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are about to go for lunch with Prince Albert on his yacht but I just had to call to see how you were.”
    Conrad gave the response he knew she expected and understood the reason for the call was not an enquiry about his health but an attempt to impress him and those eavesdropping on her conversation. He really didn’t know why she bothered. “Fabulous. Have an oyster or two for me.”
    His mother laughed. He wondered if she even remembered he hated the fucking things. It was an urban legend you were supposed to tip them straight down your throat, but it was the only way Conrad had been able to stomach them until he finally stood up to his father when he was ten and refused to eat them. Why the hell would anyone expect a kid to like oysters?
    But that wasn’t the point. Conrad was supposed to gratefully eat what he was offered and say nothing because that was gentlemanly behavior. Being awkward turned out to be painful. He’d learned to pretend he was eating things he didn’t like and instead slipped whatever it was into a plastic bag he’d hidden in his pocket. Pretending became a way of life. It still was.
    “We should be back in the UK in six weeks. You can come and stay with us then.”
    “Right.” Over his dead body.
    “Bye, darling.”
    She ended the call before he could even say goodbye.
    He tossed the phone on the bed and struggled over to his chest of drawers to find clothes. He wouldn’t need them until the physio had pummeled him to hell and back, but he might as well get them ready. Before he’d been tossed into the air on Tucker Street and ended up in the hospital, he’d always slept naked, but so as not to upset his succession of housekeepers, he now wore a gray T-shirt and shorts in bed.
    Today’s physio burst into the room like a tornado. Mark was built like a rugby player and had a face to match—heavy eyebrows, flat crooked nose and big ears. Conrad didn’t fancy him at all which was a huge relief, probably to Mark too because he had a wife and kids. In fact, Conrad outright hated him because Mark was an even bigger bastard than he was. But while Conrad, as a barrister, used words as his weapon, Mark’s hands and arms were his instruments of persecution.
    “You in a good mood today, mate?” he bellowed in his Australian accent.
    “Does it matter?”
    Mark laughed and set up his treatment table.
    “Can you tell whether I’m in a good mood or not?” Conrad was genuinely interested.
    Mark looked across the room at him. “Sometimes your eyes glitter with barely repressed rage.”
    Fuck it. I’m losing my touch. “Is that a surprise? I’m convinced your real name is Josef Mengele.”
    “Who’s he?”
    Oh my God. Don’t they teach them anything? “Nazi torturer.”
    Mark chuckled. “Get your butt over here and lie on your back.”
    Conrad did as he was told. He’d had his spine broken in more ways than one.
    When Mark was done with him, Conrad felt as though he’d been beaten up. In essence that was what Mark had done, used his hands to mobilize joints and soft tissue. He pressed, pummeled and persuaded muscles to stop lazing around and work properly. He watched Conrad walk on the treadmill, supervised his cycle to nowhere and told him he was doing great. But it hurt. It fucking hurt. He thought of the tablets in the bathroom cupboard and promised his aching body he’d take two if he still felt bad after his shower.
    “Going to let me take you for a drive?” Mark asked.
    “No.”
    “The pub for lunch?”
    “No.” Conrad shuddered.
    “A museum? Art gallery? Cinema?”
    “No, no and—let me think—no.”
    Mark shrugged. “Going to try and walk without support?”
    Something to which Conrad wanted to say yes but panic flared. “You think I’m ready?”
    “You could try. You’ve done it on the treadmill. Be careful. Don’t overdo it. Baby steps, remember? You’re not up to hiking anywhere yet.”
    A point well made when Mark had to help him to the bathroom before he