He falls silent, and I finish eating my food. I note him rubbing at his eyes a couple of times before he gives a sound of disgust, and standing up, he reaches into his pocket and brings out a red packet. He sits back and squeezes out two tablets, before swallowing them and grimacing.

“Headache?” I ask in a mild tone.

He hesitates for a long second and then concedes reluctantly, “A migraine.” He rubs his eyes again.

“Have you got spots in front of your eyes?” I ask, signalling the waiter for the bill.

Laurie looks surprised. “How did you know?”

“My mother used to suffer from them. Don’t rub your eyes. It will make it worse.”

The waiter brings over the bill and Laurie immediately protests, “We don’t have to leave. It’s just a headache.”

“It’s a migraine,” I say, sliding my card into the leather billfold and handing it back to the waiter.

“I can pay,” he protests. “It was my idea to go for a walk.”

“Next time,” I say smoothly and to my astonishment, I mean it. I’d like to do this again. So many people bore me, but he isn’t one of them. He’s lively, and he makes me laugh. Probably because I’m not fucking him. He’d be a lot less interesting if I was doing that.

“You’re on,” he says and there’s a slight slur to his words.

I look at him sharply. Pain is etched on his face. “How quickly do those tablets work?”

He waggles his hand. “Depends if they actually do work.” I curse and he smiles at me. “I have to take them in plenty of time. Today I haven’t done that. I should have known when the floaters started in my eyes, but I thought it was just the sunshine.”

“How quickly does the pain come on?”

He winces. “It’s started already.”

The waiter returns my card, and I get out of my seat, pulling Laurie out of his. “We’ll take a taxi back.” He looks as if he wants to argue, and I roll my eyes. “You’ll be no use to anyone in half an hour.”

He gives a weak chuckle. “You sweet talker, Mags.”

“That’s not my name.” We walk out of the restaurant, and I flag down a passing taxi. “Put your sunglasses on,” I say quietly. “It’s bright out here.”

He smiles but after a few minutes the smile vanishes and he lies back against the taxi’s seat, his face pale and sweaty and his eyes closed.

“Is he sick?” the driver asks querulously. “If he throws up, you’ll pay for it.”

“Why would I want to buy his vomit?” I ask.

Laurie snorts, his eyes still closed, but the driver bristles. “It’s not funny. Vomit means I’ll lose money.”