She opens her mouth, but then looks towards the bedroom door, a quizzical expression on her face. “I smell rashers,” she says.

“Me too,” I say.

“Must be coming from the flat downstairs.”

“No, I think it’s coming from the kitchen.”

“Vera doesn’t cook.”

“Maybe she does now.”

Iris shakes her head. “People like Vera don’t change. Besides, there’s no hob or oven in the kitchen.”

Iris lifts her legs out of bed, bends and straightens her bandaged knee. “Good as new,” she says.

“Your ankle’s still swollen.” I keep my tone offhand. “I think you should take it easy today.”

“My boat to Calais leaves this evening,” Iris says. She matches my tone but speaks louder than she needs to. And with emphasis. My boat.

I pretend not to notice. “We could always get one tomorrow,” I say. “It’s just one more day.” The subtle switch from first person singular to plural. We. The casual reference to “one more day.” As if there are lots of days.

Iris doesn’t respond to my suggestion. Instead, she nods towards Dad. “You should take him home, Terry. All this traipsing around can’t be good for him.”

This is her trump card. Dad—and most dementia sufferers—like to be in their own place, even if that place is an overheated nursing home at the back of a sprawling business park near the airport, with a soundtrack of traffic and a persistent smell of shepherd’s pie.

“And it’s not good for your marriage,” she adds. “I’m willing to bet Brendan is not in favor of you being here with me.”

“He’s fine about it. He understands.” I push my hands under the fur coat that Vera lent me as a duvet last night. Cross my fingers. I don’t even know what Brendan’s stance on euthanasia is. Isn’t that something I should be aware of? After all these years?

“I know you think you can change my mind,” Iris says.

“I don’t.” I do.

“Because I won’t change my mind.”

“I know.” But she will. I’ll persuade her. I’ll find out how to be persuasive.

I can see Iris studying my face, trying to gauge the sincerity of my replies. I pretend I don’t notice, keep my face impassive, concentrate on getting the last of the air out of the blow-up mattress.

“You could face prosecution,” Iris says. She leans towards me. “You could go to jail.”

I wave the idea away as if I am swatting at a fly. As if I’m not terrified at the prospect. “I’m coming with you,” I hear myself say. “As we agreed.”

Iris doesn’t say anything for a bit. I think she’s relenting, but then she rallies with a sudden, “This is something I need to do on my own.”

“Well you can’t, so tough tits,” I say.

“Tough tits?” Iris raises her eyebrows at me and I know she’s mocking me because I am not the type of person who says “tits,” tough or otherwise. I say breasts, of course, if I have to refer to them at all, which I generally haven’t since I stopped breastfeeding.