He collected her from the usual rendezvous. Past South Wimbledon tube, out of range of anyone spotting them, he pulled up in a lay-by and opened up the hood of his car. She’d once idly asked what it was, though it interested her little; ‘Mazda MX-5 convertible,’ came his contemptuous reply. ‘This car is nothing special. One day I will drive you in a real car.’

‘Isn’t this a real car?’ she’d asked.

He’d laughed. ‘It’s hardly a Lamborghini.’

Travelling through places like Chiddingfold, Northchapel, and Petworth was a revelation, though she had the impression it was familiar to him. Village greens lined with thatched cottages and wisteria-clad, rose-bricked square houses; Norman churches with solid naves and neat square towers; at Chiddingfold itself a grander church with flying buttresses and decorative crenellations; pub signs with names like ‘The Green Man’ swinging gently in the slight breeze.

‘I’ve never been to places like these,’ she said. She had to raise her voice as the late summer air beat into their faces and ruffled through their hair.

They stopped at Bignor where she was captivated by the jewel-like sheen of the mosaics. ‘Two thousand years old,’ she said in near disbelief.

‘That is the point,’ he said. ‘The Romans made themselves at home in these parts so why should not we?’ She looked around – there were no other non-white faces.

He parked and they climbed up Bignor Hill onto the South Downs Way. She had warmed up and taken off the sweater she’d worn in the car, revealing a sleeveless T-shirt; even though it was early September, it was all she needed as the midday sun burned, beads of sweat glistening around her neck.

‘Let us find some shade for the picnic,’ he said, stretching out a hand. She took it and entwined her fingers through his. It was the first time, beyond mere courtesy or accident, that they had touched.

There was a knock on the door from the ante-space; Bridget walked through carrying a clipboard and charts. Sara stopped talking and they both looked up at her.

‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ asked the nurse.

‘Not at all,’ replied Sara. ‘We were just reminiscing.’

‘I won’t be a second.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Patrick. ‘Hardly a place for hurrying.’

‘You should see us when it’s all going off.’ Bridget turned up the lighting and looked down at Tariq. ‘He’s calm enough, isn’t he? I wonder what he’s thinking?’

Sara and Patrick exchanged raised eyebrows while she noted readings from the monitors and checked the intravenous flow. ‘Not a lot changing. That’s good enough for me. I’ll leave you in peace.’ Dimming the lights, she quietly closed the door behind her.

‘So then…?’ said Patrick.

‘Yes, I’ll never forget that moment. The warmth, the beauty of the day, the contours of the hills. The touch of his hand. As if I was being set alight.’