After Nathan had left I would programme the radio or television for Will, dispense his pills, sometimes crushing them with the little marble pestle and mortar. Usually, after ten minutes or so he would make it clear that he was weary of my presence. At this point I would eke out the little annexe's domestic tasks, washing tea towels that weren't dirty, or using random vacuum attachments to clean tiny bits of skirting or window sill, religiously popping my head round the door every fifteen minutes as Mrs Traynor had instructed. When I did, he would be sitting in his chair looking out into the bleak garden.

Two weeks passed and with them emerged a routine of sorts. Every morning I would arrive at Granta House at eight, call out that I was there and then, after Nathan had finished helping Will dress, listen carefully while he told me what I needed to know about Will's meds -- or, more importantly, his mood.

Later I might take him a drink of water, or one of the calorie-filled drinks that were supposed to keep his weight up and looked like pastel-coloured wallpaper paste, or give him his food. He could move his hands a little, but not his arm, so he had to be fed forkful by forkful. This was the worst part of the day; it seemed wrong, somehow, spoon-feeding a grown man, and my embarrassment made me clumsy and awkward. Will hated it so much he wouldn't even meet my eye while I was doing it.

In the afternoon I would put a film on -- Will had a membership of a DVD club and new films arrived by post every day -- but he never invited me to watch with him, so I'd usually go and sit in the kitchen or in the spare room. I started bringing in a book or magazine, but I felt oddly guilty not actually working, and I could never quite concentrate on the words. Occasionally, at the end of the day, Mrs Traynor would pop in -- although she never said much to me, other than "Everything all right?" to which the only acceptable answer seemed to be "Yes".

She would ask Will if he wanted anything, occasionally suggest something he might like to do tomorrow -- some outing, or some friend who had asked after him -- and he would almost always answer dismissively, if not with downright rudeness. She would look pained, run her fingers up and down that little gold chain, and disappear again.

And then shortly before one, Nathan would arrive and I would grab my coat and disappear to walk the streets, sometimes eating my lunch in the bus shelter outside the castle. It was cold and I probably looked pathetic perched there eating my sandwiches, but I didn't care. I couldn't spend a whole day in that house.

His father, a well-padded, gentle-looking man, usually came in as I was leaving. He was the kind of man you might see watching cricket in a Panama hat, and had apparently overseen the management of the castle since retiring from his well-paid job in the city. I suspected this was like a benign landowner digging in the odd potato just "to keep his hand in". He finished every day at 5pm promptly and would sit and watch television with Will. Sometimes I heard him making some remark about whatever was on the news as I left.

I got to study Will Traynor up close, in those first couple of weeks. I saw that he seemed determined not to look anything like the man he had been; he had let his light-brown hair grow into a shapeless mess, his stubble crawl across his jaw. His grey eyes were lined with exhaustion, or the effect of constant discomfort (Nathan said he was rarely comfortable). They bore the hollow look of someone who was always a few steps removed from the world around him. Sometimes I wondered if it was a defence mechanism, whether the only way to cope with his life was to pretend it wasn't him it was happening to.

I wanted to feel sorry for him. I really did. I thought he was the saddest person I had ever met, in those moments when I glimpsed him staring out of the window. And as the days went by and I realized that his condition was not just a matter of being stuck in that chair, of the loss of physical freedom, but a never-ending litany of indignities and health problems, of risks and discomforts, I decided that if I were Will, I would probably be pretty miserable too.

But oh Lord, he was vile to me. Everything I said, he had a sharp answer for. If I asked him if he was warm enough, he would retort that he was quite capable of letting me know if he needed another blanket. If I asked if the vacuum cleaner was too noisy for him -- I hadn't wanted to interrupt his film -- he asked me why, had I worked out a way to make it run silently? When I fed him, he complained that the food was too hot or too cold, or that I had brought the next forkful up to his mouth before he had finished the last. He had the ability to twist almost anything I said or did so that I seemed stupid.

I hadn't realized it was possible to miss my old job more than I already did. I missed Frank, and the way he actually looked pleased to see me when I arrived in the morning. I missed the customers, their company, and the easy chatter that swelled and dipped gently like a benign sea around me. This house, beautiful and expensive as it was, was as still and silent as a morgue. Six months, I repeated under my breath, when it felt unbearable. Six months.

