She's unravelling, and it's not pleasant to watch. It's never easy to see anyone struggling, but where I'm concerned, Connie isn't just 'anyone'. We have history. We go back an incredibly long way. Not that either of us would see fit to admit it.

I want to help her, God knows I do, but somehow it's just not that easy. I've tried reaching out to her, just gently, subtly, but although she occasionally allows me to say my piece, she doesn't let me get close, keeping me at arms length, retreating into her own private world where she obviously feels safest.

But that world isn't private. Not by any stretch of the imagination, the evidence is there for all to see. She's not coping professionally, and her private life, which is obviously a mess, is playing itself out publicly. I fail to see how much more she can take.

Which is why, although it's the end of my shift, and by rights I ought to be heading home to Dylan and the dog, I just can't do it. I brace myself, head to her office – once my own – and tap on the door.

There's no response, but I know she's inside, so I try again, knocking harder; still no response. I take a deep breath and grab the bull by the horns, turning the handle and letting myself in. The scene that greets me comes as no real surprise. It's been coming for a long time.

She's sat at her desk, head in hands; her shoulders shaking as tears wrack her body. I consider walking away, knowing how much she'd hate being seen in such a state, but I think better of it. I've kept my distance long enough.

I move across the room to stand behind her, and then, slowly so as not to startle her, place my hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently. She stiffens, obviously surprised in the first instance by the intimacy of the gesture, but then I feel her relax as her tears subside, and without turning to look at me, she murmurs, "You still wear Chanel No 5. I hadn't noticed before."

"Some habits are pretty hard to break."

She takes in my words, and then turns her head to glance at my hand on her shoulder, raising her eyes and giving me a wry smile, "So I see..."

xxx

It's the last month of 1992. The Bodyguard has just been released, so that song appears to be on an endless loop wherever I go. In a direct contradiction Charles and Diana have just split; a definite case of I will not always love you. The nicotine patch has just hit the chemist shelves, and, although they cost a fortune and I'm a poor student, I'm already wearing one, determined to be rid of the evil weed that has been my Achilles heel since the age of thirteen.

I'm eighteen now, and in my first year at University. Nearly one semester down, and so far so good. Medical school is basically A Level Biology with bells on, and I'm loving every single minute of it.

If there's one slight blot on the otherwise very happy landscape it's my accommodation arrangements. Stupidly, and irresponsibly, I was too busy partying over the summer to confirm my place in halls and am paying the price now by being stuck in a shared house with three third year performing arts students, a right load of luvvies, and a lone fifth year medic who presumably was as disorganised as me. I'd been pretty excited about living with another medical student to begin with, imagining that she'd be an elder stateswoman and mentor who would take me under her wing and introduce me to other older medics, but that fantasy was pretty much dispelled on the day we moved in when she disappeared into her room and hasn't really come out since. The Luvvies call her The Ice Queen and the Invisible Woman, and I'm not inclined to disagree.

All the same, I keep myself busy, partying and working hard in equal measures, spending more time on campus than I do at the house, ensuring that my interactions with the Drama and Ice Queens are kept to a minimum. The addition of a male friend with benefits halfway through November only improved the situation further still; now I have another bed to sleep in too.

Things change the afternoon of the Medics Christmas – 'hilariously' named – Snow Ball. I've bunked off afternoon lectures, determined to beat the Luvvies to what precious little hot water we have, knowing its Friday night and they're bound to be going out too. I fly through the back door, into our communal kitchen, and that's where I find her, sat at the table, crying her eyes out. My first thought is to try and sneak past without her seeing but she must sense my presence and looks up before I can. I don't know who's more embarrassed, me or her.

Her cheeks flaming red she gathers the significant number of used tissues in front of her on the table and jams them in the pockets of the surgical scrubs she's wearing, before looking back up at me awkwardly. She looks pensive for a second, obviously pondering whether to say anything, and I'm somewhat surprised when she does, "I'm on maternity at the moment. We lost a mother and baby today." She's stutters slightly as she explains, clearly still emotional, "You know how it is."

I don't. As a mere first year, not even 3 months in, I've not been let loose on patients yet, but I can imagine how I'd feel under the circumstances. No one ever said being a doctor would be easy.

I want to get going, still thinking about the steaming hot, well semi warm, shower and the look I'm going to create for tonight. But first year or not, I'm a medic too, and one day I might be in her shoes, and no doubt then I'd appreciate someone being nice to me. So instead of heading for the bathroom and my heated rollers I flick the kettle on, and then sit at the table with her.

"Wanna talk about it?"

She looks for a second like she has all term, keen to ignore me, but then, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit she starts to talk,

"Mum was admitted with a previously undiagnosed murmur. We had to operate so we had to deliver. Baby wasn't due until Valentines Day."

I did the maths.

"There was never much hope then?"

She shrugs, looking like she might burst into tears again at any moment, "Try telling the father that."

Her words could be rhetorical but I sense not, and once again I put myself in her shoes, "You had to tell him?"

She nods, "My House Officer is a bastard. Any opportunity to make me suffer. He made me tell him that wife had bled out on the table too. Talk about the double whammy."

