind voice again. Patient, determined.

  I laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob, to be honest. “Gosh, then I hope you’ve brought a jacket because it’s quite chilly. And if you are planning on waiting until I’m okay, then we’ll be here a while.”

  “You’re trembling like a leaf. Come on, Dr Avery. I’m worried about you. At least turn around and look at me.”

  When was the last time anyone declared themselves to be worried about me? I take a final drag and drop the butt onto the ground, squish it with my boot before slowly turning to face him. “There, now you see me. Satisfied? My humiliation is utterly complete.”

  The next thing I know, I’m crushed against that soft grey sweater, encircled in those huge muscly arms, his face buried somewhere in my hair. A faint waft of Fahrenheit mixed with Corona lager fills my nostrils. While the tears continue to flow, he carries on holding me as I let it all out, cocooning me against that warm expanse of chest, shielding me from the world.

  I’m not sure how long we stand like that. I can’t remember my last proper cuddle or hug from anyone. A year ago, at least? Or longer, maybe from my mother the very last time I ever saw her. No, it was my cousin Freddie in the immediate aftermath. This one with Jay probably only lasts a minute or so, but it’s long enough for me to pull myself together. Gosh, this is horribly embarrassing.

  “Lucien?” he whispers. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help.”

  “I can’t tell you what’s wrong,” I say against his chest, my voice weak and hoarse. “I’d like to, but I’m afraid I’m unable to formulate the words just now. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to. If you google Rossingley, the Rossingley Estate, then I daresay it will all make sense.”

  From somewhere in his jeans, he produces a crumpled, clean tissue and hands it to me. Averting his gaze, he pretends to study the bins while I wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

  “How do I look?” I ask him, and he peers into my face.

  “Beautiful,” he replies, smiling, and I can’t help myself by smiling back. He’s a dreadful liar; my face will definitely be red and blotchy.

  “Why are you so nice?” I ask.

  “I’m not particularly.” He shrugs. “At least, no one else shares your opinion at the moment. Perhaps I just seem that way compared to you.”

  He nudges my shoulder and clumsily, a little tipsily, in fact, puts an arm around me, pulling me close. “Whatever shit you’ve got going on, Lucien, we’re going to go back in there, pretend we’ve just been out for a fag together, and get through it. Honestly, give it a few seconds more, take a couple of deep breaths, and no one will notice anything. Come on; you can do this!”

  And so we do. And it’s not that bad. Annabel throws me a curious look, but Geraldine is too busy explaining her nephew’s scholarship at Harvard to the poor junior on her right, and probably didn’t even notice I was ever missing anyway. Dr Leitner is haranguing the rushed waiter about the delay between the main course and dessert, and so I manage to sit quietly and relatively unnoticed, while all around me, people ooh and aah over synthetic chocolate puddings. A sudden firm pressure appears against my calf, and when I look up, Jay is smiling gently. It’s been a while since a pretty boy played footsie with me under the table or smiled at me so kindly. I’m assuming it’s him, of course. It could be Geraldine feeling unusually frisky, although if it is, then obviously, she’s barking up the wrong tree.

  The diehards carry the party on through to the bar, and I’m astonished to find myself amongst their number. Probably because the thought of going back to that characterless hotel room and lying awake for the next few hours doesn’t appeal. Or it could be because a certain young doctor, who minutes ago had his foot curled around mine under the table, is also in the bar, sitting with a rowdy crowd of juniors. And he’s definitely giving me the eye. Quite a bloodshot eye admittedly; he’s knocking back pints of beer and Jack Daniels shots as if prohibition has been declared as of tomorrow morning. I can’t blame him; he’s had a shitty couple of weeks from the sound of things. One is permitted to drink oneself to oblivion when the world implodes. I speak from experience, recognising a fellow sufferer on a mission. Sipping my Campari and soda more sedately, I pretend to care that Annabel’s oldest boy has narrowly missed out on being selected for the under-thirteen county cricket side.

  A minor commotion at the juniors’ table draws my attention a while later. A few of them are getting up to leave, Jay included, and in his state of inebriation, he’s knocked over a pint glass, spilling its amber contents all over the floor. A sense of responsibility I never knew I possessed creeps up on me. It’s time to return the favour.

  “I think, Annabel, that I’m going to ensure young Dr Sorrentino safely makes it up to his room,” I murmur, gathering up my jacket.

  “Wow, you are taking your supervisor duties seriously,” she drawls as we both watch Jay clumsily attempt to retrieve his phone from off the table. “It wouldn’t by chance be because he’s the finest specimen of manhood ever to grace Allenmouth Hospital, would it, Lucien darling?”

  “Good gracious, no, Annabel. That would be dreadfully unprofessional of me.”

  The group spot me heading towards them.

  “Hey, Jay,” one of them shouts. “Watch out! The AA is coming for you! As if your life couldn’t get any more shit!”

  I take a mental note of the owner of the voice and store it away for the future. The smug blond one with the Aston Martin. That little twerp is going to wish he was never born. He need not bother applying for the ICU fellowship post, that’s for sure. Or any other job within fifty miles of Allenmouth if I’ve got anything to do with it. I give him ‘the look’, and he visibly shrinks, suddenly finding the bottom of his pint glass infinitely more interesting than my face. Jay has no such qualms.

  “Dr Avery!” he slurs happily. “You’re still here! Come and join me! Last time I met you in a dark bar, we…”

  “Right, Jay, show’s over,” I interrupt forcefully. “Part of my educational role is to see you safely to your room, according to Annabel, and so that’s what I shall do.”

  Grabbing his arm, I steer him away before anything else spills out of his mouth that he might regret. Coming out of the closet in the middle of a Hilton Hotel bar on a Thursday night, in front of random colleagues and acquaintances, is probably not what sober Jay Sorrentino was planning. There is a chorus of “oohs” and whistles as we retreat, which I ignore and to which Jay is mercifully oblivious.

  It’s only when he starts walking, or rather stumbling, that I fully comprehend exactly how pissed he actually is. Manoeuvring roughly fourteen stones of solid man towards the exit is proving a challenge. I sling his arm around my shoulders, and he half walks as I half drag him into a lift.