‘It’s like…well…a worry. A kind of fear. And at the same time a thrill. Excitement…and sadness…all rolled into one. A sort of ache.’ Then his mood changed. ‘Listen to me. I sound like something out of a woman’s magazine. I mean, why can’t I get a grip? I’m not like this. I don’t do this sort of thing. I don’t want any ties, do l? I’ve been perfectly happy living the way I have. It hasn’t hurt anybody. Well, I suppose that’s not strictly true, but we were all grown-up. I’d given up expecting anything more permanent.’ He took a large gulp from his glass. ‘Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I should see a doctor. Bloody stupid! At my time of life.’

Christopher spoke softly and considerately. ‘If you want a doctor’s opinion I’d say that you’re exhibiting the classic symptoms of the most virulent of all afflictions.’

Gary turned to him and asked with a note of sarcastic resignation in his voice, ‘Is there any cure?’

‘Time, in some cases, will affect a cure. But only in some cases. In others, the effects seem to last a lifetime with varying degrees of severity.’

‘And you?’ asked Gary.

‘Well, I was affected by it once, but it went away. Totally without warning. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly.’

‘So you’re cured?’

‘I thought I was. But I think I might be contracting it again.’ Christopher looked thoughtfully into the embers. ‘And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.’

Gary followed his gaze and murmured, ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Christopher, ‘it’s a bugger.’

Sarah gazed out over the rooftops from the window of her mansion flat in Wimbledon. They were shining. The rain on the slates was caught in the glimmer of a hundred street lamps. It was not a particularly beautiful view, but tonight it seemed almost like fairyland. She pulled the curtains and slid into bed. Her mind ran over the events of the past few weeks. How different it had been then. How different it all was now. Or how different it could be.

Was it too soon to get into another relationship? Was this another relationship? She knew it could be. Knew that he wanted it to be. But for how long? His record up to now had been six months, and that was ten years ago. His current form predicted a duration around the three-month mark. Three months. That was twelve weeks. Or eighty-four days. Did she want to commit herself–all of herself–for eighty-four days?

She switched off the light and turned over, but she could not ignore the shimmering glow of the street lamps beyond her curtains and the gentle sound of spring rain on her windowpane.