Finch, who’d had to do just that when he was not even twenty and his mother had fallen seriously ill with congestive heart failure, did not comment. He didn’t want Romy to think he was criticizing her sons because he wasn’t. He wouldn’t wish what he’d had to go through on anyone.

Romy went on, ‘But both the boys are at the beginning of their careers. They can’t easily take six months out to look after their father.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t think I’m being too soft on them.’

Finch nodded. He understood.

‘The thing that really worries me is that Leo’s estimate of two weeks is way off. It could take much longer to settle things.’

‘You don’t know that. See how it goes,’ Finch said, trying to be encouraging. But he felt he was swimming against the tide. Romy was too wound up to take in what he was saying.

‘Michael doesn’t trust people like normal people do,’ Romy was saying. ‘He’s never been dependent on anyone.’ She took a large gulp of wine. ‘I’ve got to find a carer tough enough to withstand his will, but kind enough to look after him properly.’

Finch nodded, and decided that, much as he would love to save Romy from her fate, he knew, as clearly as he knew his own name, that she would end up managing her ex’s rehab.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said, her face a picture of despair. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t fight it, Romy. From what you’ve said, you can’t walk away – neither Michael nor Leo could manage if you did.’ He paused. ‘If we’re being practical, perhaps you could set a time limit for yourself. Say, a month. So you move back into the flat and hire trustworthy help, settle Michael with all the aids he needs to walk and feed and shower, get him started with physio, sort out his medication …’

Romy was staring at him, a small smile playing around her mouth. ‘Impressive. Would you like to take over?’

Finch pulled a face, remembering the hassle of persuading his fierce mother to give him power-of-attorney, having fights with her grouchy GP, getting his head round her daily medication, dealing with her clucking – albeit well-meaning – friends, who kept offering conflicting advice. He hadn’t had a clue what he was doing but it had worked out all right in the end. And he’d managed to make the last months of his mother’s life as comfortable as was possible, and worry-free.