‘It would be like a stranger coming up to you and giving you a kiss,’ Dr Khan had explained.

‘But I’m not a stranger, I’m her husband,’ Valentine had protested.

‘But she doesn’t always remember,’ she’d replied gently.

Gisele turned to him now, her bright blue eyes running over his face. The carers had dressed her in one of her favourite cerise sweaters and applied her make-up, just as she liked it, but up close, it was as if the light had gone out of her face.

‘It’s Valentine. Your Valentine,’ he prompted.

She smiled, but he wasn’t sure if it was out of politeness rather than recognition.

‘Is it Valentine’s Day?’

‘Not yet, love,’ he shook his head, ‘but every day is Valentine’s Day when you’re married to me – isn’t that what you used to say?’ he joked feebly, searching her face for a flicker of memory.

It had started innocently enough; he thought she was being forgetful, getting confused. ‘Well, aren’t we all? It’s called old age,’ he’d soothe, when she couldn’t recall where she’d put her glasses or got lost on the way back from town. Except it wasn’t. When they got the official diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, he put his arm around his weeping wife in the doctor’s surgery and told her not to worry. She’d looked after him for years, so now it was his turn.

At first they’d managed just fine. They even went on holiday to the South of France, driving in their camper van like they’d done every year. But as the disease continued its grim march through his beloved wife’s brain, it was like having to stand aside and watch helplessly as thieves broke into your home and stole the things that are most precious to you. It robbed Gisele of her quick-witted sense of humour, her uncanny ability to recall any date or recipe, and her joy of gardening. Instead her behaviour became more erratic: getting out of bed in the middle of the night and putting on her coat to go to the supermarket, becoming angry and impatient, when all her life she’d been so calm and kind.

Worst of all was watching her sobbing uncontrollably in the fleeting moments of lucidity when she realized what was happening to her. Trying to comfort her and failing. He managed for as a long as he could, but even with the help of carers, in the end it got too much.

‘Acqua di Parma.’

‘Sorry, love?’

‘Your cologne,’ she said, leaning forward to smell him. ‘I bought you that cologne one Christmas.’

‘Yes . . . yes, you did, love.’

It was like getting his wife back again for a few brief, wonderful moments and Valentine felt his heart soar as he reached for her hand. Just like he did all those years ago when he first asked her to dance at the Palais. Her teenage skin was firm and smooth then; now it was tracing-paper thin, but it was still the same hand that had held his as they jived around the dance floor.