I pull up the number for the private on-call GP service I use. It’s part of the obscenely top-end health cover I have. They guarantee house calls within the hour—in theory, anyway.

‘I need an urgent visit for an eight-year-old,’ I tell them. ‘She’s running a fever and she had a pulmonary valve replacement operation around three weeks ago. How soon can you get someone here?’

I hand the phone over to Marlowe to provide more medical and location details and run my hand through my hair as I blow out a breath. How quickly these terrifying medical terms insert themselves into our vernacular. Marlowe sounds like a cardiothoracic surgeon right now.

In the hour that we’re waiting for the doctor to show up, I call the concierge in my building and ask him to bike over a few bits and pieces for me to wear so I don’t have to spend the day in last night’s clothes. I look like I’m about to do the walk of shame, which is very fucking ironic given I had precisely no action last night.

Tabs wanders out of her room as I’m putting the cushions back on the sofa. ‘Where did you sleep?’

‘On the floor. I was too big for the sofa.’ She smiles, and I consider it a win. I scoop her up into my arms. That’s better. She’s light as a feather.

‘How’s your tummy? Is that sick too? Do you think you could eat some pancakes?’

I have just enough time to make us all some pancakes, take a shower in Marlowe’s bathroom, which is spotlessly clean but has Third World levels of water pressure, and throw on the shorts and t-shirt my concierge team has delivered when the doctor shows up. She sits at the kitchen table with Marlowe and Tabby while I hover uselessly, sipping on my cup of tea. It was that or instant coffee.

‘How are you feeling, Tabby?’ she asks.

‘Yucky and shivery,’ Tabs says. ‘Everything hurts.’

The doctor hums sympathetically. ‘That’s no fun, is it? And you had a big operation a few weeks ago, didn’t you? How long ago, precisely?’

‘Twenty days ago,’ Marlowe supplies. She has Tabs on her lap. She gives the doctor a brief, calm rundown on the details of the operation.

‘Okay, Tabby, I’m going to listen to your heart now,’ the doctor says. She takes her stethoscope and listens for a few moments before frowning. ‘Can you show me your hands?’

The room is silent as she inspects Tabby’s fingernails—for what I don’t know.

‘I can’t be sure, but given Tabby has recently had a valve replacement, it could be endocarditis.’ She pauses. ‘Did the surgical team mention this as something to watch out for in the weeks following the operation?’