‘Nonsense. It’s the way I was brought up. Always hold doors open for a lady, lay my cloak over puddles and all that. And, besides, you’re still recovering from fairly major surgery, not that anyone would know, to look at you.’

‘Oh, don’t remind me.’ She crossed her arms and wrapped them across her chest, then realised what she was doing and started rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she was cold, adding a little ‘brrr’ noise to emphasise the point.

‘Ready?’ Tom said, sliding a hand beneath her elbow and guiding her up the wide concrete steps to the front door.

There was a young woman at the reception desk, idly filing her nails. ‘Oh, hello, Tom,’ she said, peering up at Madi. ‘And you’ve brought a friend, I see.’

‘I have indeed, Clara.’ Tom made no attempt to introduce her. ‘And how is my princess today?’

‘Oh, the same. She had chicken for lunch, and a little nap in her room. I think she’s in the TV lounge now.’

‘Kettle on?’

Clara glanced at the clock. ‘Of course. Three o’clock, on the dot. You know that. And we’ve got a nice fruit cake today, courtesy of Olive, Harold’s wife.’

‘Right-o.’

The girl pressed a button to release the inner door, and Tom led Madi through into a long beige corridor. ‘This way, Madi. And don’t get too excited. I’ve sampled Olive’s cakes before and, believe me, you’ll be glad I’ve brought the bourbons.’

The TV was on, but nobody seemed to be paying it any attention. Tom pointed to a woman sitting in a high-backed green plush chair facing the window, her fingers working away rhythmically at the arm as if she was trying to pick off some imaginary pieces of fluff. As they approached, Madi could see that Barbara looked a lot older than her sixty-eight years. Her hair was loosely permed but not well combed, and she was wearing no make-up.

Her face lit up as she spotted them. ‘Hello,’ she said, tentatively, staring at Tom as if meeting an interesting-looking stranger at a party, and holding out her hand to be shaken. ‘I’m Barbara.’

‘Hello, Barbara. My name’s Tom.’ His voice was low and gentle as he knelt down on the carpet bedside her and held tightly to her hand, not letting it go. ‘And this is Madi.’

Barbara tilted her head up and studied Madi’s face. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you before.’

‘Have you?’

‘I’ve seen you on the telly. You were reading the news.’

‘Was I?’

‘Are you two married?’ she said, looking from one to the other.

‘I am,’ said Tom, getting to his feet. ‘But not to Madi. We’re just friends.’

‘Oh. That’s nice.’ She stared ahead of her, at something far away, outside the window, as Tom pulled two plastic chairs over and he and Madi sat down.

‘Have you brought me anything?’

Tom picked up the bag from next to his feet and pulled out the biscuits. ‘Look. Your favourites,’ he said, his voice gentle. He must find this all so upsetting, but Madi could see the effort he was making not to let it show.