Hugo thought that he knew exactly how Kate felt about his own accident, and he liked her for it. Secretly, he was quite pleased about the accident himself, in some ways. It had its compensations, and one was that he’d never have to pretend to be a war correspondent again, he’d never again have to pretend that he liked the sound of gunfire, he’d never again have to fly off to some disaster-stricken zone with an air of calm indifference. He could retire from that particular field of masochism, honourably, with decorations. He had done his bit, more than his bit. Nobody expected him to play at being a limbless war hero. He was writing his Middle East book. A much more suitable occupation.

He’d never confessed this feeling of relief to anyone except to the surgeon at the hospital, who had looked at him oddly, and told him an extraordinary story about a patient who had taken it into his head that he was destined by God to model artificial limbs, had studied surgery from a medical textbook, and had amputated his own right leg at the knee one night in his Knightsbridge flat; he didn’t make a bad job of it either, said Mr. Pethwick, but he passed out before he quite finished and would have bled to death if his boyfriend hadn’t dropped in unexpectedly at the crucial moment. Very strange people are, said Mr. Pethwick, the ways they devise of mutilating themselves.

Hugo had thought this response rather over-sophisticated, but guessed he had asked for it, and took it in good part.

Hugo had no desire to model artificial limbs. So far he had refused even to consider acquiring one for his own use.