Carefully, she gets to her feet again and picks up a light mahogany chair from its place in front of the antique roll-top desk. She proceeds to set it next to me and sit on it, placing my tray on her lap. I blink at her. ‘What are you doing? I’m ill, not totally incompetent.’ ‘You need to learn,’ she says softly, ‘that there are people in this world who will take care of you because they can think of nothing more they’d rather do. Open.’ I’m pretty sure the word open should be preserved for me, for my most commanding Bedroom Voice, and that it should refer to her long, slim legs and not my
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