‘I do,’ said William. ‘But that’s not the point. Every house needs to have a place for kids, your friends’ kids, if not your own. I’ve dreamed of the house Scarlett and I might have —’ He stopped, suddenly aware of what he’d said and that Scarlett and Alex had both put down their forks and were staring at him.

The silence grew. William flung down his napkin, stood, then strode out the front door.

Scarlett stared after him. ‘I don’t . . . he hasn’t . . .’

‘Never?’

‘No.’ Suddenly she burst into tears. ‘He kissed me, a year ago, then nothing . . .’

‘You were sick.’

‘I’m not now!’ She wiped the tears, but they kept coming. ‘And you didn’t want to either, and . . . and . . .’

Alex put his arms around her, kissed the top of her head. ‘And you love him?’

‘I suppose it’s obvious,’ said Scarlett, blowing her nose.

‘Maybe not. I happen to know you very well. Better than William, it seems,’ he added dryly. ‘Come on, sit over on the sofa. It’s more comfortable.’

He left the mess on the table — how very Alex to leave the mess, she thought. She did curl up on the sofa, stretching out her legs.

He sat in the armchair opposite. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I might be the problem? That William thinks that you and I are, or will be, more than friends?’

‘Except we won’t,’ said Scarlett flatly, blowing her nose again. ‘You made it extremely obvious you don’t . . . desire . . . me.’

‘Actually, I do,’ said Alex.

Scarlett stared at him. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘But not madly, passionately, fling me over your shoulder and carry me to bed?’

‘Actually I’ve never felt that for anyone. Sex is just, well, what you do.’ Alex looked at her seriously. ‘Scarlett, William loves you. I love you too —’ He held his hand up when she began to interrupt. ‘No, listen. Sex and love have never seemed to really go together for me. If I’d known you’d wanted me to make love to you . . .’

‘You’d have forced yourself to do it?’ said Scarlett dryly. ‘My, you are romantic!’

‘I love you more now than I did then. Admire you even more too. Scarlett, admit it. We match, you and I.’

She said nothing. It was true. Debating points of theory and possible diagnoses with Alex was more exciting even than her first wheelchair, a mental freedom even greater than the physical one had been.

Alex hesitated. ‘I need coffee.’ He filled the percolator, then said, looking at it, not her, ‘Will you marry me?’

‘Are you joking?’ Though she knew that he was not.

‘No.’ He turned back to her, the percolator on the hot plate.

‘That’s about the most cool-blooded proposal in the history of the universe.’