I turn to look at her. When did she have her hair cut? She’s always been pretty, but today she looks beautiful.

Oxytocin or reality?

‘It’s dangerous, thinking,’ I say.

‘About your mum, and about us.’

I have no idea what is coming so I wait. And in the moment of waiting, I remember a silver envelope on the doormat, a confrontation, a fear that I’d somehow missed something important.

‘You’re different now, Tim. This disaster . . . it’s changed you.’

I search for words to puncture the seriousness I can hear in her voice. I am afraid of what she might be about to do to me; I have no reserves left.

‘Don’t interrupt,’ she says, even though I haven’t said a word. How can she read me so well when I can’t read her at all?

I bring my finger to my lips, signalling I’ll stay silent. There’s a bench next to the jasmine and she walks towards it. As I sit down beside her, I feel the warmth of the wood through the fabric of my jeans. The faint teak aroma reminds me of something . . .

India.

‘I thought perhaps we could get married.’

My body jerks. You’d have thought she’d just applied a defib, not suggested marriage. ‘Don’t joke about things like that,’ I say.

‘Not joking. I’ve researched how it could work. People can get married in hospices. It’s usually patients but if we did it here, your mum can be part of it.’

I let myself imagine standing in this garden in a suit, Kerry in a beautiful dress, her hair pinned up, decorated with flowers. Usually, I have trouble picturing things that haven’t happened but right now it’s so real: not only Kerry as a bride, but Mum in attendance, regal in her wheelchair. It’s perfect, except for one thing.

‘You don’t have to, Kerry. Not if it’s only because she’s dying.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘It’s not that. I can see you more clearly than I have since we were kids. And what I see is a good man who gets better every day.’

It takes ten days to make the arrangements.

The momentum gives the hospice a carnival atmosphere. The chef has created a menu with all Mum’s favourites, and someone’s ordered a crate of Irn Bru to celebrate her Scottish heritage.

I emailed Wilcox but, as I predicted, he can’t come back, so Kerry’s dad is stepping into the best man role.

He takes me to Moss Bros. I am such an average size that it’s no problem finding a suit to fit me. As I try it on, it hits me that statistically, half the grooms who’ve worn this could already be divorced.

‘Come on, Tim. Too late to change your mind now.’