Ivy no longer eats her nutritionally balanced care-package meals. They languish in the fridge, and Fanta prepares the lunch that Ivy insists on: soft, starchy rice drowned in Vegemite mixed with hot water, and a fried egg on top. So when Bram arrived to see Ivy the following Saturday, I asked him to talk to her about her diet, among other things. ‘I’ve been talking to her about her diet for years,’ he replied. ‘She’s never taken any notice. And what does it matter now?’ It mattered because it was a situation that lent itself to misunderstanding. Chanel and I are neither neglectful nor abusive, but who knows what kind of crazy spin an unstable person like Fanta could put on things if we didn’t make it plain that, in trivial things as in large ones, Ivy’s wellbeing has always been our prime concern?

Ivy saw Bram in her room because I’d told her that I had to vacuum the lounge. They were in there together, with the door closed, forever. When Bram finally emerged, Chanel and I were waiting. In place of his astroturf knit Bram was wearing a dark suit that he must have thought appropriate to the occasion. And he’d had his curls trimmed, which always makes his head look tiny and unreasonable. ‘Sit down and have a drink,’ said Chanel, ‘and tell us what happened. Did she agree?’ She mimed vomiting. ‘Stage four. Did you … ?’

‘She agreed,’ said Bram, still standing there at the entrance to the lounge. He was almost transparent with anger and the effort to control it.

‘That’s wonderful!’ said Chanel. ‘What would we do without you, Bram?’

He offered us a smile like a slap. ‘There are things she wants to talk about with Lyle,’ he said, as he turned away. ‘She insists.’ I could tell that he’d urged Ivy on, saying something like, ‘You should discuss it with Lyle before coming to a final decision. And remember – no matter what anyone might say, you can change your mind at any time.’

When Bram had gone, Chanel said, ‘I’ll call Mel. I’ll knock on Ivy’s door in fifteen minutes and say she’s on the phone.’ She did the vomit thing again, gesturing forcefully away from her lips. ‘Stage four.’

Whenever I’m in Ivy’s room it’s as if I can hear muffled voices from an attic. The air seems thicker and older there than anywhere else in the house – it’s twentieth-century air, leaking from the photos of the not-yet-dead. Like so many of Sydney’s ideas, his prism was sweet and useless. Ivy’s window looks south and onto a fence. There are no rainbows on the walls. A stiletto of light pierces the room for roughly ten minutes a day.

I sat down beside Ivy’s bed. My quick wits had formulated a strategy between her door and the chair – it was called Take the Lead. ‘So!’ I said. ‘Has Bram explained everything? It took me some time to process the idea when he first came up with it, but then I saw that it was an excellent suggestion. I’m a little surprised that you agreed so quickly. But really pleased for your sake. It will … ease so much.’