During those first two weeks, I got quite good at keeping my face completely blank, and I would turn away and disappear into the other room and just say as little to him as I possibly could. I started to hate him, and I'm sure he knew it.

Mrs Traynor appeared in the kitchen doorway, and I tried to look busy, whisking briskly at the beaker.

And then on the Thursday, just as I was mixing Will's mid-morning, high-calorie drink, I heard Mrs Traynor's voice in the hall. Except this time there were other voices too. I waited, the fork stilled in my hand. I could just make out a woman's voice, young, well-spoken, and a man's.

"Will's friends have come to see him. It would probably be best if you --"

"Yes. It's the strawberry one."

"I've got lots of things I should be doing in here," I said. I was actually quite relieved that I would be spared his company for an hour or so. I screwed the lid on to the beaker. "Would your guests like some tea or coffee?"

I got the feeling that this was in some way momentous, and that she needed to share it with someone, even if it was just me.

She seemed even more tense than usual, her eyes darting towards the corridor, from where we could hear the low murmur of voices. I guessed that Will didn't get many visitors.

"I think… I'll leave them all to it." She gazed out into the corridor, her thoughts apparently far away. "Rupert. It's Rupert, his old friend from work," she said, suddenly turning towards me.

She looked almost surprised. "Yes. That would be very kind. Coffee. I think I'll…"

"Is that made up with 60:40 water and milk?" she asked, peering at the drink.

"And Alicia. They were… very close… for a bit. Tea would be lovely. Thank you, Miss Clark."

"Mrs Traynor said you might like some coffee," I said as I entered, placing the tray on the low table. As I placed Will's beaker in the holder of his chair, turning the straw so that he only needed to adjust his head position to reach it, I sneaked a look at his visitors.

I hesitated a moment before I opened the door, leaning against it with my hip so that I could balance the tray in my hands.

It was the woman I noticed first. Long-legged and blonde-haired, with pale caramel skin, she was the kind of woman who makes me wonder if humans really are all the same species. She looked like a human racehorse. I had seen these women occasionally; they were usually bouncing up the hill to the castle, clutching small Boden-clad children, and when they came into the cafe their voices would carry, crystal clear and unselfconscious, as they asked, "Harry, darling, would you like a coffee? Shall I see if they can do you a macchiato?" This was definitely a macchiato woman. Everything about her smelt of money, of entitlement and a life lived as if through the pages of a glossy magazine.

"New chair, eh?" The man tapped the back of Will's chair, chin compressed, nodding in approval as if he were admiring a top-of-the-range sports car. "Looks… pretty smart. Very… high tech."

Then I looked at her more closely and realized with a jolt that a) she was the woman in Will's skiing photograph, and b) she looked really, really uncomfortable.

She had kissed Will on the cheek and was now stepping backwards, smiling awkwardly. She was wearing a brown shearling gilet, the kind of thing that would have made me look like a yeti, and a pale-grey cashmere scarf around her neck, which she began to fiddle with, as if she couldn't decide whether to unwrap herself or not.

Will didn't say a thing. He was just looking at her, his expression as unreadable as ever. I felt a fleeting gratitude that it wasn't just me he looked at like that.

"You look well," she said to him. "Really. You've… grown your hair a bit."

I didn't know what to do. I stood there for a moment, shifting from one foot to another, until Will's voice broke into the silence.

"I must look into it. One of those things you mean to do and then…" she tailed off. "Lovely coffee," she added, after a pause.

"It's a good few degrees colder here than London."

"Yes, definitely," the man agreed.

"Yes, I've heard that," said the man.

"Not very much, funnily enough."

"Louisa, would you mind putting some more logs on the fire? I think it needs building up a bit."

It was the first time he had used my Christian name.

I opened the door of the wood burner, prodding at the glowing logs with the poker.

"I was thinking of getting a wood burner at home. Apparently they're much more efficient than an open fire." Alicia stooped a little to inspect this one, as if she'd never actually seen one before.

I busied myself by the log burner, stoking the fire and sorting through the basket for logs of the right size.

"Sure," I said.

"Gosh, it's cold outside," the woman said. "Nice to have a proper fire."

"So -- what have you been up to, Will?" The man's voice held a kind of forced joviality to it.

"But the physio and stuff. Is it all coming on? Any… improvement?"

