“Yes,” I say. “Tough tits.” I emphasize the word. Tits.

It sounds funny, the word. Maybe the repetition of it. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, we end up laughing and Iris’s eyes water so it looks like she’s crying and it dawns on me that I’ve never seen Iris cry before.

This seems incredible, given that I have known Iris Armstrong for seven years. But no, I’m certain that she has never cried in all that time. Not even when the doctor gave her the news about her MS. I remember her that day, shrugging and saying, “It is what it is,” in a resigned, almost disinterested way.

Perhaps already, she was making her plans.

Iris stops laughing, clears her throat. “Look, Terry, I don’t want to have to worry about you,” she says, but her voice is not as adamant as before.

I sweep in with a brisk, “Well then, don’t,” as if not worrying is as easy as deciding not to worry. I stand up and make a great production of lifting and folding the coat I slept under. Subject closed. I hold my breath.

“Is that real fur?” Iris looks at the coat. I think I’ve won this round. Won is the wrong word. Yet I can’t help feeling sort of elated.

“No it’s not,” I say, although I’m not certain of this. There’s a meaty smell off the coat. And it’s heavy too. Perhaps I did sleep, after all. I seem to remember jerking awake at one point, convinced that Coco Chanel was laid out on top of me.

In the kitchen, Vera is wearing a leopard-print apron over her clothes. And the same shoes. The black high heels. No knee-high pantyhose. The bulge of bunions. The tops of her feet are blue with sluggish circulation, shot through with raised, knotted veins. Her feet are the feet of an elderly woman, but her shoes are the shoes of a woman who will give you short shrift if you offer to carry her shopping bags.

I am surprised to discover that Iris is wrong. Vera does cook.

At least, she’s cooking today.

She has covered her head with a scarf, turban-style, also leopard print. A cigarette dangles precariously from the corner of her mouth and it’s just a matter of time before the long, thin ash falls into the pan.

The pan is crammed with rashers and sausages and white and black pudding, and is perched on a portable camping hob, connected to a gas cylinder, which obviously prompts worry about carbon monoxide poisoning.

Iris reads my mind, grins, and tells me I’d be better off worrying about food poisoning.

Luckily Vera can’t hear us over the sizzle of meat.

She turns around. “’Bout time you lot got out of the scratcher. How’d you like your eggs?”

“There’s no need for you to cook, Vera,” says Iris.

“Why? Ain’t you hungry?” says Vera.

“I’m starving,” I say before Iris gets a chance to respond. “We all are, aren’t we?” I widen my eyes at Iris, who sighs and shakes her head.