Michael’s scan, so Linda Stott later informed Romy and Leo in the patients’ waiting room, had shown a clot in the right carotid artery in his neck, which had reduced the blood flow to his brain.

‘So what happens next?’

Linda pursed her lips. ‘Well, there are a number of things, but the problem is that because it was quite a while after the stroke before your husband was brought in – judging by his deteriorated condition – we decided clot-busting drugs wouldn’t be so effective and could make things worse.’

The doctor stopped and, for a ridiculous moment, Romy – her mind flashing back to the unanswered texts and the scene on the sofa – thought she was reproaching her. She might as well have done; Romy felt a crippling guilt that she hadn’t responded to Michael’s cry for help. She knew it could be the difference – those lost hours – between a good recovery and a not-so-good one. Between life and death, even.

‘But there’s a plan?’ Romy asked urgently, when Linda didn’t go on.

‘Surgery to remove the clot is an option but, again, it carries risk. We feel the best thing to do is to monitor him and give him medication to prevent another potential stroke while we wait for the clot to disperse.’

Romy frowned. ‘Do nothing?’

The doctor gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Not nothing, Mrs Claire. We’re giving your husband the very best supportive care. But it’s vital he has time to stabilize. We don’t want to aggravate the situation.’

‘He’s going to be OK, isn’t he?’ This from Leo.

Dr Stott looked him straight in the eye. ‘I won’t lie to you. Your father’s in a critical condition – there’s a real danger that he might have another brain attack. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.’

Stunned, Romy stood by the bed, searching her husband’s face for signs of life. It was unbearable, seeing him like that, and also witnessing the shock imprinted on her son’s face. But there was nothing they could do, except this – the passive staring, the watching for any tiny twitch in the face on the pillow. After a while she dragged Leo out of the ward and down to the Costa café on the ground floor, where she got them both a strong coffee.

Finch had driven her expertly – at breakneck speed – to Fulham, then told her he would hang around for a while in London, in case she needed him. She glanced around to see if he was in the hospital reception area, but there was no sign of him. And while she longed for his comforting and capable presence, she did not relish explaining him to her son right now.

‘Does Anezka know?’ she asked, when they were sitting at a table covered with crumbs and coffee stains, which Leo impatiently wiped away with a wad of napkins.