“Thank you, for sharing that with me. And yes, that must have been it," I conceded, letting him win. He wiggled into position in his chair, pleased with himself. And happily, for once, wearing the correct clothes. He reached up to the shelf above and flicked his Roberts radio on to the test match.

“Didn't think to do that when you were in here for ages?" I murmured. I mixed my paints. “Not like you."

He barked out a laugh. His eyes gleamed delightedly at me from beneath bushy eyebrows. "You're shrewder than people think, Flora."

"Only when it suits me," I told him, turning to face him properly now, poised with my palette. “Sometimes it suits me for people to think otherwise. Something I'm sure you can relate to, Roger."

He regarded me appraisingly and not without a glint of admiration, I thought. I settled down to paint.

My brushstrokes started carefully and speculatively as usual, my eyes darting from Roger to my canvas, back to Roger, back to the canvas. Presently, though, they became faster and more feverish. Yet in equal measure more precise and efficient. As always when I was upset, worried, alarmed, my work absorbed me completely; it took on the energy of my emotions. The transubstantiation — and I don't use the metaphor lightly, for when I came down to earth later, it always seemed to me I'd been possessed — was complete and utter. Today the metamorphosis from anxiety to creativity was total. Roger's face, which thus far had eluded me, so I'd sketched it in only roughly, concentrating instead on his hands, his shoulders, his chest, became so obvious all of a sudden. The way his eyes clouded, then cleared dramatically. The way that muscle in his cheek affected his mouth. The occasional tension, but abrupt joy, too. Roger's was a face that could turn on a sixpence, and suddenly I got it all, in what seemed like minutes, but was probably hours. That precious, elusive stretch of creativity which was such a mixed blessing, occurring as it did for me, at its most fruitful, when I was most upset. It once more took control.

Finally, a little voice said: "Can I move?" Roger was looking pathetic. Wretched even. He gazed at me beseechingly.

"Of course." I smiled. Lowered my brush.

"Flora. You're scary when you're like that," he grumbled. He rolled his stiff shoulders around. "I daren't breathe."

I grinned. “Sorry. Got carried away." I glanced at the portrait, then at him. Was pleased. But the moment had passed. Blood, rather than passion, flowed through my veins now, and as it did, all my worry flooded back with it. I rinsed my brush in turps, considering. Wiped it on a rag. Then I took a deep breath.

"Roger, is Hugo OK?"

He frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean, work-wise?"