She was shocked as she peered at her image in the dimly lit mirror. Her skin was grey, eyes bloodshot and bruised, hair lank. She was sure she smelt, too, after all that feverish sweating, but she didn’t feel strong enough to brave the shower. I look about ninety, she thought, embarrassed that Jared should see her like that.

When she emerged from the bathroom, he was dressed and sitting on the side of the bed, lacing his trainers. ‘You should ring your husband,’ he said.

Connie nodded, pushing away the thought that she should have called him hours ago.

‘I’ll ask at Reception for an extension to the room. They’ll be OK with it when I explain. And you should take another dose of antibiotics. It’s every four hours … eight, twelve, four, eight.’ His tone was businesslike as he rose to his feet and went to collect his jacket from the chair.

She felt a sudden tension. ‘Jared?’

He turned, his hand groping in his pocket, perhaps for his keys and his mobile. The look he returned was empty. She stepped towards him, but he made no move to embrace her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and was horrified to see his beautiful eyes swimming with tears. She wanted to pull him into her arms, but knew she couldn’t. Jared was wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand.

‘Oh, Connie,’ he said softly. ‘I honestly thought you were dead.’

Taken aback, she put a hand on his arm, just lightly, although she was aching to comfort him properly. But even in her feverish state, she held back. Their gaze met. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

For a moment neither spoke. Then he took a deep breath and seemed to shake himself. A second later he’d yanked open the door and was gone.

17

‘I’m going to ring Dr Wright,’ Caitlin said, as she tucked Connie into the spare-room bed in their Shoreditch flat, which was in a converted warehouse, with huge casement windows, high ceilings, exposed brick, and a roof terrace where she had installed terracotta pots of all sizes, filled with herbs and other plants.

‘I’ve seen a doctor,’ Connie protested. ‘I’ve got the drugs.’

Caitlin looked worried. ‘He was probably from some dodgy out-of-hours service the hotel uses. He’d have just thrown you the first pills that came to hand so he could get back to bed.’

‘He seemed to know what he was doing,’ Connie said, although her memories of his brief visit were sketchy. ‘He said it might be a virus, but he didn’t know. He gave me antibiotics just in case, because the cough was so bad.’ When her daughter still did not look reassured, she went on, ‘If it’s a virus, we can only let it run its course.’

‘Hmm …’ Caitlin sat on the bed. ‘I still think we should get her to check you out.’