Before either of them could argue, I was on my way. Becky was straightening up behind the counter in the waiting area, having clearly locked a safe beneath it. As she handed me the earrings, a diamond ring and a Cartier watch, I thanked her for all she’d done. I also agreed I’d be back any time after seven, because, she told me, the ward badly needed the bed. I took a seat at the front where I did indeed get out my phone, for about the tenth time that day. But no. No message. And no reason why there should be one, of course, I thought, pocketing it slowly. I mean, yes, I’d left a long, chatty one after the lunch. But it was a thank you. He was hardly going to text back saying – thank you for your thank you – was he? No man would do that. A girl might. Might say – lovely to see you! But not a man. The television above the nurses’ station was on again: the news. I tried to distract myself with the political situation in Scotland. More cries for sovereignty. Then I got my phone out again and read the message I’d sent.

‘Can’t tell you how much I enjoyed lunch and what good fellows the Goodfellows are! The curry was delicious and I think you should take all the credit. Tilly would insist! Many thanks again. Xx’

Obviously I’d laboured long and hard over it. The kisses had been a difficult decision, but surely it would be odd not to? I practically left kisses for the window cleaner. And surely we’d almost had a moment at the door? But … perhaps I was deluding myself. Perhaps I’d been a bit pissed? Although I hadn’t thought I was over the limit. I felt slightly foolish, all of a sudden. A bit out of my depth, which made me feel panicky. It was an old, familiar feeling that I’d sworn to myself I’d never feel again. I had vowed I’d never again put my emotional health in someone else’s hands, that I’d be the one in control, I’d be the one calling the shots, wearing the trousers. Which was why Dan was a much more … suddenly I froze. Stared at the television. Listened to what George Alagiah was saying.

‘A man has been arrested in connection with the murder of the theatre critic, Michael Palmer. Mr Palmer was found dead at his home in West London earlier this year, following a break-in. Andrew Parker, seventeen, has been charged with his murder.’

A photograph of a young blond boy flashed up on the screen. ‘In Herefordshire, the River Wye has once again burst its banks …’

I turned away, shocked. Stared blankly into the middle distance. George Alagiah’s mellifluous tones drifted on.

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