Iris has always been sceptical of these claims. She puts the word “claims” in inverted commas with her fingers to highlight her scepticism.

And I know, I know. People can be suggestible. Especially people who are suffering.

But I’ve never seen Iris look better than she does here, in France.

Iris shakes her head slowly. “Terry, I’m not going to beat MS. All I was saying was—”

“Maybe not beat it entirely,” I rush on. “But what about the other stuff? The effect of diet and climate and lifestyle. Look at you. You said it yourself, you feel great. Your symptoms are gone.”

Iris straightens. Leans towards me. “Terry, listen—”

“And have you read about the new drug?” I say, ignoring her as I gather momentum. “I can’t remember the name of it, but they’re calling it a wonder drug. They’re doing clinical trials right now. In America. It’s only a matter of time before—”

“Terry,” Iris says again, louder this time. I stop talking. I am out of breath. She picks up her handbag, rummages inside, takes out an envelope. “I meant to give you this,” she says, handing it to me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s the...you know, the arrangements,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Everything is in hand,” she says. “There’s nothing you need to do. But I know you’ll want to know the...the arrangements. For afterwards.”

“But what about the wonder drug? You haven’t even—”

Iris shakes her head. “I’m going to Zurich, Terry,” she says quietly. “You know that.”

“I thought—”

“That was the deal, remember?”

“But you’re feeling much better. You said so yourself. You could...”

“The reason I’m feeling better is because I’ve got a plan,” Iris says. “I’m in control of what happens. That’s important to me. The most important thing. It’s always been my way, you know that, Terry. Don’t you?”

I shake my head. “Just because you’ve got a plan doesn’t mean you have to go through with it.”

“But I am going through with it,” Iris says in a soft, insistent tone. “I want to. And I’m glad you’re here. It makes it easier for me.”

“And this is all about what you want, is it? What’s easier for you?” I stand up. My anger is sudden and savage. I tear the envelope into pieces, throw them on the ground. “What about me?” My voice sounds high and plaintive. The voice of a child who has been told, “No.” “What about what I want?”

“Ah, Terry, I don’t want to argue,” says Iris. “Especially not with you.”

“You just want me to agree with everything as usual, is that it? Don’t disagree, Terry. Don’t say a word, Terry. And don’t you dare have an opinion if it’s different to mine.”

“Terry, please. You’ll wake everyone up.”

“I don’t care.” I’m pretty sure I’m shouting now.

“I understand that you’re angry,” Iris says in that infuriatingly calm voice.

“You don’t understand anything,” I tell her, and now I’m pointing my finger at her, stabbing the air with it. “You just think I’ll drive you to Zurich, drop you off at the clinic so you can go and kill yourself in peace and quiet while I...what? Just drive home, like nothing happened? With my demented father? To my indifferent husband and my kids who aren’t kids anymore?” My voice rises and rises.