I stand up, still holding the letter. He snatches it from my hand and cradles it protectively against his chest.

“I wasn’t,” I say quietly. “I knocked over your post, and I caught sight of that as I picked everything up.”

“And you just decided that you’d read it?” he says, his face clouded with rage.

I spread my hands helplessly. “I’m a quick reader, and it’s automatic for me to scan any document that I have in front of me. It’s an instinct from all my years as a barrister.”

He moves away, and something about the tight way he holds himself hurts me. I watch him, and then, unable to bear the silence, I blurt out, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That you might lose your sight.”

He turns to me, all the usual lovely vivacity drained away from his face. “It’s true,” he finally says in a low voice, his face pinched.

“Why?”

He rubs his temples. “The car accident. I banged my head on the side window and detached my retina.”

So many things suddenly make sense. “That’s why your eye is bloodshot and why you have headaches? Why your eyesight is so bad?”

He nods. “The headaches started pretty much immediately after the accident, but I thought it was just the concussion at first and ignored them. I finally went to my doctor last month for some painkillers and ended up being sent to see a specialist who told me I was going blind. Not exactly the packet of paracetamol I was anticipating.” He takes another few steps away, putting a lot of effort into not looking at me.

“So, what is the solution, Laurie?”

He moves to the shelves and runs his finger along the book spines. The silence lengthens, but this time, I gather my composure and wait him out. Finally, he gestures almost angrily. “They want me to have an operation.”

“Well, that’s good, yes?”

“Is it, Mags? Really? Do tell me how good it is in your relevant profession of a barrister,” he snaps.

Anger stirs, but I push it back. We don’t need to argue. “I know that the operation can be very successful. Someone at work had it done a few years ago.” He runs his hand through his hair, still avoiding my eyes. “Laurie, look at me,” I say forcefully. He turns almost reluctantly. “That letter said—” Anger crosses his face, but I plod on. “That letter says you haven’t agreed to the operation?”

“That’s because I haven’t,” he says coldly.

“But why? The specialist states very clearly that if you don’t, you will more than likely go blind.”

“I know that.” His shout echoes through the flat. He takes some deep breaths. “I know what he said,” he says more calmly. “But I might not go blind. You never know.”

I want to quote the letter’s contents, but I stay quiet.