‘If cancer’s present, it’s progressing slowly,’ said Bram after a minute. ‘I feel confident of that. There’s Ivy’s ongoing difficulty with bowel movements, but her weight has stabilised. She’s slowed down overall, but that’s not surprising at her age. To talk of suffering …’

‘There’s a woman on YouTube whose father had bowel cancer,’ Chanel said. ‘He was vomiting faeces in stage four. We’re just asking you to have a conversation with Ivy, lay out what could happen without medical intervention and discuss what taking the Amendment would mean. The decision will be entirely hers.’

‘Why don’t you talk to her, Lyle? You’re her son. It’s not a conversation for me.’ Bram got up and went inside.

Chanel’s eyes met mine. She’d proposed the same thing. But how could I bring up the subject? There was The moment I first held you. I saw myself getting ready to speak to Ivy and discovering that the stone in my chest had turned into a rock on my tongue. And then, while I sat there unable to speak, what might Ivy not say? I told Chanel, ‘I’d be no more use than that!’ and pointed. She looked in a puzzled way at the nearest conifer in its ceramic pot.

A toilet flushed and a tap ran. Bram reappeared, bonsai and graceful as he crossed the golden expanse of his lounge. He was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers, but he looked as polished and urban as his room. On the terrace, he leaned forward in his chair so that his face was in the light, and spoke evenly. It was the controlled, explanatory voice a parent uses with overexcited children. ‘Look – there’s a fair amount of stink in medical circles around the Amendment. On the whole, it goes against the grain. But you get cases of practitioners speeding things up, colluding with families for a fee. One or two people have been struck off. Even if Ivy wants to take the Amendment, there’s no way I can truthfully certify that she’s going to die within three years.’

‘Can you truthfully certify that she isn’t?’ asked Chanel.

Bram’s living room was shining like bullion behind him. The parquet, the champagne-coloured walls, the tasteful light diffused by side lamps, the lacquered armoire, the yellow chinoiserie vase in its spotlit niche – it was all gleam and glow. I felt my temperature change. Chanel and I had talked everything over, and her directive was clear: ‘Let me take carriage of the conversation.’ But the golden room instructed me otherwise. I’d risked my family’s future so that Bram could continue to enjoy that room. And now he dared to speak of truth! ‘How’s Jared?’ I asked in an easy, conversational way. ‘Is he out of prison yet?’