‘I know it’s easy for me to say, but try not to worry, Kyle,’ I say kindly. ‘You should go home and get some sleep while you can. You won’t be able to see her for a while yet, and I’m going to be right here until she wakes up.’

Kyle buries his face in his hands, his huge shoulders heaving. I’m desperate to get some sleep myself so I’m fresh for tomorrow’s surgery, but I can’t leave the man like this on his own.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he hiccoughs, raising a tear-stained face. ‘I know you must be busy. It’s just … such a relief she’s going to be OK. I don’t know what I’d have told the boys if …’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘No need to apologise.’

‘I know I haven’t been the perfect husband,’ he says, looking down at his hands. ‘I’ve let her down. I know I don’t deserve her. But all this – it really puts things into perspective, you know?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘All this bullshit with your house – sorry. No offence.’

I wave away the apology. ‘No, you’re right. It is bullshit. Never mind about the house, Kyle. All that matters right now is your boys.’

‘They’re OK. They’re with my mum,’ Kyle says.

I stand. ‘I promise I’ll let you know the second she wakes up.’

He gets to his feet and then suddenly flings his meaty arms around me like a giant toddler seeking reassurance from his mother. For a moment I freeze, and then awkwardly I pat his muscular back.

We both turn at the sound of voices. A porter shows two uniformed police officers into the waiting area and points to us.

‘I imagine the police want to talk to you about what happened,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it won’t take long.’

But they’re not looking at Kyle.

They’re heading straight towards me.

chapter 42

millie

I manage to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep in the on-call room before going into a seven-hour transplant surgery. Adrenaline keeps me focused and alert while I’m operating, but by the time I get home late on Tuesday afternoon, I’ve had less than eight hours’ rest in two days, and I’m ready to sleep the clock round.

Tom wakes me at eight the next morning with a cup of coffee.

‘What’s this?’ I ask warily, sitting up in bed. I’m not a big proponent of lazing beneath the duvet with coffee and the papers, even at weekends: I prefer to get up and get going with my day.

‘I thought you could use a bit of spoiling,’ he says. He sits on the edge of the bed next to me, effectively trapping me in place. ‘Have you heard any more from the police?’ he asks.