I’d suggested going on holiday abroad on several occasions but he’d said he wanted to wait until he felt more financially stable at work. I’d offered to pay for us both but he’d refused. I’d thought that was about him wanting to pay his own way but it had clearly been because it was impossible for him to go on holiday with me. How would he have explained the passport in a different name? What would he have told his wife?

And no wonder I’d never been able to visit him. The story about him giving up his rented flat because he was always on the road had seemed so plausible yet it had obviously been exactly that: a story. Presumably he didn’t travel nearly as much as I’d thought. All those times when he’d arranged to call me, he’d probably been sat in his car round the corner from his family home. No wonder he’d never wanted to FaceTime me from his ‘hotel’; the game would have been up.

I thought back to that final conversation at the races when he’d said he had something he wanted to say to me. What if it hadn’t been that he wanted to elope? What if he’d been planning to confess about his secret life as Adam Hannigan? What if he was going to tell me about the wife and twins but he’d chickened out? Because, let’s face it, how do you tell the woman you’ve just proposed to that you can’t actually get married to her because you’re already married to someone else? Oh, and she won’t become Mrs Hastings because that’s not your name? And when he’d said that he wasn’t perfect, had he been trying to tell me about his real identity then? Was it my fault? Had I not given him the opportunity to confess? No! I couldn’t blame myself. This was all Scott. When I’d met him that stormy January evening, I hadn’t said, ‘Hi, my name’s Jemma. What’s your name, but please give me a fake name rather than your real one?’

‘We’re here,’ Mum said, jolting me back to the present. ‘It’s party time!’

I knew she was worried despite the joviality. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked as we walked across the car park towards the hospital entrance.

‘Great.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Nervous. I’ve had a couple of bad days this week. They’re getting more frequent. I’m worried he might tell me I can’t drive.’

At the start of the week, in between bombarding Scott with emails, texts and voicemails, I’d spent my evenings researching Parkinson’s and knew that the driving ban was a very real risk. ‘Have you had any stiffening whilst driving?’