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‘So my husband looks after me at home?’ I say.He looks up. ‘Yes, though he hasn’t always. 

‘At first your condition was so severe that you required round-the-clock care. It has only been fairly recently that Ben felt he could look after you alone.’

So the way I feel at the moment is an improvement, then. I am glad I can’t remember the time when things were worse.

‘He must love me very much,’ I say, more to myself than to Nash.

He nods. There is a pause. We both sip our drinks. ‘Yes. I think he must.’

I smile, and look down, at my hands holding the hot drink, at the gold wedding band, at the short nails, at my legs, crossed politely. I don’t recognize my own body.

‘Why doesn’t my husband know that I’m seeing you?’ I say.He sighs, and closes his eyes. 

‘I’ll be honest,’ he says, clasping his hands together and leaning forward in his seat. ‘Initially I asked you not to tell Ben that you were seeing me.’

A jolt of fear goes through me, almost an echo. Yet he does not look untrustworthy. ‘Go on,’ I say. I want to believe he can help me.

‘Several people- doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists and so on- have approached you and Ben in the past, wanting to work with you. 

‘But he has always been extremely reluctant to let you see these professionals. 

‘He has made it very clear that you have had extensive treatment before, and in his opinion it has achieved nothing other than to upset you. 

‘Naturally he wanted to spare you- and himself- from any more upset.’

Of course; he doesn’t want to raise my hopes. ‘So you persuaded me to come and see you without him knowing?’

‘Yes. I did approach Ben first. We spoke on the phone. I even asked him to meet with me so that I could explain what I had to offer, but he refused. So I contacted you directly.’