I feel a wave of relief and also resignation. I’m at the point that I’ve feared all these months, and now there’s nothing to be done but wait for the verdict. There’s a sort of freedom from all responsibility in that which is oddly comforting.

Misha looks up and instantly shifts his expression into his usual snarky one. “You’ve had more tests today than an undergraduate during finals week.”

I smile and fling myself into the chair next to him, taking the hand he offers me and squeezing it. “Bored yet?”

“Well, of course not,” he drawls. He gestures to the TV in the corner of the room. “How could I possibly be bored with the wonderful array of morning television? So far I’ve watched This Morning with Holly and Phil who manage to be abnormally cheerful. I’ve never seen anyone talk through a smile before.”

“Surely that’s nice?” I say, smiling at the wave of normality he’s offering me. How does he always know the right thing to say?

He shakes his head. “It’s weird and a bit threatening.”

“Okay, Mr Cheerful. What else?”

Misha shrugs. “Some sort of ridiculous programme where people are dashing about the English countryside buying utter tat and acting as if they’ve picked up a Renoir.”

“Ooh, I like that programme.”

“You would,” he says sourly. “You’re congenitally suited to daytime television.”

I shift position on the hard chair and nestle into his side, and he obliges me by putting his arm around me and drawing me closer. A woman in the corner gives us a dirty look, but we both ignore her. Me, because I’m too tired, and Misha because he’s too arrogant to give a shit what anyone else thinks.

“So, did anything else happen while I was asleep last night?” A thought suddenly occurs to me, and I sit up straight. “Did Harry come back?” He looks slightly evasive, and my attention sharpens. I fold my arms. “Misha,” I prompt sternly, mainly just to watch him squirm. I always take pleasure in that. It’s part of my best friend charter.

He runs a finger under the neck of his jumper and darts his gaze around the room, settling on the leaflet stand. He stares at it as intently as if it were Charlie Hunnam’s arse.

“Misha?” I say again and heave a longsuffering sigh. “Just tell me what you did.”

He shoots me a quick glance. “We sort of had a fight in the hotel corridor.”

“What?” My voice is way too loud for a waiting room, and a few people look up before going back to their magazines. “How can you sort of have a fight?” I hiss. “You either do, or you don’t.”