“Go and get dressed,” I instruct him. “Wear something from this century rather than something you procured from a tramp, and let’s go out and get some food. I’m starving.”

“You know, Mags, I’m never in any doubt how you pick up your men. It’s your silver tongue.”

“Well, you’d know all about my talented silver tongue,” I say. I smile slowly at him, loving the way his eyes darken. For all his flippancy, he’s just as affected physically as I am by the attraction between us.

He shakes his head. “I’ll get changed. I’ve left the list on the counter. Pick something.” He nudges me. “But make sure it’s God’s Own Junkyard in East London. They collect all these beautiful neon signs, and they’ve got a café called The Rolling Scones Café. That’s epic.”

I laugh. “So, actually, just pick what I’m instructed to do. You artists and your determination that everyone have free will.”

He laughs and heads into the bedroom. “I’ll get changed, and we’ll go,” he shouts.

I remove a carrot from a bag in the fridge and inspect it warily before crunching into it. I reach for the sheet of paper with his messy scrawl over it. My elbow catches the teetering stack of mail, and after weeks of threatening to fall, it succumbs to gravity and cascades all over the floor.

“Shit,” I mutter and crouch to scoop up the papers and letters. As I pick up one by the fridge, I catch sight of the heading and frown. Why does he have a letter from Moorfields Eye Hospital?

Despite knowing that I’m crossing many, many lines, I scan it quickly. With my heartbeat pounding loud in my ears, I come to the letter’s end and then read it again. And once more. Usually, I can read a document and absorb the information at a rapid speed. Not this time. My heart is hammering, and I feel sick. A cold sweat breaks out over my body.

“Mags.” I hear Laurie’s call, but I can’t get up. I stay there crouched, holding that fucking letter in my hands as if it’s welded to my fingertips.

He comes into the kitchen. “On your knees already?” he says cheerfully, and then his smile dies as he sees my face, and he stops dead. “Mags,” he says. “What’s wrong?” I raise the paper and watch as he goes white.

“What are you doing?” he asks warily.

“Why—” I stop to clear the hoarseness from my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t I tell you what?” he asks, trying for lightness, but we both know there’s no point.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re going blind?”

An incredible look of pain crosses his face. It’s quickly replaced by anger. “What the hell are you doing reading my mail, Magnus?”