I should hate him, and her. Instead I think of Maria. Before I met her, I was utterly sceptical about the idea of fate, or the idea that there was The One. I wouldn’t say I am now a believer, but I am open to the possibility that some things are meant to be.

Maria and me.

Joel and Kerry?

Should I call him? He would want to know she’s sick because . . . well, you do want to know, when you love someone.

I pick up my phone, and stare at it for five long minutes before I start to type.

Joel. Kerry is in hospital. It’s OK. She’s OK. She had a small operation, but it went fine. She didn’t ask me to tell you and I don’t know if you’re even in touch these days but I thought you should know. Brunswick Ward. She’ll be in a few more days, I should think. Tim.

A message pings back almost instantly.

Thank you.

Still I’m waiting for the anger to kick in. I walk into the hall and retrieve the post. There is a letter for me from my deanery, asking me to call HR at my earliest convenience to organize the disciplinary.

I don’t think I am ever going back.

Under the junk, there are two letters for Kerry, both with NHS franking. The first comes from the hospital she visited two days ago – is it that recent? It feels like months – and the thinness of the white envelope makes me certain it’s a rejection, just as she predicted.

That can wait.

But the other is in a brown A4 envelope and has heft, the kind that comes from accommodation forms and health questionnaires and . . . it has a London postcode.

Some things are meant to be.

I push on my trainers, check I have my keys and launch myself out of the house. Outside it’s cold and misty and I almost turn back to grab my coat, but instead, I begin to run towards the hospital because I don’t want Kerry to have to wait a single second longer than necessary to find out she’s finally getting what she deserves . . .

Chapter 48: Joel

8 February 2006

My cardiologist once told me that when your heart goes into ventricular fibrillation, it quivers like jelly, moving this way and that but unable to do anything useful.

That’s how my whole body feels, after the text from Tim.

My father finds me, pacing the kitchen, not knowing what I should do next. He checks Leo’s OK first and when he sees him gurgling happily in his highchair, Dad turns to me.

‘All right, J?’

‘No. It’s Kerry. She’s in hospital and I don’t know whether to go in, or whether that’ll make it worse, and I can’t think of what the hell to do, Dad, I—’