When they bring Anton out of the house, there’s a ripple of shock through the gathering, everyone craning their necks to see. The street is cast in the orange light thrown from the overhead lamps. Under their sickly glow, Anton looks more dead than alive. Hilary’s heart kicks out in fright. Instinctively, she moves towards him, shaking free of Greg’s grip.

She hasn’t gone two paces when a figure emerges from the door above, and Hilary’s eyes flick up towards the young woman descending the steps slowly, carefully, as if at any moment she might slip and lose her footing. Hilary’s eyes narrow. Leah’s face is white with shock. She’s still wearing the patterned green dress she’d had on earlier that day, but Hilary notices now that the sleeves are soaked, a darkened patch of damp spreading through the fabric. The ends of her hair are also wet.

The younger woman doesn’t see Hilary, doesn’t seem to notice anyone in the crowd as she drifts past. And when the paramedics lift Anton into the back of the ambulance, Hilary feels her chest tighten with resentment as she watches Leah climb up after them. With disbelief, she stares as the young woman – a woman who hardly knows Anton – takes her seat alongside him.

He might die, Hilary thinks. He might die and I’ll never get another chance.

She moves to approach, but Greg’s hand is back around her arm. She feels his grip tighten.

The doors close, and the driver instructs them to move back. The crowd watches as the ambulance executes a three-point turn, and Hilary says to Martin and Greg: ‘Where will they take him? Which hospital?’

‘Vincent’s, I expect,’ Martin says.

And then the ambulance disappears around the corner in a flare of blue light and whining sirens.

‘Well, that’s it,’ Martin remarks. ‘Drama over.’

The crowd begins to disperse.

‘Good to see you, Martin,’ Greg says, and Martin claps him on the back and asks when the new book’s out.

‘Next month.’

‘Marvellous. I’ll look out for it.’

Vaguely, she’s aware of mumbling an invitation – an afternoon at their house to celebrate the book’s publication – but it’s as if the voice is coming from somewhere beyond her, the words like putty in her mouth.

They are crossing the street to their house when Greg, a couple of steps ahead of her, stops abruptly and turns back. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her.

‘What?’ she says.

‘What was that about?’ he asks. ‘Asking which hospital. You’re not planning on visiting him, are you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, a stifled huff of a laugh emerging from her throat. But she keeps her eyes on his face, the fierceness of his gaze.