It wasn’t just the money. Brendan pulled strings to expedite practising privileges for Dr Elliott at The Portland, and he had his people handle all sorts of stuff for us, right down to matching monogrammed PJs for him, me and Tabs. We’re going to wear them when she’s out of the High Dependency Unit and back in her private room.

I should add that they all have huge pink hearts all over them.

Another surgery kicks off.

Another painful morning for Tabs of having to fast.

Another heartrending farewell before she goes under.

Another endless, terrifying wait while Dr Elliott works his magic for a second time.

Only this time I’m not alone.

This time, I am wrapped up in the arms of a man, a man strong enough, brave enough, committed enough, to be here for me.

A man who, despite first impressions, doesn’t scare easily when life gets real. His money, his reach, may have salvaged this medical disaster from a shit show of NHS emergency surgery, and I’ll never be able to thank him enough for that. But it stops there.

What happens behind those doors is down to Dr Elliott and the surgical team from The Portland now, and money can’t affect the outcome I need so badly.

Only the universe can do that, and we both know it.

Still, he’s not going anywhere. Not during the surgery, not after.

He’s told me over and over again.

I cast my mind back to all those times over the past nearly nine years when I’ve sat in waiting rooms alone, frozen with fear and what-ifs, paralysed by the unconscionable knowledge that this time, it might not work. This time, something might go wrong.

This time, Tabby might not wake up.

I’m playing a different what-if game.

‘I can’t believe I let her catch an infection,’ I mutter into Brendan’s chest. It’s so wonderfully, warmly solid. I don’t ever want him to let me go. ‘I can’t believe it. All I had to do was keep her safe for a month or two after the operation. I can’t believe she’s having to go through all this again on my watch.’

‘You can’t blame yourself,’ he says into my hair. ‘You know that. She’s a kid! They’re grubby little fuckers. You can’t wrap her in cotton wool.’

‘Try me,’ I say, and he chuckles softly. ‘I shouldn’t have let her go swimming at your parents’ place. God, that was so irresponsible.’

‘You heard what they said. It was far more likely to have been that tooth she lost last week.’

I know he’s right. The consultant said as much. Apparently, poor dental hygiene—or an ill-timed wobbly tooth, as luck and shitty timing would have it—is a common entry point for bacteria.

I sigh.