I point to the flowery bag that’s sitting under my chair. I wonder whether it was Mum or the staff at the sheltered accommodation who packed it. Hopefully not Mum, or half the stuff Nanna needs will be missing. ‘Yes, she’s got a bag. I’ll check it when we get upstairs.’

It’s another hour before a porter comes and helps Nanna into a wheelchair. Mum has come back and told me she hasn’t been able to get the understudy to take over in her play. She looks pale and anxious, her lipstick chewed off and her hair’s sticking up at the back. I reach across and smooth it and she jumps.

‘Sorry.’ She puts a hand to her hair.

‘It was sticking up.’ I chew my lip. There’s a clattering in the background somewhere as if someone’s dropped something. I glance at Mum and she shakes her head slightly as if to say not to worry.

Mum hastily says goodbye and leaves for the theatre.

‘You’re a good girl,’ says Nanna Beth, faintly. She looks small in her nightie and dressing gown – as if she’s shrunk in the last few months.

‘Come on then, love,’ says the porter cheerfully. ‘We’ll have you upstairs in no time.’

Ward 12 is a small room with six beds in it. All but one of them are occupied, and it must be visiting time because almost all of them have family members sitting around. There are get well cards and balloons and boxes of chocolates sitting on top of the side tables, and a low murmur of conversation. A nurse arrives and helps Nanna out of her chair and into bed while the porter wheels the chair away.

‘You’re in the best ward,’ the nurse says in a warm, deep voice that sounds like honey. Nanna, who can’t resist a good-looking man, beams up at him as she allows him to tuck the sheets around her waist and plump up pillows behind her back. ‘We’ll take good care of you here, don’t you worry.’

I watch as he walks away, whistling. It makes me think of Alex, and how he must be with the patients on his ward. He’s working on orthopaedics right now, he told me the other day, and it’s basically nothing but elderly people with broken hips. Oh and one mother of four with a broken ankle. She did it playing roller derby, apparently, and she said she was quite enjoying the peace and quiet.

Nanna Beth has closed her eyes again.

I take the opportunity to message Alex back.

She’s in a ward. Mum’s gone to the theatre.

A moment later, Alex replies.

You must be exhausted. Where are you sleeping?

Mum’s place, I suppose. x

His answer flashes straight back.

When I said let me know if there’s anything I can do, I meant it. x