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Yesterday, they were joined with Jack’s and Bryce’s.

Today, Christopher is speaking about putting a ring on one as though it would be a kindness to a dying man.

“You don’t love me,” I say.

“You don’t love me, either. I’m not asking you to pretend. Let’s be real about it.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“To consider what makes sense. To make decisions for the bigger picture.”

“I’m an artist, you know? Making sense has never been my strongest motivation,” I manage a soft laugh, at least.

“I know full well you like to paint,” he says, with a dismissive roll of his eyes.

And there we have it. Even now, when his dad’s facing a losing battle for his life, he can’t keep the disdain from his voice.

He’s never had even one iota of respect for my creativity. Never had one iota of respect for me.

His hint of contempt is almost reassuring. For a moment, I was in danger of believing he’d actually become a different man.

I rise from my seat as the drawing-room door opens and Dad enters with Mum. Mum looks so glamourous in cream silk and diamonds.

Trevor follows them, tall and broad, like his son, and immaculately dressed, laughing at something Dad has said.

Nothing about him suggests he’s facing certain death, which makes it almost worse. He must be living behind such a façade. Trying to make out everything is normal.

I look at Christopher.

“He doesn’t want anyone treating him differently,” he says quietly. “Please, handle that with respect.”

Trevor sees me and opens his arms.

“Alice Rose!”

His familiar voice carries across the room. I go to him and give him a hug. Terminal. Jesus. A ticking clock.

“Hi, Trevor.”

“Look at you,” he says. “More beautiful every time.”

I hold him more tightly than usual.

“I’m so pleased to see you.”

His arms are strong. His face has a healthy colour. It’s so heartbreaking to know this is all going to shrink away to nothing. I picture his body beginning to fail around him. The hospital deterioration. The pained gasps at the end.

“I hear your paintings are going to auction,” he says.

“Yes. Hammersmith.”

“Quite an achievement. Well done.”

“Thank you.”

My voice catches.

He looks at me.