Daniel continued: ‘He would not eat his lunch. He has had only a small piece of toast all day. Then the physio came – not Imogen – and he slipped when she was walking with him on the frame.’

‘Slipped?’ The word impinged on Romy’s scattered consciousness and she tried to focus.

‘It was not serious,’ Daniel said quickly. ‘He just slid over and ended up on the floor. We picked him up, but his breathing was very fast and he make this moaning sound. I thought at first he might be badly injured or maybe he have some sort of attack.’

Daniel had her full attention now. ‘Attack? What sort of attack?’

‘I was not sure, but I thought, so soon after a stroke … So I ring the surgery and the locum doctor came out.’

‘Wait – the doctor? Why didn’t you call me, Daniel?’

Daniel gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I did. I left four messages.’

Romy blinked. Then she remembered her phone wasn’t on. She’d waited for a miserable agonizing hour for Finch to get in touch after he’d left. But she couldn’t stop herself checking the bloody thing every two minutes, so eventually she’d turned it off.

‘What did the doctor say?’ she almost snapped, feeling so guilty for missing Daniel’s calls.

‘By the time he get here, Mr Michael was better. But when I describe what had happened, he thought it might be a panic attack,’ the boy replied. ‘He was very careful ‒ he checked him out, but he couldn’t find anything that was wrong, except his pulse was high.’

‘A panic attack?’ Romy said, but she was remembering a couple of evenings ago and her husband suddenly clutching his chest and breaking out in a sweat, his breathing laboured. It had frightened her, too.

‘He said we must keep him as calm as possible for the next twenty-four hours and get Dr Beech to see him,’ Daniel added, his young face searching hers for approval.

‘Did somebody die?’ Michael asked, his eyebrows raised as he noted her expression.

Romy stood in the doorway to his bedroom. Despite her concern for him in the light of what Daniel had told her, she found she couldn’t bear the sight of the man. ‘Not you, obviously,’ she retorted, forcing a smile which probably looked more like a grimace. Her husband, whatever had gone on earlier, looked the picture of serenity as he lay back on his snowy pillows – the most cosseted man on earth.

‘Sorry to disappoint you on that front,’ he said, with mock-seriousness. ‘I did my best. Had them all going this afternoon. But apparently it was just a bit of run-of-the-mill hysteria.’

Romy wasn’t in the mood for Michael’s banter.

He patted the duvet with his good hand. ‘Sit down, tell me all about it.’

‘Nothing to tell,’ she said dully.

‘Good weekend?’

‘Not particularly.’