And that was what her children needed her for right in this moment: to be their mother. The other stuff could wait. But she fully expected a shitstorm. The PM’s office had already approached her delicately on the subject. They wouldn’t remain delicate for long. Sensitivity would shortly turn to robustness before Donald could be turned in his bed, she was damn sure of it. But she had nothing to tell them. She’d had no idea that Donald was meeting with Kennedy-Craig this weekend. A knot sat in her stomach. She knew he was up to no good, though. Bartholomew always was.

The entourage approached ICU and their voices hushed. It was explained to her that they were allowed no further than the viewing windows for relatives. They’d waived the rules on one visitor per patient, and were allowing the whole family in. The consultant came back with her coffee and she gulped it. Jesus, it wasn’t made by anyone who knew what they were doing, but she forced herself to smile gratefully. There was a fabulous coffee shop a stone’s throw away from their Westminster apartment, where she bought her coffee for her power walks around St James’s Park from her favourite barista, Morris from the Isle of Man. She was forever spoiled after that, and coffee would never taste so good anywhere else. But it was wet and warm, as her mother used to say.

They went in.

The ICU was deathly quiet and she chided herself for comparing it to a bloody tomb. She hated hospitals. Nurses wandered around looking earnest and relatives stared at their party, instantly knowing that they were somehow more important than any of the other patients. Maybe some of them were already aware from the news that a lord was being treated here. Her children were distraught, bless them, and well might they be; Donald was a good father, he was just a shitty husband. But that wasn’t their fault.

They came to the correct window and somebody had positioned barriers around it, so they could enjoy their privacy. It was a touching gesture. Then they saw him. Abigail, her daughter, let out a heart-wrenching sob. She was a daddy’s girl. But it wasn’t just her. Henry was in tears, too.

Donald was suspended above the bed, his whole body under an array of sheets. Only his head was visible, and that was full of tubes poking out of it, making it look like the alien from the film. It was truly shocking and Elaine turned away.

‘I’m sorry, I know it’s a shock,’ said one of the consultants.

Suddenly Elaine was claustrophobic. She felt weak and hot and one of the nurses must have noticed because a chair was pushed behind her. She sat gratefully. Henry and Abigail continued to cry.

‘Can we be left alone?’ Elaine asked.