"That's three meetings you've missed."

Patrick stood on the edge of the track, jogging on the spot, his new Nike T-shirt and shorts sticking slightly to his damp limbs. I had stopped by to say hello and to tell him that I wouldn't be at the Triathlon Terrors meeting at the pub that evening. Nathan was off, and I had stepped in to take over the evening routine.

"You'll have to come next week. It's all the travel plans for the Xtreme Viking. And you haven't told me what you want to do for your birthday." He began to do his stretches, lifting his leg high and pressing his chest to his knee. "I thought maybe the cinema? I don't want to do a big meal, not while I'm training."

He grabbed at his heel, pointing his knee to the ground.

"Ah. Mum and Dad are planning a special dinner."

"It's not exactly a night out, is it?"

"Well, nor is the multiplex. Anyway, I feel like I should, Patrick. Mum's been a bit down."

"Is it?" I counted back on my fingers. "I suppose it is."

I couldn't help but notice that his leg was becoming weirdly sinewy.

She floated around the house looking a bit lost for three days, then she began spring cleaning with a vigour that frightened even Granddad. He would mouth gummy protests at her as she tried to vacuum under the chair that he was still sitting in, or flick at his shoulders with her duster. Treena had said she wouldn't come home for the first few weeks, just to give Thomas a chance to settle. When she rang each evening, Mum would speak to them and then cry for a full half-hour in her bedroom afterwards.

Treena had moved out the previous weekend (minus my lemons washbag -- I retrieved that the night before she went). Mum was devastated; it was actually worse than when Treena had gone to university the first time around. She missed Thomas like an amputated limb. His toys, which had littered the living-room floor since babyhood, were boxed up and put away. There were no chocolate fingers or small cartons of drink in the cupboard. She no longer had a reason to walk to the school at 3.15pm, nobody to chat to on the short walk home. It had been the only time Mum ever really spent outside the house. Now she went nowhere at all, apart from the weekly supermarket shop with Dad.

"Well, you're always training. Anyway, it's good money, Patrick. I'm hardly going to say no to the overtime."

"You're always working late these days. I feel like I hardly see you."

I was earning more than I had ever earned in my life. I doubled the amount I gave my parents, put some aside into a savings account every month, and I was still left with more than I could spend. Part of it was, I worked so many hours that I was never away from Granta House when the shops were open. The other was, simply, that I didn't really have an appetite for spending. The spare hours I did have I had started to spend in the library, looking things up on the internet.

There was a whole world available to me from that PC, layer upon layer of it, and it had begun to exert a siren call.

He couldn't argue with that.

It had started with the thank-you letter. A couple of days after the concert, I told Will I thought we should write and thank his friend, the violinist.

"I bought a nice card on the way in," I said. "You tell me what you want to say, and I'll write it. I've even brought in my good pen."

Will's jaw was fixed, immovable.

"You heard me."

"I don't think so," Will said.

"You don't think so? That man gave us front of house seats. You said yourself it was fantastic. The least you could do is thank him."

"What?"

"Yeah? Well it's still better than a great big fat nothing," I grumbled. "I'm going to thank him, anyway. I won't mention your name, if you really want to be an arse about it."

I put down my pen. "Or are you just so used to people giving you stuff that you don't feel you have to?"

"You have no idea, Clark, how frustrating it is to rely on someone else to put your words down for you. The phrase 'written on behalf of' is… humiliating."

I wrote the card, and posted it. I said nothing more about it. But that evening, Will's words still echoing around my head, I found myself diverting into the library and, spying an unused computer, I logged on to the internet. I looked up whether there were any devices that Will could use to do his own writing. Within an hour, I had come up with three -- a piece of voice recognition software, another type of software which relied on the blinking of an eye, and, as my sister had mentioned, a tapping device that Will could wear on his head.

Three days later, just as I set off for work, the postman handed me a letter. I opened it on the bus, thinking it might be an early birthday card from some distant cousin. It read, in computerized text:

Even Mrs Traynor couldn't find anything to complain about. "If there is any other equipment that you think might be useful," she said, her lips still pursed as if she couldn't quite believe this might have been a straightforwardly good thing, "do let us know." She eyed Will nervously, as if he might actually be about to wrench it off with his jaw.

