Making sure the door is closed, I get my travel guide out of the depths of my handbag and prop myself up against the pillows. On pages 170 to 171 there is a double-page map of the Inca Trail, and it’s dirty with my fingerprints. Once again, I trace the outline of the route marked in a dotted red line. It passes more than thirty ancient Inca sites – Runkurackay, Sayacmarca, Wiñay Wayna, Phuyupatamarca. Will I ever see any of these places now? Will I ever step inside the magnificent Inca ruins? Run my hands over the smooth grey stones, so painstakingly constructed? Will my colleagues embark on this trip without me?

I close the book.

Of course they will.

How can I not give my sister this money? Chelsea has never asked me for anything before. I really want to help her out. And yet . . . I push away unkind thoughts about my sister’s perfect life and how this is the first time she’s ever had to endure any hardship. I will help her – of course I will. That’s what family do.

But it hurts. Oh, how it hurts. There’s a keening pain deep inside me and I don’t know what will get rid of it.

Then I cry. I don’t do dignified crying like Chelsea. I cry loud and hard and sob and sniffle and feel like the most wretched person in the entire world.

The door opens and Greg is standing there. ‘I wondered where you were,’ he says. ‘I thought I heard a noise.’

That would be the sound of me dying inside.

‘Are you all right?’ He glances at the travel guide on the bed and his face darkens. ‘Oh. That again.’

I try to get a grip on my tears as I say, ‘I’m not going.’

‘Not going?’

Shake of head. ‘Chelsea needs the money. I’m lending it to her.’

‘Chelsea needs money?’

I know why he looks incredulous. It’s a bit like me saying the Queen or Donald Trump are short of a few quid.

‘It’s a long story,’ I tell him, and I’ll explain it all to him later – but not right now.

I start to push the money back into the old handbag. ‘She promises that she’ll return it. Eventually.’ I’ll take the cash to work tomorrow and Chelsea can come and collect it. ‘But not in time for me to go to Peru.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Greg says. He goes to reach for my hand, but I snatch it away.

Then my anger at the injustice of it all rises to the surface. ‘You’re not sorry at all.’ I stand up and struggle with my crutches.

‘Let me help you.’

‘No!You never wanted me to go.’ I hop/flounce to the door. ‘Now you’ve got your wish.’

‘Annie . . .’

I slam the door as I leave.

Chapter 101

Chapter 101