It felt odd for Nicola to let him into the flat that had been his home for years. She and Vicky were more thickset than Hayley but equally permanently groomed. Nicola’s corn-coloured hair was cut in stylish layers and she wore neat make-up. ‘Sorry for screwing things up for you but thanks for coming,’ she whispered shortly. ‘Hayley’s asleep. Come into the kitchen. I’ve printed you some notes.’ She tapped the top of the page. ‘Here’s the officialese: she had a grade one, stage one invasive ductile non-specific tumour so they gave her a skin-sparing mastectomy with lymph node biopsy and stage one reconstruction.’

His thoughts swam. ‘What does it actually mean?’

She sighed. ‘Breast cancer, caught early, hopefully not aggressive. They’ve taken all the insides out of her breast along with the nipple and put in a temporary implant. When they have the results of the biopsy and have decided on further treatment they’ll plan the rest of the reconstruction.’

Sweat burst out on his forehead. Poor Hayley. Body maintenance was a way of life to her and then this foul thing had come along and savaged her.

Nicola moved on. ‘She mustn’t lift her arm above her head. She has two drains in and has to carry the bottles the fluid passes into around with her in a bag. Washing and dressing herself, cooking, they’re all impossible right now. Can’t be left alone. Can’t drive. Can’t stretch. Can’t lift.’

Responsibility settled on Isaac’s shoulders. ‘I can see why you got in touch with me.’

Nicola pulled a selection of packets and boxes towards her. ‘If she could have come up with someone else she would have, I think. Here are her meds. Antibiotics, paracetamol, ibuprofen and Tramadol. Here’s the number for the breast cancer nurse. She’s brilliant so if you’re worried, call her.’ She slid the notes onto the counter and headed for the hallway where her bag was already packed and waiting. ‘Do you still have my phone number? Sorry I have to dump this on you – but I do have to.’

‘I realise.’ Isaac tried to make himself function. ‘How’s your dad?’

A tear formed at the corner of her eye. ‘In a bad way. Deeply unconscious, pelvic injury and internal injury. He’s out of surgery now. Vicky’s there already and Mum’s in pieces. She saw him step off the pavement in front of the car that hit him.’ She wiped the tear away.

Whispering the usual platitudes that were all you could offer when a loved one had sustained life-changing injuries or worse, he saw her out then walked slowly into the lounge. It looked the same as last time he’d seen it: cream sofas, green curtains, the streamlined chrome lamps Hayley favoured with white glass shades. It was he who had changed.