He was predictably sniffy about the head device, but he conceded that the voice recognition software might be useful, and within a week we managed, with Nathan's help, to install it on his computer, setting Will up so that with the computer tray fixed to his chair, he no longer needed someone else to type for him. He was a bit self-conscious about it initially, but after I instructed him to begin everything with, "Take a letter, Miss Clark," he got over it.

Dear Clark,

This is to show you that I am not an entirely selfish arse. And I do appreciate your efforts.

I laughed so hard the bus driver asked me if my lottery numbers had come up.

Will

Thank you.

After years spent in that box room, my clothes perched on a rail in the hallway outside, Treena's bedroom felt palatial. The first night I spent in it I spun round with my arms outstretched, just luxuriating in the fact that I couldn't touch both walls simultaneously. I went to the DIY store and bought paint and new blinds, as well as a new bedside light and some shelves, which I assembled myself. It's not that I'm good at that stuff; I guess I just wanted to see if I could do it.

I set about redecorating, painting for an hour a night after I came home from work, and at the end of the week even Dad had to admit I'd done a really good job. He stared for a bit at my cutting in, fingered the blinds that I had put up myself, and put a hand on my shoulder. "This job has been the making of you, Lou."

I bought a new duvet cover, a rug and some oversized cushions -- just in case anyone ever stopped by, and fancied lounging. Not that anyone did. The calendar went on the back of the new door. Nobody saw it except for me. Nobody else would have known what it meant, anyway.

I did feel a bit bad about the fact that once we had put Thomas's camp bed up next to Treena's in the box room, there wasn't actually any floor space left, but then I rationalized -- they didn't even really live here any more. And the box room was somewhere they were only going to sleep. There was no point in the larger room being empty for weeks on end.

I went to work each day, thinking about other places I could take Will. I didn't have any overall plan, I just focused each day on getting him out and about and trying to keep him happy. There were some days -- days when his limbs burnt, or when infection claimed him and he lay miserable and feverish in bed -- that were harder than others. But on the good days I had managed several times to get him out into the spring sunshine. I knew now that one of the things Will hated most was the pity of strangers, so I drove him to local beauty spots, where for an hour or so it could be just the two of us. I made picnics and we sat out on the edges of fields, just enjoying the breeze and being away from the annexe.

"Your dad's job? Any news?"

I had worked him out now. The best way to get Will to do anything was to tell him you knew he wouldn't want to. Some obstinate, contrary part of him still couldn't bear it.

"You hate strangers. You don't like eating in front of people. And you don't like the sound of my boyfriend. It seems like a no-brainer to me."

Oddly, I could see he found this quite cheering.

"The same."

"Why?"

"My boyfriend wants to meet you," I told him one afternoon, breaking off pieces of cheese and pickle sandwich for him.

"Running Man."

"I think my parents do too."

"Who says I wouldn't want to?"

I had driven several miles out of town, up on to a hill, and we could see the castle, across the valley opposite, separated from us by fields of lambs.

"I get nervous when a girl says she wants me to meet her parents. How is your mum, anyway?"

"No. Next week, they're telling him now. Anyway, they said did I want to invite you to my birthday dinner on Friday? All very relaxed. Just family, really. But it's fine… I said you wouldn't want to."

"He wants to know who I'm spending all these late nights with."

"Really? Oh God, if I tell her she'll start polishing and dusting this evening."

Will chewed for a minute. "No. I'll come to your birthday. It'll give your mother something to focus on, if nothing else."

"Are you sure she's your biological mother? Isn't there supposed to be some kind of genetic similarity there? Sandwich please, Clark. And more pickle on the next bit."

I had been only half joking. Mum went into a complete tailspin at the thought of hosting a quadriplegic. Her hands flew to her face, and then she started rearranging stuff on the dresser, as if he were going to arrive within minutes of me telling her.

"But what if he needs to go to the loo? We don't have a downstairs bathroom. I don't think Daddy would be able to carry him upstairs. I could help… but I'd feel a bit worried about where to put my hands. Would Patrick do it?"