"I don't think I'll be skiing any time soon, Rupert," Will said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, I know. I'm sorry. It's been… I've been awfully busy. I have a new job over in Chelsea. Managing Sasha Goldstein's boutique. Do you remember Sasha? I've been doing a lot of weekend work too. It gets terribly busy on Saturdays. Very hard to get time off." Alicia's voice had become brittle. "I did ring a couple of times. Did your mother tell you?"

"So…" Will said finally. "To what do I owe this pleasure? It's been… eight months?"

I almost smiled to myself. This was the Will I knew. I began brushing ash from the hearth. I had the feeling that they were all watching me. The silence felt loaded. I wondered briefly whether the label was sticking out of my jumper and fought the urge to check.

"Things have been pretty manic at Lewins. You… you know what it's like, Will. We've got a new partner. Chap from New York. Bains. Dan Bains. You come up against him at all?"

"No."

"Bloody man seems to work twenty-four hours a day and expects everyone else to do the same." You could hear the man's palpable relief at having found a topic he was comfortable with. "You know the old Yank work ethic -- no more long lunches, no smutty jokes -- Will, I tell you. The whole atmosphere of the place has changed."

All the air seemed to disappear from the room in a vacuumed rush. Someone coughed.

"Really."

"Oh God, yes. Presenteeism writ large. Sometimes I feel like I daren't leave my chair."

I stood up, and wiped my hands on my jeans. "I'll… I'm just going to fetch some more logs," I muttered, in Will's general direction.

It was freezing outside, but I lingered out there, killing time while I selected pieces of wood. I was trying to calculate whether it was preferable to lose the odd finger to frostbite rather than put myself back into that room. But it was just too cold and my index finger, which I use for sewing stuff, went blue first and finally I had to admit defeat. I hauled the wood as slowly as possible, letting myself in to the annexe, and walked slowly back down the corridor. As I approached the living room I heard the woman's voice, weaving its way through the slightly open door.

And I picked up the basket and fled.

"Actually, Will, there is another reason for us coming here," she was saying. "We… have some news."

"Please don't be like this. This is so awful. I have absolutely dreaded telling you. We both have."

"Big of him."

"Congratulations," he said finally.

"Well, you know you and I… we…"

"I know what you're thinking. But neither of us meant for this to happen. Really. For an awful long time we were just friends. Friends who were concerned about you. It's just that Rupert was the most terrific support to me after your accident --"

"I thought -- well, we thought -- that it would only be right to let you know… but, well, here's the thing. Rupert and I are getting married."

"Will, please say something."

Another weighty silence.

The woman continued, lamely. "Look, I know this is probably a bit of a shock to you. Actually, it was rather a shock to me. We -- it -- well, it only really started a long time after…"

I stood very still, calculating whether I could turn round without being heard.

I hesitated by the door, the log basket braced between my hands.

My arms had begun to ache. I glanced down at the basket, trying to work out what to do.

Rupert's voice broke in. "Look, we're only telling you because we both care about you. We didn't want you to hear it from someone else. But, you know, life goes on. You must know that. It's been two years, after all."

"Say something, Will. Please."

"Come on, man. I know it must be terribly hard… all this. But if you care for Lissa at all, you must want her to have a good life."

"Evidently," Will said flatly.

There was silence. I realized I did not want to listen to any more, and started to move softly away from the door, grunting slightly with the effort. But Rupert's voice, when it came again, had grown in volume so that I could still hear him.

I could picture his face. I could see that look of his that managed to be both unreadable and to convey a kind of distant contempt.

"Congratulations," he said, finally. "I'm sure you'll both be very happy."

Alicia started to protest then -- something indistinct -- but was interrupted by Rupert. "Come on, Lissa. I think we should leave. Will, it's not like we came here expecting your blessing. It was a courtesy. Lissa thought -- well, we both just thought -- you should know. Sorry, old chap. I… I do hope things improve for you and I hope you do want to stay in touch when things… you know… when things settle down a bit."

And then she was gone.

She seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

"Can I use the bathroom?" she said, her voice thick and choked.

"It's really none of my business," I said, eventually.

She looked at me hard then, and I realized that what I felt probably showed on my face. I have never been much good at hiding my feelings.

