Ben glanced at her grimy and cracked old phone. ‘Harry Warren, yes – there was some question of misdemeanours, wasn’t there? But the others…’ He shook his head. ‘I can have a look.’

Petra’s phone rang: it was the reception desk. Helena was awake and the doctor had cleared her to look in on her. She thanked Suki and Ben for coming, and when she got to the high-care section, Helena was propped up on her gurney much as Petra had seen her before, only the drip line and oxygen tube connected to her. Petra pushed into the room quietly, but Helena turned her head and managed a weak smile.

‘Hi, love,’ she croaked.

Petra hurried over to her bedside and grabbed her hand. A little too hard, she realised when she felt just how light Helena’s return grip was. She let go and smoothed her mother’s hand on the starched sheet. ‘Mom. What happened?’

‘I had this pain. I thought it would go away, but it didn’t.’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I did try, love. There was no answer, so I didn’t leave a message. I didn’t want to trouble you.’

‘God, Mom,’ Petra keep her voice low, her relief that her mother was talking outweighed her frustration just at the moment, ‘it would have been no trouble.’ But the truth was, if Helena had left a message last night, while Petra was dancing and getting drunk with Vincent, she may not have noticed it for hours. Guilt crashed in. After all her self-righteous preening, complaining that she was always there for her mother but that Helena never seemed to trust her enough to call on her, she’d failed her just when she was needed most. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Ida brought me.’

‘In the middle of the night? That’s—’

Helena gestured weakly with the back of her hand. ‘She lives in my building. She was happy to help. She’s a friend, love,’ was what she said, but Petra heard, Let it go; it’s none of your business.

Petra looked away for a few seconds, then turned back to her mother. She took her fingers, lightly this time. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter how you got here. I’m glad you did.’

‘Ja. It could have been bad, they say. But they caught it in time.’

Helena had never seemed old before, but now the skin of her hand felt like parchment, the thinnest of barriers between all that was her and utter dissolution. A slight tweak of luck or timing, and she might have been dead. Why did this have to happen last night, when she’d been on call for her mother night after night, year after year?

‘You mustn’t feel bad, love,’ Helena said, reading her thoughts in her face as only she could do. ‘You don’t have to look after me. You have your own life to live.’