‘OK, great.’ She looked relieved. She came around to bend down in front of him. ‘Right then, Mr Bolshy,’ she grinned. ‘I’ll be off. Don’t give Lucy as much trouble as you gave me, or I’ll be telling Mrs Goodfellow.’

‘Oh God, not her,’ he said weakly.

‘The Goodfellows don’t know?’ I asked.

‘No one knows. Apparently recovery from this particular strain of peritonitis is extremely rapid and no one needs to know.’ She eyed him beadily: gently prodded his chest. ‘Behave yourself, Joshy. No more toys out of the pram.’ She straightened up and then, flashing us both a winning smile, shrugged on her little jacket. She promised to be back tomorrow, with more soup. Oh, and she was charging him double. He’d been double trouble.

‘Thanks, Tills,’ he muttered gratefully as she left.

When she’d gone I poured the soup into two bowls and let it cool for a moment as I set the table. Then I wheeled him up and made him eat it. He did, actually, quite successfully. Although his hand shook and he got a fair bit down his dressing gown, which made him bark with rage as I wiped it off with a dishcloth.

‘Like a fucking baby!’ he roared, or tried to.

I shrugged. ‘I suggested I do it for you, or put a napkin in your neck, but you wouldn’t have it. What would you normally do now?’

‘What’s normal?’ he growled. ‘I only escaped yesterday. Gardening, probably. Or tennis. Yes, tennis.’

I ignored him. ‘Sleeping. How do you get upstairs?’

‘We’re going to bed?’

My mouth twitched. I waited. He sighed. ‘I walk. I’m quite capable of walking, it’s just that wretched girl went to the hospital and got me a wheelchair. Came home on a bus on my own.’

‘Idiot. God knows what you caught on that. Come on, let’s give it a whirl.’

I pushed the chair down the hall to the bottom of the stairs and then helped him haul himself out of it. Together we made a very slow and shaky ascent, me with one arm around his waist, and him holding the banister tightly. In that way we made it to the bedroom. I knew he wouldn’t want any help from there on in, so I diplomatically went to the loo while he got slowly into bed. When I came back, he was under the duvet, tucked in up to his chin.

‘How d’you feel?’

‘About six. Go away.’

I grinned. ‘I’m going. But sadly for you, I’ll be back. Have you got water?’

He didn’t answer so I poured a glass from the bathroom and put it on the bedside table. ‘OK. What’s Tilly’s number?’