I heard footsteps, and stooped over the basket of logs, as if I had only just come in. I heard them in the corridor and then Alicia appeared in front of me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she were about to cry.

"You know, you can only actually help someone who wants to be helped," she said.

We both stood facing each other.

I waited a couple of minutes, listening for the sound of their car disappearing down the drive, and then I went into the kitchen. I stood there and boiled the kettle even though I didn't want a cup of tea. I flicked through a magazine that I had already read. Finally, I went back into the corridor and, with a grunt, picked up the log basket and hauled it into the living room, bumping it slightly on the door before I entered so that Will would know I was coming.

I slowly lifted a finger and pointed mutely in its direction.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, after a pause. "But I did try. I really tried. For months. And he just pushed me away." Her jaw was rigid, her expression oddly furious. "He actually didn't want me here. He made that very clear."

"I was wondering if you wanted me to --" I began.

But there was nobody there.

It was then that I heard the crash. I ran out into the corridor just in time to hear another, followed by the sound of splintering glass. It was coming from Will's bedroom. Oh God, please don't let him have hurt himself. I panicked -- Mrs Traynor's warning drilled through my head. I had left him for more than fifteen minutes.

The room was empty.

I ran down the corridor, slid to a halt in the doorway and stood, both hands gripping the door frame. Will was in the middle of the room, upright in his chair, a walking stick balanced across the armrests, so that it jutted eighteen inches to his left -- a jousting stick. There was not a single photograph left on the long shelves; the expensive frames lay in pieces all over the floor, the carpet studded with glittering shards of glass. His lap was dusted with bits of glass and splintered wood frames. I took in the scene of destruction, feeling my heart rate slowly subside as I grasped that he was unhurt. Will was breathing hard, as if whatever he had done had cost him some effort.

I swallowed, staring at it, and slowly lifted my eyes to his. Those few seconds were the longest I could remember.

His chair turned, crunching slightly on the glass. His eyes met mine. They were infinitely weary. They dared me to offer him sympathy.

I looked down at his lap, and then at the floor around him. I could just make out the picture of him and Alicia, her face now obscured by a bent silver frame, amongst the other casualties.

"Look, don't move," I said. "I'll get the vacuum cleaner."

"Can that thing get a puncture?" I said, finally, nodding at his wheelchair. "Because I have no idea where I would put the jack."

I heard the walking stick drop to the floor. As I left the room, I thought I might have heard him say sorry.

The Kings Head was always busy on a Thursday evening, and in the corner of the snug it was even busier. I sat squashed between Patrick and a man whose name appeared to be the Rutter, staring periodically at the horse brasses pinned to the oak beams above my head and the photographs of the castle that punctuated the joists, and tried to look even vaguely interested in the talk around me, which seemed to revolve chiefly around body fat ratios and carb loading.

His eyes widened. Just for a moment, I thought I had really blown it. But the faintest flicker of a smile passed across his face.

"Don't travel with a soft bike bag. Nigel arrived at tricamp with it looking like a ruddy coat hanger."

"Phil hit the wall about forty miles in. He said he actually heard voices. Feet like lead. He had that zombie face, you know?"

I had always thought the fortnightly meetings of the Hailsbury Triathlon Terrors must be a publican's worst nightmare. I was the only one drinking alcohol, and my solitary packet of crisps sat crumpled and empty on the table. Everyone else sipped at mineral water, or checked the sweetener ratios on their Diet Cokes. When they, finally, ordered food there wouldn't be a salad that was allowed to brush a leaf against a full-fat dressing, or a piece of chicken that still sported its skin. I often ordered chips, just so that I could watch them all pretend they didn't want one.

"I got some of those new Japanese balancing trainers fitted. Shaved fifteen minutes off my ten-mile timings."

I couldn't say I enjoyed the Triathlon Terrors' gatherings, but what with my increased hours and Patrick's training timetable it was one of the few times I could be guaranteed to see him. He sat beside me, muscular thighs clad in shorts despite the extreme cold outside. It was a badge of honour among the members of the club to wear as few clothes as possible. The men were wiry, brandishing obscure and expensive sports layers that boasted extra "wicking" properties, or lighter-than-air bodyweights. They were called Scud or Trig, and flexed bits of body at each other, displaying injuries or alleged muscle growth. The girls wore no make-up, and had the ruddy complexions of those who thought nothing of jogging for miles through icy conditions. They looked at me with faint distaste -- or perhaps even incomprehension -- no doubt weighing up my fat to muscle ratio and finding it wanting.

