He opened one eye. ‘How did I get like this?’
When I nodded, he closed his eyes again. ‘Motorbike accident. Not mine. I was an innocent pedestrian.’
‘I thought it would be skiing or bungee jumping or something.’
‘Everyone does. God’s little joke. I was crossing the road outside my home. Not this place,’ he said. ‘My London home.’
I stared at the books in his bookshelf. Among the novels, the well-thumbed Penguin paperbacks, were business titles: Corporate Law, TakeOver, directories of names I did not recognize.
‘And there was no way you could carry on with your job?’
‘No. Nor the apartment, the holidays, the life … I believe you met my ex-girlfriend.’ The break in his voice couldn’t disguise the bitterness. ‘But I should apparently be grateful, as for some time they didn’t think I was
