There is that word again. And his voice still raised. Maybe his blood pressure too. The doctor said it wasn’t high exactly, just...that he needed to keep an eye on it. Watch what he eats and maybe do a bit more exercise. I glance around and a woman behind me snatches her head away, now apparently engrossed in the clock on the wall, which is, by my reckoning, five minutes slow. I lower my voice. “Brendan, listen, just calm down and...”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I’ve been researching this. There’s a law against assisting people like Iris. The Criminal Law Suicide Act of 1993. You could face jail time. And dragging your poor father along as well. That is so...so...” He struggles to find the appropriate word. “Irresponsible.” That’s the word he’s looking for. I feel the sting of it before he locates it and throws it at me like a punch. I see Iris and Dad in the café now, sitting by the window. Iris is pouring tea from a stainless steel pot into two cups. Dad is cutting a Bakewell tart into a hundred pieces with a spoon while his eyes scan the people hurrying past the window. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t eaten even one of his five-a-day today.

Brendan is right. I am being irresponsible. “...and if the girls knew what you were—”

“Have you spoken to them?”

Brendan sighs. “Anna rang me from the house earlier.”

“Did she pick up the laundered clothes I left on her bed? I washed them with that new organic detergent I ordered. The pharmacist reckons it’s the best detergent on the market for people with eczema.”

“For God’s sake, Terry, I don’t know. Just...come home. Stop this. Now.”

“Did she?”

“What?”

“Get the clothes? I told her I’d have them ready for her. She’s been really anxious about the exams, and I—”

“She wanted to know where you were.”

“What did you say?” I hold my breath.

“I said... I just said you were out. With Iris.”

“And she didn’t ask anything else?”

“No. She’s too preoccupied.”

I am struck by what must be maternal guilt. The working mothers used to talk about it when I’d meet them sometimes at the school gate or the supermarket. I’d nod and say, “Oh yes,” and, “Isn’t it desperate,” and, “It comes with the territory,” but the truth was, I never felt it. I never left the girls. I was there. I was always there.

“And Kate rang.”

“Kate?” Kate never rings. I ring her. Every Sunday night ten minutes before the news, which usually hasn’t started by the time I hang up. Yes, of course she’d ring me if I didn’t make the effort, but she’s so busy. Especially now, with the play so close. Anyway, she prefers texting to talking. I’m sure lots of young people do.

“Why did she ring?”

“I don’t know,” says Brendan. “Something about our hotel accommodation in Galway. She said she couldn’t get through to you.” He lapses into silence.