“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her. “Just come home with me.”

Iris sighs. “This is not a decision I’ve taken lightly, Terry. It’s something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve done a huge amount of research, waded through so much red tape you wouldn’t believe it.”

I’m about to say that I would have helped her with the red tape. I’m good at red tape. The tedious part of plans, no matter how exciting the plans themselves are. Iris doesn’t have the patience for red tape.

But of course, I wouldn’t have helped her with the red tape for this plan.

The questions jostle for position in my brain. The first one out of the traps is Why. It comes out louder than I intended, almost a shout. “Why?”

Iris leans forward. “You know why.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”

“Jesus, Terry, do I have to spell it out?”

“Yes.”

Iris looks surprised. In fairness, I am not usually so belligerent. “Two letters,” she says, holding up two fingers. “M. S.”

I try to assume a reasonable tone. “Okay, so you have MS, which is not great, but it’s manageable. Isn’t it? You’ve always managed so well. And it’s not bad enough to...”

“Which is why I’m doing it now,” Iris says. “While I’m still in control.” She makes everything sound so logical. So reasonable.

“You hugged me when we had dinner last week,” I say, remembering. Me, rummaging in my bag for keys as I walked to my car, and Iris coming after me and hugging me even though we’d already said goodbye at her door.

Iris shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You don’t usually.”

“Well, I should.” Iris leans back in her seat, looks out of the window. “You’re my closest friend,” she says, her voice quieter now.

“Which is exactly why I’m not going to let you do this,” I tell her briskly, as if she hadn’t said something so...well, if she were her normal self, Iris would call that sappy.

“Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Iris says. A surly-faced gentleman in an ill-fitting suit glances at us over the top of his Tom Clancy paperback. I send what I hope is a reassuring smile in his direction, which sends him scurrying back behind his book.

I take a breath.

In one of the many parenting books I have read, readers are advised to approach a discussion from a different angle, if the discussion is tying itself up in knots or backing itself into a corner.

I train a reassuring smile on Iris. “May I ask a logistical question?” I say.

Iris rolls her eyes. “It was only a matter of time,” she says.

“Why are you going to Holyhead? What I mean is...you could have gone directly to Calais from Rosslare.” This is the part of me that I can’t help. The part that drives the girls mad. And Brendan probably. Although I don’t organize him as much anymore. He tends to do his own thing these days.