I didn't comment. Painted on in silence. My phone beeped a few times but I was in the zone now so I ignored it, important missive received, everything else irrelevant.

I'd always been capable of shutting the world out; was delighted to, in fact, with the exception of Peter. But even then, when he was small, I'd been known, like many working mothers, to plant him like a bomb at school with a minor bug and then feign surprise when a teacher called to say he'd been sick, but they'd keep him in the san until the end of the day. Needs must.

Roger's shoulder was fully restored now, unbroken and mended. But I didn't like that arm. As my sitter really did nod off, his hand relaxed its grip on the chair. Ah. Good. Now. My brush moved feverishly about the canvas. Killing it, as Peter would say.

A few hours later I sighed and put my brush down. Unlike Celia I peaked after about four hours. When I was younger I could go back and paint all evening and most of the night, too, but these days I was spent. Also, Roger was awake and had been for some time. He was looking mutinous.

"Flor-aaa!" he roared.

"Yes, yes, we're done. Sorry, Roger, you've been brilliant by the way."

His face transformed. "I have, haven't I?" He perked up instantly, like a child. Roger was terribly easily flattered. It was actually what I was hoping to capture; that transient, childlike quality. I regarded my picture speculatively.

“Can I see?”

“Of course.”

He came around eagerly. He stared at it for a while. I could tell he didn't hate it. Eventually, he beamed.

“I look as if I might steal the last jelly.”

“I don't think there's any 'might’ about it, Roger. I'd say you're in the pantry with the trifle.”

He stepped closer and peered more forensically. “Could look a bit younger?”

“Absolutely not. I've taken years off you as it is.”

Not years, but one or two. It always helped. Not every single wrinkle. Not every single shred of sadness or disappointment. And these things mounted up, over the years. Less so with Roger, which was why it had been a joy to paint him. His joie de vivre, his enthusiasm, were still intact. It was the depressives who were so hard. Most people having their portraits painted at this age and stage of their lives were successful, sometimes quite grand: I'd done one or two captains of industry. But, often, when they'd sat for you for hours, for days, their faces betrayed the projected pomp and ostentation, and that was hard. I could only speak the truth and they liked happier results. "I look like I'm going to shoot myself!" one brigadier had roared furiously. Six months later, he did.

“Day off tomorrow,” Roger told me gleefully. He gathered up his things from the table: a book, reading glasses, coffee cup.

“Absolutely. The regatta.”