"And what about his food? Will he need his pureed? Is there anything he can't eat?"

"No, he just needs help picking it up."

"You don't need to worry about that side of things. Really."

And so it was arranged. Nathan would pick Will up and drive him over, and would come by two hours later to take him home again and run through the night-time routine. I had offered, but they both insisted I should "let my hair down" on my birthday. They plainly hadn't met my parents.

"Who's going to do that?"

"I will. Relax, Mum. He's nice. You'll like him."

"Hey, you."

My dad emerged into the hallway behind me. "Aha. Was the ramp okay, lads?" He had spent all afternoon making the particle-board ramp for the outside steps.

Nathan carefully negotiated Will's chair up and into our narrow hallway. "Nice," Nathan said, as I closed the door behind him. "Very nice. I've seen worse in hospitals."

At half past seven on the dot, I opened the door to find Will and Nathan in the front porch. Will was wearing his smart shirt and jacket. I didn't know whether to be pleased that he had made the effort, or worried that my mum would now spend the first two hours of the night worrying that she hadn't dressed smartly enough.

"Bernard Clark." Dad reached out and shook Nathan's hand. He held it out towards Will, before snatching it away again with a sudden flush of embarrassment. "Bernard. Sorry, um… I don't know how to greet a… I can't shake your --" He began to stutter.

"A curtsy will be fine."

It broke the ice. Nathan left with a wave and a wink, and I wheeled Will through to the kitchen. Mum, luckily, was holding a casserole dish, which absolved her of the same anxiety.

Dad stared at him and then, when he realized Will was joking, he let out a great laugh of relief. "Hah!" he said, and clapped Will on the shoulder. "Yes. Curtsy. Nice one. Hah!

"Pleased to meet you," he said. "Don't let me interrupt."

"Mum, this is Will. Will, Josephine."

"Sorry," she said. "Roast dinner. It's all in the timing, you know."

"Josie, please." She beamed at him, her oven gloves up to her elbows. "Lovely to meet you finally, Will."

She put down the dish and her hand went to her hair, always a good sign with my mother. It was a shame she hadn't remembered to take an oven glove off first.

"Not really," Will said. "I'm not a cook. But I love good food. It's why I have been looking forward to tonight."

He took a sip and I stood in the kitchen, suddenly conscious of our tiny, shabby house with its 1980s wallpaper and dented kitchen cupboards. Will's home was elegantly furnished, its things sparse and beautiful. Our house looked as if 90 per cent of its contents came from the local pound shop. Thomas's dog-eared paintings covered every spare surface of wall. But if he had noticed, Will said nothing. He and Dad had quickly found a shared point of reference, which turned out to be my general uselessness. I didn't mind. It kept them both happy.

"So…" Dad opened the fridge. "How do we do this? Do you have a special beer… cup, Will?"

If it was Dad, I told Will, he would have had an adapted beer cup before he had a wheelchair.

"Beer will be fine. Thank you."

"Got to get your priorities right," Dad said. I rummaged in Will's bag until I found his beaker.

"Did you know, she once drove backwards into a bollard and swore it was the bollard's fault…"

I left them to it. Mum followed me out, fretting. She put a tray of glasses on to the dining table, then glanced up at the clock. "Where's Patrick?"

"You want to see her lowering my ramp. It's like Ski Sunday coming out of that car sometimes…"

I waited until she had put the tray down, and then I slid my arms around her and gave her a hug. She was rigid with anxiety. I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her. It couldn't be easy being my mother.

"He was coming straight from training," I said. "Perhaps he's been held up."

"Really. It will be fine."

Dad burst out laughing.

"He couldn't put it off just for your birthday? This chicken is going to be spoilt if he's much longer."

"Mum, it will be fine."

Not to me it didn't Just for once, I was quite enjoying being the focus of attention. It might sound childish, but it was true. I loved having Will and Dad laughing about me. I loved the fact that every element of supper -- from roast chicken to chocolate mousse -- was my favourite. I liked the fact that I could be who I wanted to be without my sister's voice reminding me of who I had been.

