She heard Daniel approaching from the other end of the L-shaped flat and fled to the loo, where she leant against the locked door, hand towel pressed to her mouth, trying to stifle an overwhelming urge to scream. All she wanted to do in that moment was to sling on her trainers and take off round the harbour, gulping in great draughts of spring sunshine – run and run until her brain was empty of thought and every muscle in her body begged for mercy.

Romy slept in the room next to Michael in case he needed her. That first night back, she was dragged awake by the frantic ringing of the small brass hand-bell – her grandmother’s – she’d placed on his bedside table. She didn’t know what was happening, or where she was, and it took her a few minutes to orient herself before she shot out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown.

When she turned the light on, Michael was half out of bed, slumped on his back on the mattress, his weak leg dangling helplessly over the side. When he saw her he waved his good arm urgently at her.

‘Need to pee,’ he gasped.

The urine bottle was lying on the bed, where Daniel had left it, within easy reach of Michael’s right hand. But he obviously hadn’t seen it in the dark, or remembered it was there.

Romy hurried over and pulled him up against the pillows. She lifted his leg back onto the mattress and handed him the bottle, helping him position it so he could pee. But she saw that his pyjama bottoms were already wet, the sheet too.

Michael let out a relieved groan when he’d finished, and handed the bottle to Romy.

‘That was close.’

‘Got to get you out for a moment,’ she said, not wanting to humiliate her husband by explaining why. But he didn’t query her as she hauled him upright and swung him precariously round to sit in the armchair next to the bed she had brought through from Leo’s room. It was some old thing she’d picked up from a junk shop, decades ago – shades of her father’s penchant for anything secondhand – and the rusty-orange Dralon cover was stained in places, but the foam cushion and high back were perfect for Michael to sit in for short periods.

He smiled up at her. ‘Thank you.’ Then his face clouded. ‘I’m cold, really cold.’

‘I’ll turn the heating up,’ Romy promised.

After she’d settled him back in bed with clean pyjamas and a fresh sheet, Michael grabbed her hand.

‘Sit with me for a while,’ he begged.

She hesitated, then sat on the orange chair, but didn’t know what to say.

Michael was looking at her. ‘Does Anezka know I’m home? I don’t want her going all the way over to the hospital …’

‘Leo told her,’ Romy said.