‘Come in,’ says Tilly. She leads him into the drawing room – beige Wilton carpet, huge Conran sofas, bright halogen downlights, heavy marble mantel, spotlit modern paintings on the wall. ‘Max isn’t back yet.’ She turns with a ready-to-be-annoyed-if-you-think-it’s-all-vulgar look on her face.

‘Does he have a view about Louisa?’ asks Jomier.

‘He says Adams is the best man in his field.’

‘He doesn’t think she should go to America?’

‘He hasn’t said so.’

‘And you?’

‘I don’t know. I think Jimmy’s looked into it all.’

They sit on the sofas. Tilly is dressed in a dark blue skirt and pale grey cashmere cardigan that clings to her breasts – the cantaloupes that were once Jomier’s and are now available to be fondled by Max. Her elegant legs are crossed: only the lines on her face and the loose skin on her neck mark the passing of time. She looks younger than her dying daughter.

‘Would you like some wine?’ Tilly stands and goes to a sideboard where an open bottle stands in a plastic cooler – placed there by a hidden Filipina hand. ‘Or something else? There’s vodka or rum. You used to like rum and tonic.’

‘A glass of wine would be fine.’

Tilly fills a glass and brings it to Jomier together with a small bowl filled with parsnip crisps. She seems uneasy. Uncomfortable. Even afraid. Why is he there? What is he up to? Jomier says: ‘It would be good for Louisa if she felt that we are now friends.’

Tilly shrugs as if to say ‘you’re the one who’s been unfriendly’ but out comes: ‘Of course.’

‘And it will be much easier for Jimmy, particularly if he’s staying with you.’

‘I agree.’

Tilly has fetched herself a glass of wine. She returns to her place on the second of the plush Conran sofas. She looks across at Jomier. ‘Do you think she’s dying?’

‘If they can make the diagnosis,’ says Jomier, ‘I’m sure they’ll come up with a cure.’

Tilly sniffs. ‘It’s all so awful. I can’t bear to look at her. She’s wasting away.’

Jomier wants to move to the other sofa and comfort Tilly. He cannot manage it. He cannot bring himself to take hold of her body. Will he have to? Is that what it means to forgive from the heart? ‘We mustn’t despair,’ he says.

‘No.’ She sobs. ‘But it’s hard to feel optimistic. I mean, well . . . Max says that what with the Internet and email most medical knowledge is pretty universal so it’s unlikely that Adams will come up with something that wasn’t thought of by the Argentinian doctors.’

‘It’s not impossible,’ says Jomier. ‘We mustn’t give up hope.’