She let go of me, kissed the top of my head, and brushed her hands down her apron. "I wish your sister was here. It seems wrong to have a celebration without her."

"Best go straight through." I nodded towards the living room. "Mum's having a timing meltdown."

The doorbell rang, and Mum flapped her hands. "There he is. Lou, why don't you start serving?"

Patrick was still flushed from his exertions at the track. "Happy birthday, babe," he said, stooping to kiss me. He smelt of aftershave and deodorant and warm, recently showered skin.

"Oh." He glanced down at his watch. "Sorry. Must have lost track of time."

"Not your time, though, eh?"

Dad had moved the big gateleg table into the living room. He had also, on my instruction, moved one of the sofas to the other wall so that Will would be able to enter the room unobstructed. He manoeuvred his wheelchair to the placing I pointed to, and then elevated himself a little so that he would be the same height as everyone else. I sat on his left, and Patrick sat opposite. He and Will and Granddad nodded their hellos. I had already warned Patrick not to try to shake his hand. Even as I sat down I could feel Will studying Patrick, and I wondered, briefly, whether he would be as charming to my boyfriend as he had been to my parents.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Will inclined his head towards me. "If you look in the back of the chair, there's a little something for the dinner."

"I knew," Patrick said. "That's how I was going to do it."

"Oh, look at that," Mum said, bringing in the plates. "How lovely! But we have no champagne glasses."

I leant back and reached my hand downwards into his bag. I pulled it up again, retrieving a bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne.

"These will be fine," Will said.

"I'll open it." Patrick reached for it, unwound the wire, and placed his thumbs under the cork. He kept glancing over at Will, as if he were not what he had expected at all.

"If you do that," Will observed, "it's going to go everywhere." He lifted his arm an inch or so, gesturing vaguely. "I find that holding the cork and turning the bottle tends to be a safer bet."

"You should always have champagne on your birthday," he said.

"There's a man who knows his champagne," Dad said. "There you go, Patrick. Turning the bottle, you say? Well, who knew?"

The champagne was safely popped and poured, and my birthday was toasted.

I stood up and bowed. I was wearing a 1960s yellow A-line minidress I had got from the charity shop. The woman had thought it might be Biba, although someone had cut the label out.

"May this be the year our Lou finally grows up," Dad said. "I was going to say 'does something with her life' but it seems like she finally is. I have to say, Will, since she's had the job with you she's -- well, she's really come out of herself."

"Gratitude's all mine," Will said. He glanced sideways at me.

"We're very proud," Mum said. "And grateful. To you. For employing her, I mean."

"To Lou," Dad said. "And her continued success."

"And to absent family members," Mum said.

Granddad called out something that may well have been, "Hear, hear."

"Blimey," I said. "I should have a birthday more often. Most days you all just hurl abuse at me."

They began to talk, Dad telling some other story against me that made him and Mum laugh out loud. It was good to see them laughing. Dad had looked so worn down these last weeks, and Mum had been hollow-eyed and distracted, as if her real self were always elsewhere. I wanted to savour these moments, of them briefly forgetting their troubles, in shared jokes and familial fondness. Just for a moment, I realized I wouldn't have minded if Thomas was there. Or Treena, for that matter.

I was so lost in my thoughts that it took a minute to register Patrick's expression. I was feeding Will as I said something to Granddad, folding a piece of smoked salmon in my fingers and placing it to Will's lips. It was such an unthinking part of my daily life now that the intimacy of the gesture only struck me when I saw the shock on Patrick's face.

Will said something to Dad and I stared at Patrick, willing him to stop. On his left, Granddad was picking at his plate with greedy delight, letting out what we called his "food noises" -- little grunts and murmurs of pleasure.

I fed Will another piece, and then some bread when I saw him glance at it. I had, I realized in that moment, become so attuned to Will's needs that I barely needed to look at him to work out what he wanted. Patrick, opposite, ate with his head down, cutting the smoked salmon into small pieces and spearing them with his fork. He left his bread.

Stop staring, I told Patrick silently.

"Delicious salmon," Will said, to my mother. "Really lovely flavour.

Finally, he caught my eye and looked away. He looked furious.

