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‘She,’ Holly corrects. ‘And yes. She can be. Although I suppose she’s just trying to toughen us up. There’s a time for emotion. I’ve gotta learn to compartmentalise.’

I press my thumb into the centre of her arch, and Holly shudders as her eyes close again and she lets out a long low moan which, thank fuck, stops all that nonsense talk about compartmentalising.

It also does all kinds of crazy things to my pulse and the tightness of my testicles.

‘Jesus, Danny. You should do this for a living. Your fingers are magic.’

I laugh. I’ve been doing all kinds of fancy stick moves since I first learned how to hit a drum, which makes them extra dextrous. And I give her the full treatment, kneading and stroking until her audible appreciation quietens then stops, and I’m pretty sure she’s actually fallen asleep. Her deep, even breathing seems to confirm it.

I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but she looks a helluva lot better than when I arrived an hour ago. Her face has smoothed out. There’s no frown lines now; in fact, she looks years younger.

Easing her foot off my lap, I gently remove the hot water bottle from her stomach and pad over to the microwave to give it another quick zap. When it beeps I remove it and walk it back, repositioning it before tucking the duvet around her.

The heat from the bottle must finally have seeped through because she stirs as I turn to go. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs, hervoice low, her eyelids fluttering open and closed. ‘I fell asleep on you.’

‘It’s fine,’ I whisper, although I don’t know why I’m whispering. Maybe it’s the overall ambience of the dark room and flickering TV glow. ‘Go to sleep. I’ll see myself out.’

She nods and says, ‘Thank you,’ a small smile on her mouth as her eyes drift shut again. I smile at her rugged up, her face almost beatific now. I’m feeling pretty damn smug as well as privileged to be the one that made a difference for her tonight.

‘Danny?’

Her voice drifts to me as I reach for the doorknob, and I pause. ‘Yes?’

‘I promise I don’t always look like a doctor or a bridge troll. One of these days I hope you get to see me all glammed up instead of wearing a duvet and stuffing my face like the Cookie Monster.’

Is she kidding? I’ve seen her naked – I’ll take that any day. ‘Cookie Monster is hot,’ I throw over my shoulder.

She laughs and says, ‘Weirdo.’

But it sounds sleepy and I call, ‘Goodnight,’ and close the door behind me.

9

HOLLY

I can’t quite believe I’m here as I stand slightly back and separate from the crowd. This isn’t my usual scene but here I am anyway because I can’t stop thinking about Danny, damn it.

Lights strobe and pulse around the dance floor area, which is off to one side of the bar. It’s not a big space but there’s a lot of people all packed in tight and standing like it’s a mosh pit despite the stage only being raised a foot or so off the floor. Bodies move to the beat, eyes glued on the band, arms lifted as if trying to catch the music in their fingers as its blasts around them.

There’s a distinct smell that wafts from the wall of bodies all perspiring under hot lights. Spilled booze and the sickly-sweet aroma of weed and cherry ChapStick vapes clinging to fabric already sporting pit stains. Throw in the clash of dozens of different perfumes and colognes and it is a unique smell.

Not bad. But raw and earthy, adding to the almost feral atmosphere as the human mass shifts up and down and side to side as one moving beast.

Like a herd of shuffling, grasping zombies.

It’s an epidemiological nightmare. People squeezed tight, skin on skin, bathing in the veritable cesspit of respiratory particles and bodily fluids sloshing around in the heated atmosphere like a giant Petri dish.

But I switch my doctor brain off and tune in to the beat.

There’s a guy up front in ripped jeans and a black T-shirt featuring a white swan with a green mohawk. He’s singing about a woman he loves who doesn’t know he exists, and the crowd is singing along, hanging on his every word. Lead singer Nester Wild, according to my googling. To one side of him is another guy with an acoustic guitar in skinny jeans that seems like they’re painted on his beanpole legs. He’s in a plain black tank top and goes by the name West.

The other side of Nester is an Amazon of a woman with bright pink pixie-cut hair, a very short, tiered tartan skirt, ripped fishnets over her solid thighs, chunky boots and a white T-shirt that sits tight against her unfettered A cups and lays bare her navel piercing. She’s making the electric guitar hiss and purr like it’s followed her right out of band-girlfriend hell. Which is a dumb thought because even though Belle looks like every punk-pixie-dream-girl nightmare and ten times cooler than me on my coolest day, I remind myself that Danny and I are not a thing.

So jealousy is a waste of time and energy.

Unfortunately my brain doesn’t give a shit about that as the grungy vibe of hard rock and easy sex pervades everything, and I wonder why in the hell I decided to torture myself like this. I’ve just come from fifteen hours in the quiet cleanliness of a hospital where everything is hushed and efficient and smells like Glen 20 to this raucous, festering, sexually charged den of rock.

If this doesn’t scream two worlds – nothing does.