‘Do whatever you have to do, Kat. She really needs to talk to us at some point.’ The artificial strip lights of my ward reflect in his eyes. We should turn them off. Save energy.

‘Of course,’ I say. I wait for him to say something, but he’s just looking at me, at my hair and most probably the glasses. I push them back up my nose. ‘Holidays suit you,’ he eventually says. ‘You look…’ I bite my lip closed, hoping he can’t finish the sentence he started, despite wondering what he’s really thinking. ‘Well, anyway.’ He nods, smiles, then leaves as swiftly as he appeared. ‘Mrs Nielson,’ he shouts. ‘If you keep coughing like that, you’re going to pop a rib!’ The squeak of his shoes on my lino signals his final, and frankly overdue, exit.

It’s suddenly as quiet as any hospital ward ever gets – just a distant hum of nurse chatter from the desk and second-hand TV sounds that leak a combination of The Jeremy Kyle Show and Cash in the Attic. Even the coughing has momentarily stopped. I catch my breath, then turn back to face her. ‘He’s right, Susan,’ I say, gently, needlessly tidying her impeccable bedding. ‘You will need some support when you’re ready to go home. If there is anyone we can call for you…’ Susan closes her eyes, turns her head and practically sinks back into the bed. Camouflaged into her surroundings. I’m dismissed.

And that’s when I realise there’s a tiny part of me that’s envious. She can switch off, turn her back on us all. What I’d give to do the same. Camouflage. Hide away from the extra responsibility, the smell of his aftershave, the reality that, whilst I wait for Daniel to collect the last of his things from our flat, he’s out, he’s moved on. He’s not coming back.

Chapter Four

SUSAN

The rattle and squeak of a trolley edges into a dream where I’m lost in a forest with no way out. I’m searching, looking beneath bushes and around trees. I’m crying out and hearing only my own echo in response.

The smell of undistinguishable hospital food replaces the smell of damp pines and loneliness. I keep my eyes shut, even though I sense someone by my bed. A plate is put down, cutlery clatters beside it. The bed jolts slightly as my table is pulled closer, within reach.

‘Here you go, love,’ says a new voice. ‘Enjoy.’

The footsteps leave. I try to unstick my eyes; my left stays dark, my right clears with each blink, bringing food into focus. A jacket potato, sliced in two. Yellowy butter melts off its flat surface, dropping down onto wilting salad. There’s a chipped pot of grated cheese beside it. Nausea swells, as it did in the forest.

The nurse from before – was it Kat? – peers into my bay, eyeing up my plate as if checking my progress, like a mother whose child regularly rejects dinner. ‘You hungry?’ she asks, her tired face full of hope. She has a paper cup of tablets in her hand. ‘Mmm, jacket potato and cheese,’ she says unconvincingly, presumably in an attempt to sell it to me. ‘And salad…’ She rubs her stomach. ‘I missed breakfast. Ended up snacking on chocolate when I got here, and trust me, Jaffa Cakes do not slow release energy till lunch time.’ Her words are upbeat, but her spirit is not. ‘Here, let me…’ She reaches for my knife and fork, fluffing up the potato, sprinkling cheese in a dry little pile on the top.