Despite these frustrations, Romy couldn’t help feeling a creeping sense of hope. Michael was definitely improving. She could see it. He seemed happier, more energetic, apparently spurred on to get his body and mind back in working order. The probable reason for this change – getting the lies about Grace off his chest – almost offended her. But she was happy to see that he no longer lounged in bed with the television on and was up with the lark, washed, dressed and making breakfast for them both, becoming increasingly adept at a one-handed operation, his weak one now able to act as a pretty reliable anchor.

Some mornings she would find oats scattering the floor, milk spilt on the worktop, blueberries rolling about the kitchen table, but she didn’t comment. He was trying so hard and her heart went out to him, despite herself. But when she caught him watching her sometimes, a brooding look on his face, she resolutely ignored it.

In the evenings, Michael insisted on Scrabble. ‘I’ve got to chivvy my non-existent brain cells somehow,’ he kept telling her.

‘Bloody things,’ he exploded one night, as he accidentally knocked the rack containing his letter tiles and sent the small plastic squares tumbling across the kitchen table, many face up. She and Michael employed very different tactics: Romy liked to hoard, wait till she could get something truly spectacular, using as many letters as possible – once she’d managed ‘coquette’ and scored nearly seventy points. Michael played to win – small, strategically placed, one-syllable words with ridiculous scores. He was much quicker than she to spot the opportunities. But since the stroke, he got muddled and sometimes flustered, tired easily. ‘How the hell am I going to get on if I can’t even play a stupid board game without fucking up?’ He glared accusingly at Romy, as if she were to blame.

‘Don’t get antsy. I’ve often done that,’ she said soothingly.

But Michael was not about to be soothed. He dumped the rack upside down and flung himself petulantly back against the kitchen chair, like a toddler contemplating a tantrum. It was hot and close in the room, the lingering smell of garlic and rosemary from the chicken Romy had cooked earlier still on the air. She saw Michael was sweating, her own cheeks flushed from the two glasses of red she’d consumed.

‘I’d got “ mazy ” if you’d left that y open,’ she complained to distract him.

‘Mazy? What’s that supposed to mean?’

She laughed. ‘Sort of like a maze?’ She thought for a moment. ‘For instance, “ My, that path looks very mazy, don’t you think? ”’

He grinned. ‘Rubbish, never heard of it.’

‘Shall I look it up?’

Michael shook his head and sighed deeply, running his good hand back and forth over his shaved head. ‘You know James rang today,’ he said despondently.