“Iris?” His forehead furrows.

“Iris Armstrong. My friend,” I tell him. “Remember?”

He nods. “I remember,” he says, and I hug him tightly because he doesn’t remember but he’s pretending he does. For me. He pats me awkwardly on the arm.

“What about...” He struggles to find the word. It takes longer than usual. I clench with impatience.

“What about...” he repeats slowly. And then, finally, “Breakfast.”

I take his hand and pull him into my room, give him the cereal bar I keep for emergencies in the zip section of my handbag. He lifts it towards his mouth and I have to grab his hand, remove the wrapper. I shove Dad’s belongings into the suitcase, ring the taxi again.

No answer.

I rush downstairs with my wallet. Madame Lalouette is poised in the middle of the hallway with forms in one hand and a pen in the other. On the hall table, the—empty—bottle of wine from the garden, along with the two mugs.

Evidence.

I decide I don’t have time to feel mortified. “How much do I owe you?” I ask her.

“Firstly, you must fill in these feedback forms,” she says, extending her hand with the sheaf of papers.

“No,” I say. “Sorry.” I open my wallet, take out a wad of notes. “How much?” I repeat.

She waves the forms in my direction, stepping closer. “You must. It is a requirement.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say again. I don’t even add “sorry” this time. Instead, I leave a bundle of notes on the table and say, “Keep the change.” I race back up the stairs where Dad has finished the cereal bar and is mooching around in my handbag, no doubt looking for more vittles.

I take Lucas’s card out of my handbag. He answers after two rings.

“Lucas, it’s me, Terry. Terry Shepherd. I—”

“Irish dancing Terry?” he says, like he knows many Terrys and he’s trying to work out which one I am.

“But listen, Lucas, there’s a...situation, and I need my car in a hurry.”

“It’s ready.”

“Really? Oh, that’s brilliant.”

“It doesn’t look great, but it will go.”

“Will it go as far as Zurich?”

“Of course. I will drive it to the Lalouettes’.”

“Can you do that now? I mean, immediately? Sorry, it’s just—”

“I will,” he says and hangs up. I throw my phone into my handbag, pick up Dad’s suitcase. I scan the room. I seem to have everything.

Except Iris.

“Come on, Dad,” I say. “We need to leave before Mrs. Sprat calls the B&B police.”

Downstairs there is no sign of the Lalouettes. The cash and wine bottle and mugs have been removed from the table, which has been the benefactor of a recent dust and polish. The forms—unfilled—are still there. I ignore them, open the door. I walk towards the garden gate. From the back garden, I hear the pigeons, cooing.

We inch along the garden path towards the gate, Dad slower than usual. I used to skip beside him, when I was little. That was the only way I could keep up with his long stride.