"No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't be anything like the same person." He wrinkled his nose. "I wouldn't want to live. Relying on other people for every little thing. Having strangers wipe your arse --"

"Dazzer had a Diet Coke when he was doing Norseman. Sicked it all up at three thousand feet. God, we laughed."

A man with a shaved head thrust his head between us. "Pat," he said, "have you tried that new gel drink? Had one explode in my backpack last week. Never seen anything like it."

"You can't blame her," he said. "Are you really telling me you'd stick around if I was paralysed from the neck down?"

"Who says it would be pity? You'd still be the same person underneath."

"But I wouldn't want you there. I wouldn't want someone staying with me out of pity."

"It was awful," I told Patrick, wondering whether I could order cheesecake without them all giving me the Death Stare. "His girlfriend and his best friend."

"No, you wouldn't. And I wouldn't expect you to."

"Well, I would."

"Of course I would."

"Can't say I have, Trig. Give me a banana and a Lucozade any day."

"Of course you could have sex. It's just that the woman would have to get on top."

Shaven-headed man disappeared and Patrick turned back to me, apparently still pondering Will's fate. "Jesus. Think of all the things you couldn't do…" He shook his head. "No more running, no more cycling." He looked at me as if it had just occurred to him. "No more sex."

I raised a weak smile.

"We'd be stuffed, then."

I thought of Alicia. I did try, she said. I really tried. For months.

"Besides, if you're paralysed from the neck down I'm guessing the… um… equipment doesn't work as it should."

"Funny."

"Hah." Patrick took a sip of his water. "You'll have to ask him tomorrow. Look, you said he's horrible. Perhaps he was horrible before his accident. Perhaps that's the real reason she dumped him. Have you thought of that?"

"I'm sure it does with some people. Anyway, there must be a way around these things if you… think imaginatively."

"I don't know…" I thought of the photograph. "They looked like they were really happy together." Then again, what did a photograph prove? I had a framed photograph at home where I was beaming at Patrick like he had just pulled me from a burning building, yet in reality I had just called him an "utter dick" and he had responded with a hearty, "Oh, piss off!"

"Another drink?"

I had started to feel a little guilty about the way we were discussing my employer. Especially when I realized that he probably endured it all the time. It was almost impossible not to speculate about the more intimate aspects of his life. I tuned out. There was talk of a training weekend in Spain. I was only listening with half an ear, until Patrick reappeared at my side and nudged me.

Patrick had lost interest. "Hey, Jim… Jim, did you take a look at that new lightweight bike? Any good?"

"Vodka tonic. Slimline tonic," I said, as he raised an eyebrow.

Patrick shrugged and headed to the bar.

I let him change the subject, thinking about what Alicia had said. I could well imagine Will pushing her away. But surely if you loved someone it was your job to stick with them? To help them through the depression? In sickness and in health, and all that?

"Fancy it?"

"What?"

"Weekend in Spain. Instead of the Greek holiday. You could put your feet up by the pool if you don't fancy the forty-mile bike ride. We could get cheap flights. Six weeks' time. Now you're rolling in it…"

"The big what?"

I thought of Mrs Traynor. "I don't know… I'm not sure they're going to be keen on me taking time off so soon."

"You're going to do it?"

"You mind if I go, then? I really fancy getting some altitude training in. I'm thinking about doing the big one."

The Viking was spoken about with reverence, those who had competed bearing their injuries like veterans of some distant and particularly brutal war. He was almost smacking his lips with anticipation. I looked at my boyfriend and wondered if he was actually an alien. I thought briefly that I had preferred him when he worked in telesales and couldn't pass a petrol station without stocking up on Mars Bars.

"Triathlon. The Xtreme Viking. Sixty miles on a bike, thirty miles on foot, and a nice long swim in sub-zero Nordic seas."

"Why not? I've never been fitter."

I thought of all that extra training -- the endless conversations about weight and distance, fitness and endurance. It was hard enough getting Patrick's attention these days at the best of times.

"I'll leave you to it," I said. "Sure. Go for it," I said.

"You could do it with me," he said, although we both knew he didn't believe it.