"Well, it's not something we would have every day," she said, smiling. "But we did want to make today special."

"So, Patrick," Will said, perhaps sensing my discomfort. "Louisa tells me you're a personal trainer. What does that involve?"

I so wished he hadn't asked. Patrick launched into his sales spiel, all about personal motivation and how a fit body made for a healthy mind. Then he segued into his training schedule for the Xtreme Viking -- the temperatures of the North Sea, the body fat ratios needed for marathon running, his best times in each discipline. I normally tuned out at this point, but all I could think of now, with Will beside me, was how inappropriate it was. Why couldn't he have just said something vague and left it at that?

"In fact, when Lou said you were coming, I thought I'd take a look at my books and see if there was any physio I could recommend."

"This is not a sprained ankle, Pat. Really."

I choked on my champagne. "It's quite specialist, Patrick. I'm not sure you'd really be the person."

"I can do specialist. I do sports injuries. I have medical training."

"There's a man I worked with a couple of years ago had a client who was paraplegic. He's almost fully recovered now, he says. Does triathlons and everything."

"He pointed me to this new research in Canada that says muscles can be trained to remember former activity. If you get them working enough, every day, it's like a brain synapse -- it can come back. I bet you if we hooked you up with a really good regime, you could see a difference in your muscle memory. After all, Lou tells me you were quite the action man before."

"I was just trying to --"

"Patrick," I said loudly. "You know nothing about it."

The table fell silent. Dad coughed, and excused himself for it. Granddad peered around the table in wary silence.

"Fancy," said my mother.

"Well don't Really."

Mum made as if to offer everyone more bread, and then seemed to change her mind.

When Patrick spoke again, there was a faint air of martyrdom in his tone. "It's just research that I thought might be helpful. But I'll say no more about it."

Will looked up and smiled, his face blank, polite. "I'll certainly bear it in mind."

I got up to clear the plates, wanting to escape the table. But Mum scolded me, telling me to sit down.

"You're the birthday girl," she said -- as if she ever let anyone else do anything, anyway. "Bernard. Why don't you go and get the chicken?"

The rest of the meal passed off without incident. My parents, I could see, were completely charmed by Will. Patrick, less so. He and Will barely exchanged another word. Somewhere around the point where Mum served up the roast potatoes -- Dad doing his usual thing of trying to steal extras -- I stopped worrying. Dad was asking Will all sorts, about his life before, even about the accident, and he seemed comfortable enough to answer him directly. In fact, I learnt a fair bit that he'd never told me. His job, for example, sounded pretty important, even if he played it down. He bought and sold companies and made sure he turned a profit while doing so. It took Dad a few attempts to prise out of him that his idea of profit ran into six or seven figures. I found myself staring at Will, trying to reconcile the man I knew with this ruthless City suit that he now described. Dad told him about the company that was about to take over the furniture factory, and when he said the name Will nodded almost apologetically, and said that yes, he knew of them. Yes, he would probably have gone for it too. The way he said it didn't sound promising for Dad's job.

"Ha-ha. Let's hope it's stopped flapping around now, eh?" Dad smiled, his teeth bared in a kind of grimace.

"Birthday cake?" Granddad said, as she began to clear the dishes.

"No," I walked around the table and kissed him. "No, Granddad. Sorry. But it is chocolate mousse. You like that."

Mum just cooed at Will, and made a huge fuss of him. I realized, watching her smile, that at some stage during the meal he had just become a smart young man at her table. No wonder Patrick was pissed off.

It was so distinct, so surprising, that Dad and I stared at each other in shock. The whole table went quiet.

He nodded in approval. My mother was beaming. I don't think any of us could have had a better present.

I raised a smile back. This was no time to argue, after all.

I opened theirs first, peeling the paper carefully away so that I didn't tear it. It was a photograph album, and on every page there was a picture from a year in my life. Me as a baby; me and Treena as solemn, chubby-faced girls; me on my first day at secondary school, all hairclips and oversized skirt. More recently, there was a picture of me and Patrick, the one where I was actually telling him to piss off. And me, dressed in a grey skirt, my first day in my new job. In between the pages were pictures of our family by Thomas, letters that Mum had kept from school trips, my childish handwriting telling of days on the beach, lost ice creams and thieving gulls. I flicked through, and only hesitated briefly when I saw the girl with the long, dark flicked-back hair. I turned the page.

