‘Well, I’m not sorry for either one of them and the mess they made of their lives, and my life too. My mother’s dying of leukaemia and I’m quite prepared to do whatever I can to make her comfortable. But if she wasn’t deathly ill, I wouldn’t see her at all if I could help it. And I certainly don’t want to see him.’

‘You miss him, though. You were very close. Isn’t that the truth?’

‘No, it’s not the bloody truth. We weren’t close at all. It was just an illusion. A cruel bit of make-believe, like the rest of his life. That’s the real truth, pleasant or not. And I’m not going to be railroaded into some sentimental reunion. Not by him or by my manipulative mother.’

‘Then they’ll both have to respect your decision on that score,’ he said, wanting to help her towards a more peaceful view of her situation, but unwilling to push for fear of damaging his own tenuous links with her. ‘You must be careful, though, that you don’t hurt yourself any more than you’ve been hurt already.’

‘I’m a survivor,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ve managed this far, and I’ll go on managing. You mustn’t start talking to me like the family doctor or a friendly uncle. I couldn’t take that.’

‘What are your plans for the next week or so? If you can forgive my clumsy advances, I’d like to invite you out somewhere. Try to take your mind off all this for an hour or two. What about lunch on Sunday? We could drive out of town and have one of those gargantuan English lunches in some old manor hotel. I’d like to see you succumb to the trifle. How does that sound?’

‘You know I can’t – that I’m not—?’

‘I know. Consider me a true friend and someone you can confide in. The rest isn’t important. Lunch on Sunday?’ His heart was racing with absurd delight when she nodded. ‘Good. I’ll pick you up at your flat around twelve.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Camilla. Be well.’