And I ordered the cheesecake.

If I had thought the events of the previous day would create a thaw back at Granta House, I was wrong.

I greeted Will with a broad smile and a cheery hello, and he didn't even bother to look round from the window.

It was a filthy, low-cloud sort of a morning, where the rain spat meanly against the windows and it was hard to imagine the sun coming out ever again. Even I felt glum on a day like this. It wasn't really a surprise that Will should be worse. I began to work my way through the morning's chores, telling myself all the while that it didn't matter. You didn't have to like your employer anyway, did you? Lots of people didn't I thought of Treena's boss, a taut-faced serial divorcee who monitored how many times my sister went to the loo and had been known to make barbed comments if she considered her to have exceeded reasonable bladder activity. And besides, I had already done two weeks here. That meant there were only five months and thirteen working days to go.

"Not a good day," Nathan murmured, as he shouldered his way into his coat.

I had been doing this for about ten minutes when the discreet hum of the motorized wheelchair alerted me to Will's arrival.

The photographs were stacked carefully in the bottom drawer, where I had placed them the previous day, and now, crouched on the floor, I began laying them out and sorting through them, assessing which frames I might be able to fix. I am quite good at fixing things. Besides, I thought it might be quite a useful way of killing time.

He sat there in the doorway, looking at me. There were dark shadows under his eyes. Sometimes, Nathan told me, he barely slept at all. I didn't want to think how it would feel, to lie trapped in a bed you couldn't get out of with only dark thoughts to keep you company through the small hours.

"I thought I'd see if I could fix any of these frames," I said, holding one up. It was the picture of him bungee jumping. I tried to look cheerful. He needs someone upbeat, someone positive.

I blinked. "Well… I think some of these can be saved. I brought some wood glue with me, if you're happy for me to have a go at them. Or if you want to replace them I can pop into town during my lunch break and see if I can find some more. Or we could both go, if you fancied a trip out…"

"Why?"

Uh-oh, I thought. "I… I was just trying to help."

"Who told you to start fixing them?"

His stare was unflinching.

"You wanted to fix what I did yesterday."

"Do you know what, Louisa? It would be nice -- just for once -- if someone paid attention to what I wanted. Me smashing those photographs was not an accident. It was not an attempt at radical interior design. It was because I actually don't want to look at them."

"I --"

I got to my feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't think that --"

"Oh Christ…" He turned away from me, his voice scathing. "Spare me the psychological therapy. Just go and read your bloody gossip magazines or whatever it is you do when you're not making tea."

I swallowed. "I wasn't going to fix the one of Alicia -- I'm not that stupid… I just thought that in a while you might feel --"

"You thought you knew best. Everyone thinks they know what I need. Let's put the bloody photos back together. Give the poor invalid something to look at. I don't want to have those bloody pictures staring at me every time I'm stuck in my bed until someone comes and bloody well gets me out again. Okay? Do you think you can get your head around that?"

My cheeks were aflame. I watched him manoeuvre in the narrow hallway, and my voice emerged even before I knew what I was doing. "You don't have to behave like an arse."

"What?"

I faced him, my heart thumping. "Your friends got the shitty treatment. Fine. They probably deserved it. But I'm just here day after day trying to do the best job I can. So I would really appreciate it if you didn't make my life as unpleasant as you do everyone else's."

Will's eyes widened a little. There was a beat before he spoke again. "And what if I told you I didn't want you here?"

The wheelchair stopped. There was a long pause, and then he reversed and turned slowly, so that he was facing me, his hand on the little joystick.

The words rang out in the still air.

"I'm not employed by you. I'm employed by your mother. And unless she tells me she doesn't want me here any more I'm staying. Not because I particularly care about you, or like this stupid job or want to change your life one way or another, but because I need the money. Okay? I really need the money."

But Will just stared at me for a bit and, when I didn't look away, he let out a small breath, as if about to say something unpleasant.

Will Traynor's expression hadn't outwardly changed much but I thought I saw astonishment in there, as if he were unused to anyone disagreeing with him.

And with a low hum, he was gone.

"Fair enough," he said, and he turned the wheelchair round. "Just put the photographs in the bottom drawer, will you? All of them."

Oh hell, I thought, as the reality of what I had just done began to sink in. I've really blown it this time.