We walk to the reception in single file, Iris first, Dad in between us, and me at the back. Jacques appears, as if by magic, behind the desk, and registers us. “Dinner will be served at eight,” he says, and when he looks at me, he nods and smiles, like he is glad we’re here. Like we’re right where we’re supposed to be. I walk tall up the stairs and ignore Iris when she laughs at the slight stagger of my gait.

Even though I don’t specify it, Jacques seems to know our sleeping requirements. He shows Iris into a bedroom, the center of which is occupied by an enormous four-poster bed, the mahogany posts draped with bloodred velvet. The room beside it is for Dad and me, with two single beds, dressed in goose-down duvets, separated by a heavy, walnut table holding a flower-patterned china jug and bowl and a glass vase of bright pink carnations. The walls are painted a pale lemon and the floor is covered in wide, knotted wooden boards. Through the window, I see neat rows of vines, all the way to the horizon.

“Let’s see if the beds are comfortable, Dad,” I say.

“Is it bedtime?” he wants to know as I untie his shoelaces and ease his feet out of his shoes.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“Then it’s bedtime,” I tell him, covering him with a throw I remove from the high-backed chair by the window. He closes his eyes when I tell him to, and smiles when I kiss his hollow cheek.

I am a mother to my father. Mostly I don’t think about it, but, when I do, like now, it feels like the opposite of everything I know.

I should return Brendan’s call. Make sure everything is all right.

Instead, I sleep. For over an hour. A deep sleep, unmarred by dreams. When I awake, I feel as refreshed as if I’d slept for eight hours. The water in the jug is scented with lemons and mint and has been warmed by the lowering sun, now pouring golden light through the window. I splash the water onto my face, under my arms. From Dad’s suitcase, I take the impractically white shirtdress that doesn’t quite cover my knees. Hold it against my body. Oddly, I find myself unconcerned about my knees. I think it might be because of the material. The silk against my skin. It’s like being touched by gentle hands. I wake Dad, put a fresh shirt on him, spray some of his Old Spice onto my hands, then pat his face and neck, then hand him his toothbrush smeared with paste.

I stand back to admire my handiwork. “You look very handsome,” I tell him.

“So do you,” he says offering me his elbow. I link my arm through his, and we set off for the dining room at a surprisingly brisk clip. Iris is already there, chatting to Jacques and halfway down a gin and tonic. She looks as though she has also benefited from a nap and a change of clothes. Her hair is damp from the shower and her skin glistens with the vanilla body butter she favors. I check her forehead; the bump has subsided, and the bruise is fading to shabby yellows and greens.