‘Cyn. No.’

‘Yes. Breast cancer. I’ve had ‘em both off. Radiation, chemotherapy.’ She reached up and touched her hair. ‘This is a wig. Fooled you, eh?’

I suddenly choked-up. ‘Cyn…’

She reached over and touched my hand. Her touch was as cold as if she was already dead. I’d seen it before – the dying comforting the living – and I’ll never understand it. I shook my head. ‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘This isn’t right. Not you.’

She smiled. ‘Yeah, fuck it. But it’s true. I’ve only got a few months, if that. Probably less. I was in seeing the Macquarie Street man today. No hope.’

‘There’s clinics. Mexico. Germany…’

‘I’ve been to all the clinics I can take. I’ve got a good doctor. He’ll see me off when it gets too bad.’ She laughed. ‘That’s all right. It’s too bloody soon but it’ll be easy, whereas the rest of you never know how it’ll come, do you?’

I gulped some wine. ‘That’s right. Jesus, Cyn, I…’

‘Bear up, Cliff. We’ve got a bit to get through here. It could be worse. Both the kids… my kids, are old enough to cope. My mother’s still around to help. You remember her. She’s a toughie.’

‘Sure.’

‘I used to pick up the odd scrap about you from Dad, but not since he died. I was curious about you but I couldn’t show it too much. Colin was jealous of you.’

‘Of me?’

‘Yes. He was one of those indoorsmen who secretly yearned to be an outdoorsman. When we fought, as we often did, he’d say things like, “I suppose your private eye never made a mistake.”’

‘Hah.’

‘Right. You made plenty. But I kept a couple of books you gave me and that bullet thing. You remember.’

I remembered. I’d brought back the brass casing of an artillery shell from Malaya. Polished up, it made a nice vase.

Cyn made another attempt to eat but gave up. ‘Colin hated that. I’m a bit of a bitch as you know. I used it against him. Don’t get me wrong, the marriage was fine, but married people play games. You know.’