All thoughts of making a pot of tea disappear from my mind at her words, knowing the a PG Tips is going to be of very little comfort to her under the circumstances. Instead I get to my feet again and disappear up to my room, returning soon afterward with a bottle of vodka which I open, and slosh liberally - in the absence of any clean glasses in our disgusting student kitchen - into a couple of mugs before pushing the larger measure of the two into her hands. She eyes it suspiciously,

"No mixer?" I go to respond but before I can her face breaks into a wry smile and she chuckles slightly, "No, of course not. You're a first year."

"Oh stop being a patronising snob and get it down you." The words trip off my tongue before I can stop them, and I wince instantly, fearing she won't hear the humour in my voice and think I'm just being an obnoxious bitch, but to my surprise her smile widens and then she necks the spirit without further comment.

"Better?" I ask, and she helps herself to another measure by way of an answer. She necks that too then looks at the bottle, a pensive look on her face, as if she's pondering swiping another. I'm not too bothered, I'll be back home ransacking my parents Christmas booze in a few days but I'm unconvinced that another one would be the best course of action for her, especially since...

"Keep that up and you'll be passed out in your dinner at the ball tonight."

She shakes her head dismissively, "I'm not going."

I can see why she'd not be in the mood, but Snow Balls come but once a year, and besides that, as I gently chide her, "Ah come on, you've paid 35 quid for the privilege, you can't let the ticket go to waste."

She shakes her head again, "I don't have a ticket. I never intended to go."

"Never intended to go?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice, "This is THE medical social of the year. You have to come." And I do think she has to, genuinely; I'm not leaving her at home, crying into my neat vodka when there's fun to be had.

She grimaces, "It's awkward, Zoe, and besides, like I said, I don't have a ticket."

I have no idea what's so awkward about a night of dancing and drinking, and that moment in time I don't need to know; the clock is ticking, and she - and I - need to be upstairs getting our glad rags on before the not so teenage drama queens get home. That said, whatever her problems are, I have the answer to at least one of them.

"No need to worry about a ticket. I'm on the ball committee; I can squeeze you onto my table."

xxx

She doesn't argue and so, a couple of hours later I'm knocking on the door to the room she's made her prison (the ice palace as it's known behind her back), frock on, hair looking tremendous with a bottle of lemon Hooch in each hand. She tells me to come in, which is massive progress given the fact the room has been off limits all term and I head inside, curious to see what it looks like and hoping that she's managed to find herself a dress to wear.

I needn't have worried. She has, and she looks phenomenal.

It's quite a shock actually. After a term of seeing her either in scrubs or jeans and sloppy jumpers the sudden sight of her really rather amazing figure clad in tight fitting navy blue crushed velvet is something of a revelation. Her usual messy ponytail has gone too, twisted into an elegant chignon, with loose curls framing her face. She looks tremendous and I find myself more in awe of her than I have all term.

"Connie," I say, as I step further into the room, "you look stunning. Your dress is beautiful. Where did you get it? It looks designer."

She smiles slightly at my compliments, "It is designer. Westwood."

I can't hide my surprise, unable to work out how a girl with no part time job, and pretty average parents if her south London accent is anything to go by, has been able to afford such a dress, and more to the point, if she can, what the hell is she doing living in some grotty student house instead of a flat of her own. She must sense my confusion though, because she quickly explains,

"It was a gift. From a boyfriend." Even her perfectly applied make up can't hide the fact that her cheeks flush red at the word 'boyfriend' but I presume he must be a thing of the past since I've not seen sight nor sound of any such thing in our house during the last three months. I wonder if that's the nature of the 'awkward' and her earlier refusal to go to The Ball.

"Did he take you to the Snow Ball last year?" I ask, hoping she doesn't find my question too intrusive.

She gives me a wry smile, "It would have been awkward if he had." Before I can ask any further questions she nods in the direction of her dressing table and I move over to it, taking a few moments to work out what it is I'm meant to be looking at before my gaze eventually lands on an article from a medical journal, stuck on the mirror, a photo of its author under the byline.

"That's Anton Meyer." I murmur, still not really getting it. "He's got legendary status on campus, apparently he's an amazing lecturer but he left at the end of last year to take up a fellowship in the

States." I wrack my brains trying to remember a tidbit of gossip I heard in the union, "Word is he was forced to take it though because he was sleeping with a student at this end."

Suddenly, I get it, and the words die on my lips before I find some new ones,

"Shit. That was you."

She smiles the smile again and nods slowly, "Yeah. That was me."

Suddenly, I feel awkward and naive and every inch the unworldly eighteen year old that I am. I've only just been let out of my parent's house for the first time and she's ridiculously grown up, sleeping with a man old enough to be both our Dads who no doubt has a wife to boot.

I try to act cool, try to think of clever response but fail miserably and instead find the contents of her dressing table ludicrously interesting,

"Wow." I say, picking up a much sought after perfume bottle, "you've got real Chanel No 5. I can only afford the hookey stuff off the market."

She shrugs, "Well help yourself. In fact, keep it. He got it for me, and wearing it only reminds me he's gone..."