The mousse arrived on the table, and with it a large, square present, about the size of a telephone directory, wrapped in tissue.

"Presents, is it?" Patrick said. "Here. Here's mine." He smiled at me as he placed it in the middle of the table.

"Go on," said Dad. "Open it."

"Can I see?" Will said.

"It's not been… the best year," Mum told him, as I flicked through the pages in front of him. "I mean, we're fine and everything. But, you know, things being what they are. And then Granddad saw something on the daytime telly about making your own presents, and I thought that was something that would… you know… really mean something."

"It does, Mum." My eyes had filled with tears. "I love it. Thank you."

"Granddad picked out some of the pictures," she said.

"It's beautiful," said Will.

"I love it," I said again.

The look of utter relief she and Dad exchanged was the saddest thing I have ever seen.

"Mine next." Patrick pushed the little box across the table. I opened it slowly, feeling vaguely panicked for a moment that it might be an engagement ring. I wasn't ready. I had barely got my head around having my own bedroom. I opened the little box, and there, against the dark-blue velvet, was a thin gold chain with a little star pendant. It was sweet, delicate, and not remotely me. I didn't wear that kind of jewellery, never had.

"Well, I think we should eat pudding now," Dad said. "Before it gets too hot." He laughed out loud at his own joke. The champagne had boosted his spirits immeasurably.

Will watched me, his face impassive.

"Glad you like it," Patrick said, and kissed me on the mouth. I swear he'd never kissed me like that in front of my parents before.

I let my eyes rest on it while I worked out what to say. "It's lovely," I said, as he leant across the table and fastened it around my neck.

I pulled the present from Will's backpack.

My mother paused, the serving spoon in her hand. "You got Lou a present, Will? That's ever so kind of you. Isn't that kind of him, Bernard?"

"It certainly is."

"There's something in my bag for you too," Will said, quietly. "The one on the back of my chair. It's in orange wrapping."

The wrapping paper had brightly coloured Chinese kimonos on it. I didn't have to look at it to know I would save it. Perhaps even create something to wear based on it. I removed the ribbon, putting it to one side for later. I opened the paper, and then the tissue paper within it, and there, staring at me was a strangely familiar black and yellow stripe.

"I had them made. You'll be happy to know I instructed the woman via my brand-new voice recognition software."

My mother peered at them. "You know, Louisa, I'm pretty sure you had a pair just like that when you were very little."

"Jesus Christ, she'll look like Max Wall in a beehive," my father said, shaking his head.

"Ah Bernard, it's her birthday. Sure, she can wear what she wants."

"I don't believe it," I said. I had started to laugh -- a joyous, unexpected thing. "Oh my God! Where did you get these?"

I pulled the fabric from the parcel, and in my hands were two pairs of black and yellow tights. Adult-sized, opaque, in a wool so soft that they almost slid through my fingers.

I couldn't stop beaming. "I want to put them on now," I said.

Will and I exchanged a look.

"Tights?" Dad and Patrick said in unison.

"Only the best pair of tights ever."

I ran outside and pulled on a pair in the hallway. I pointed a toe, admiring the silliness of them. I don't think a present had ever made me so happy in my life.

"There's a card in there too," he said. "Open it some other time."

I walked back in. Will let out a small cheer. Granddad banged his hands on the table. Mum and Dad burst out laughing. Patrick just stared.

"I can't even begin to tell you how much I love these," I said. "Thank you. Thank you." I reached out a hand and touched the back of his shoulder. "Really."

My parents made a huge fuss of Will when he left.

Dad, who was drunk, kept thanking him for employing me, and made him promise to come back. "If I lose my job, maybe I'll come over and watch the footie with you one day," he said.

Patrick came out to the hallway, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, as if perhaps to stop the urge to shake Will's own. That was my more generous conclusion.

"I'd like that," said Will, even though I'd never seen him watch a football match.

