‘Well, we’ve got Daniel next. I have high hopes for him,’ Bettina said, ‘even if I am biased.’ Daniel, twenty-five, was the son of a friend of Jost. He’d just finished his master’s in mental health and wanted a job in London for a while before going back to Switzerland. ‘And he might be better with a man looking after him ‒ a guy would be stronger, for a start, lugging Michael about. And it’ll be less embarrassing for Michael.’

Romy nodded. She wasn’t sure. ‘He’s a bit overqualified to be a carer.’

‘He seems happy with the idea … and if you think he’s suitable, you wouldn’t need to stick around too long.’

Romy had told Bettina how cornered she felt by the situation. But since knowing the date for Michael’s discharge – the following Monday – she had thrown all her energies into the task in hand. Finch was right: it made her feel calmer.

The final brick had fallen out of the wall of her resistance the other day, when she’d been sitting beside Michael in the blue hospital chair while he slept. She had been reading, when suddenly she’d felt his eyes on her.

For a moment he stared at her, as if he were trying to focus. Then he said, ‘I’m finished, Romy,’ as he unsuccessfully bit back the tears. With his good arm he had indicated his body beneath the sheet. ‘Have you ever seen a one-armed, one-legged silk who can’t remember the day of the week?’

When Romy didn’t immediately reply, shocked he should see himself in such terms, Michael had given her one of his knowing smiles and turned away.

She quickly pulled herself together. ‘Don’t say that, Michael. You’re improving every day, even if you can’t see it.’ She heard the false brightness in her tone, and finished more gently, ‘It’ll just take time.’

Michael nodded wearily. He’d heard it all before. Then he reached for her hand and clung to it, his eyes anguished as he met her gaze and a torrent of words came spilling out in his slow, compromised speech. ‘I’m so frightened, Romy. For the first time in my life … I can’t manage even the simplest thing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen to me.’ He swallowed with effort, furiously rubbing the tears from his face.

Romy had found her heart breaking. Since Michael’s stroke, all she had been able to think about was what this meant to her, what she would have to do and how much she didn’t want to do it. But now she fully focused on Michael’s predicament. How truly terrifying it must feel – for anybody, let alone a man as proud and independent as Michael – to be so reduced, so helpless.