He chats as we go, about the possibility of a holiday before he starts his FY1 in August. Our local health deanery has turned him down for the foundation year because of his failed year four. He’s having to go further afield, to a less popular trust, at least a three-hour drive from here, double that in rush hour.

‘. . . we could get a last-minute self-catering deal somewhere,’ he’s saying, ‘near my new base.’

I hate knowing that this is all about to be irrelevant.

When we arrive, a liveried porter opens the car door and helps Elaine out, sensing that she needs to lean on him as she walks up the steps. Another one offers to park the car for me. I’m about to refuse but Elaine turns and calls out, ‘Go on, be a devil, hen, it’s all my treat. And you don’t often hear a Scotswoman telling you that . . .’

The conservatory area is flooded with light: beautiful but exposing. As soon as we sit down, Elaine orders champagne teas, not even checking the price. I’ve only been here a couple of times in my life, but the smiley, unobtrusive service makes up for the slightly stuffy décor.

‘I’m underdressed,’ Tim says, looking at the two men at the next table, three times his age, wearing smart suits and ties, with matching Paisley handkerchiefs.

Two waiters bring the tea stands laden with treats: triangular sandwiches, golden scones, cakes iced in pastel colours, and dishes of clotted cream and glossy strawberry jam. Blood and bandages.

I have zero appetite.

‘Well, tuck in,’ Elaine says. I catch her eye, questioning.

There’s no right time to tell Tim, no etiquette on whether you should share a terminal diagnosis before or after a meal. Tim and I practised breaking bad news as a roleplay a few times, so I know the basics – a warning shot to prepare someone for the worst, a euphemism-free statement of fact, an expression of sympathy, a question to confirm they’ve understood fully.

I chew a mouthful of cucumber sandwich, tasting nothing.

And now a pianist in the corner of the room is playing ‘As Time Goes By’ and our food is finished and the champagne flutes and teapots are empty and Elaine has still said nothing. I stare at her until she gives me the tiniest of nods.

‘I wonder if it’s too late for me to learn the piano,’ Tim is saying. ‘It’s one of those skills that I always thought I might enjoy—’

‘Tim, I need to tell you something,’ Elaine says. ‘I only kept it from you so as not to jeopardize your exams. And there’s nothing you could have done.’

Tim gawps at her. ‘Is this about Dad?’

She shakes her head. ‘That scumbag is still hale and hearty, as far as I know. Tim, it’s me. I have . . . cancer.’