Connor rushes me down the stairs, grabbing his bag from the vestibule by the door. The sun is blazing and I realize that I don’t need my coat. I tell Connor I’ll just take it back to the flat quickly but he grabs it and says that he will carry it for me.

He takes my hand. As we turn on to Queenstown Road, the cramping intensifies and I clutch his arm, inhaling his familiar peppery scent. This used to be the most appealing and reassuring of smells but today it seems to stick in the back of my throat.

‘We should try that new little place up by the library,’ says Connor as we take a right on to Lavender Hill. ‘Some of the guys at work went there at the weekend and said the food was amazing and …’

His words fall away as the pain gets stronger. I still haven’t fully recovered from the abortion. I should be resting. But I can’t say that to him and risk another fight. We go a little further and as we do I feel myself heating up, then my heart starts to thud violently. I can feel myself falling but there’s nothing to hold on to. With a crack, I hit the pavement. The last thing I hear as I lose consciousness is Connor’s voice.

23. Now

I am thankful that Georgie and Jack have decided to have a TV supper rather than a roast this evening. I feel so twitchy and nervous I don’t think I could have sat still had we gathered round the table, and then Georgie would have fretted and asked me what was the matter. At least, this way, all eyes are on the TV screen instead of on me. Not that tonight’s viewing is doing much to calm the hostilities between Jack and Georgie.

‘The bloody Antiques Roadshow,’ sighs Georgie, her plate of homemade chicken pie and greens balanced on her knee. ‘Is there nothing else on? Really, Jack, I don’t know why you insist on watching it.’