If this was a panic attack, thought Lucy, it was really working. She was in a total fucking panic. As soon as she had recovered enough, she rang her kind, clever doctor friend, Ash, who immediately offered to come over. He ran some tests, making her push her legs against his hands, and also asking her to walk in a straight line, and to stand on one leg at a time. Lucy succeeded in all these tasks and her reflexes responded to his rubber hammer in the expected way.

‘Listen, it’s almost certainly all the stress you’ve been under,’ said Ash, ‘but, since the attacks keep showing up in the same place, I’m going to call in a favour from a neurologist I know and see if we can get you an MRI tomorrow, in case there’s any nerve damage affecting your leg. I’ll give you a Zopiclone to make sure you get a good night’s rest.’

After Ash had reassured her, Lucy felt much better and since she almost never used sleeping pills, she soon fell into a deep, long sleep.

5

Olivia was in far too good a mood to really mind, but she couldn’t help wondering why Lucy had chosen to meet at Noble Rot for such an early dinner. It was a dry, clear evening and Olivia had decided to walk from her publisher’s office. It had been tough negotiating for the inclusion of the intergenerationally traumatised mice, but her editor had totally seen the point and had agreed to the disruption of the proofs. Her weekend with Francis had stretched into four nights and she had only been able to focus on the mice that morning, her feet interlaced with his under the table on the train until they were wrenched apart at Victoria station. She had gone to her parents’ house and Francis had set off to a meeting of the Soil Association. Now, after nine long hours, they were converging on Lamb’s Conduit Street.