‘Mum, it’s Leo.’ Her son’s voice wobbled alarmingly, as if he was about to cry. Before Romy had time to ask what was wrong, he went on, ‘Where are you? I’ve called you a million times.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ Anxiety stabbed in the pit of her stomach.

‘It’s Dad. He’s had a stroke.’

12

Romy stared at her screen. While she and Finch had been unbuttoning each other’s clothes on the sofa, her husband had been ill and alone, knowing he was in trouble and crying out for her to rescue him. The thought brought her out in a cold sweat and her breath caught in her throat. Where was Anezka? she wondered, yet she knew from Rex that, although Anezka had been with Michael for the best part of a year, she didn’t actually live with him yet.

‘What?’ Romy had gasped when she heard her son’s words. ‘Oh, my God …’

Leo gave a shaky breath. ‘It’s really bad, Mum. Theresa found him when she arrived at nine. Thank God she had a key. The doctor says she thinks it happened early last night and he was lying there for hours. He was really cold and weak.’

‘Is he all right? I mean … how bad is he?’ What her son was saying just didn’t seem possible. Suppose it hadn’t been the day Theresa came in to clean?

‘They say he’s critical, Mum.’

Romy’s heart was racing. ‘Where is he? Which hospital?’

‘Chelsea and Westminster. I’m here now, in the ICU …’

She looked over at Finch and saw his concerned frown, his eyebrows raised in question. ‘Have you told Rex?’

‘I left messages, but it’s the middle of the night in Sydney.’ He paused. ‘Please come, Mum. He might die and I don’t know what to do.’

‘I’ll jump in the car right now.’

‘OK. But hurry …’

She’d taken a steadying breath. ‘Listen, Leo, I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s in the right place and he’s tough, your dad. Don’t panic, I’ll text you when I get close.’ Her bullish assertion was very far from the image in her mind. She knew that the longer a stroke is left untreated, the worse the outcome. And if he’d been lying there all night …

When she’d clicked off, she saw that there were six text messages, three voicemails. Three of the texts were sent last night, each from Michael. They all contained a version of random letters: Dddgi poiif. As if he’d bashed his finger across the keypad in panic. The time stamp said they were all sent within a few minutes of each other, from 11.03 p.m.

Now she turned the phone to Finch, who squinted at it in the sun as she explained what had happened. ‘He texted me,’ she said. ‘Three times.’

‘Last night? When we were …’ He winced. ‘God …’