Dominic sat back in his seat. ‘OK, I’ll level with you.’ He gave a furtive glance towards the door. ‘This is strictly between us.’ He took a deep breath and Harry knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. He steeled himself as his brother continued. ‘Mum’s not well. Not well at all.’

Harry’s body gave an involuntary jolt. ‘How unwell are we talking?’

Dominic rose and poured himself another drink and this time made Harry a neat Scotch. He passed it over and resumed his position on the sofa.

‘Dom, how ill?’

Dominic gave him a steadying look. ‘The cancer is back.’

Harry sucked in a breath so hard, he almost winded himself. ‘Prognosis?’

‘The worst. Months.’

‘How many?’

‘Twelve if we’re lucky. Six if we’re not.’

‘We’ll get a second opinion. I know some brilliant doctors in France,’ began Harry, allowing his pragmatic approach to jump ahead of his emotions, a trait he’d learned at a young age when dealing with his father. ‘She’ll get the best treatment and fast.’

Dominic shook his head. ‘It’s too late. Don’t you think I’ve made sure she’s seen all the top oncologists? Nothing more can be done.’

‘Radiotherapy? Chemo? Surely there must be something?’

‘No. It’s untreatable. Besides, she’s refusing to go through chemo again.’

‘On what basis?’

‘On the basis of freedom of choice,’ snapped Dominic, and then became calmer. ‘She wants to live her last months to their fullest. She doesn’t want to spend them sick, recovering from treatment which to all intents and purposes is futile. You know how ill she was before. She literally can’t face it again.’

‘Fuck,’ muttered Harry as his emotions finally surfaced. He downed the Scotch in one go and rested his forehead in his hand. ‘Fuck.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Dominic.

Harry let out a long breath, composing himself before sitting back in his chair. ‘But she looks so well.’

‘You know Mum. She’s a trooper.’