What a gentleman, they would say, for a good hour after he had gone. A real gentleman.

My mum pressed some leftover mousse on him, wrapping it in a Tupperware container, "Seeing as you liked it so much."

"You never told me you were giving him bed baths."

"Oh, just trying to help my girlfriend get the best out of her job," he said. "That's all." There was a definite emphasis on the word my.

"Good to meet you, Patrick," Will said. "And thank you for the… advice."

"Well, you're a lucky man," Will said, as Nathan began to steer him out. "She certainly gives a good bed bath." He said it so quickly that the door was closed before Patrick even realized what he had said.

"I don't wash his dick." I picked up the cleanser that was one of the few things I was allowed to keep at Patrick's place, and began to clean off my make-up with sweeping strokes.

We had gone back to Patrick's house, a new-build flat on the edge of town. It had been marketed as "loft living", even though it overlooked the retail park, and was no more than three floors high.

"He just said you did."

"What does that mean -- you wash his dick?"

"He's teasing you. And after you going on and on about how he used to be an action man, I don't blame him."

"So what is it you do for him? You've obviously not been giving me the full story."

"I do wash him, sometimes, but only down to his underwear."

Patrick's stare spoke volumes. Finally, he looked away from me, pulled off his socks and hurled them into the laundry basket. "Your job isn't meant to be about this. No medical stuff, it said. No intimate stuff. It wasn't part of your job description." A sudden thought occurred to him. "You could sue. Constructive dismissal, I think it is, when they change the terms of your job?"

"Don't be ridiculous. And I do it because Nathan can't always be there, and it's horrible for Will to have some complete stranger from an agency handling him. And besides, I'm used to it now. It really doesn't bother me."

How could I explain to him -- how a body can become so familiar to you? I could change Will's tubes with a deft professionalism, sponge bathe his naked top half without a break in our conversation. I didn't even balk at Will's scars now. For a while, all I had been able to see was a potential suicide. Now he was just Will -- maddening, mercurial, clever, funny Will -- who patronized me and liked to play Professor Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle. His body was just part of the whole package, a thing to be dealt with, at intervals, before we got back to the talking. It had become, I supposed, the least interesting part of him.

"I just can't believe… after all we went through… how long it took you to let me come anywhere near you… and here's some stranger who you're quite happy to get up close and personal with --"

"Can we not talk about this tonight, Patrick? It's my birthday."

"I wasn't the one who started it, with talk of bed baths and whatnot."

"So you do think he's good looking."

"Is it because he's good looking?" I demanded. "Is that it? Would it all be so much easier for you if he looked like -- you know -- a proper vegetable?"

Patrick made love to me that night. Perhaps "made love" is stretching it a bit. We had sex, a marathon session in which he seemed determined to show off his athleticism, his strength and vigour. It lasted for hours. If he could have swung me from a chandelier I think he would have done so. It was nice to feel so wanted, to find myself the focus of Patrick's attention after months of semi-detachment. But a little part of me stayed aloof during the whole thing. I suspected it wasn't for me, after all. I had worked that out pretty quickly. This little show was for Will's benefit.

I pulled my dress over my head, and began peeling my tights carefully from my legs, the dregs of my good mood finally evaporating. "I can't believe you're doing this. I can't believe you're jealous of him."

"I'm not jealous of him." His tone was dismissive. "How could I be jealous of a cripple?"

"I love you, babe."

"How was that, eh?" He wrapped himself around me afterwards, our skin sticking slightly with perspiration, and kissed my forehead.

When sleep still didn't come, I got out of bed and went downstairs to my bag. I rifled through it, looking for the book of Flannery O"Connor short stories. It was as I pulled them from my bag that the envelope fell out.

And, satisfied, he rolled off, threw an arm back over his head, and was asleep within minutes.

"Great," I said.

I stared at it. Will's card. I hadn't opened it at the table. I did so now, feeling an unlikely sponginess at its centre. I slid the card carefully from its envelope, and opened it. Inside were ten crisp £50 notes. I counted them twice, unable to believe what I was seeing. Inside, it read:

Birthday bonus. Don't fuss. It's a legal requirement. W.