It was true, Celia was a bit of a recluse in London: didn't really do groups of girlfriends, and could get a bit lonely and down in the dumps, what with our solitary occupation and Edward and his therapy chat. Terribly important, of course, to get to the bottom of problems, but rather sad and soul-sapping, too. Right now she looked as if her soul had popped right out of its socket, done a few cartwheels on the beach, and popped back in, scrubbed, gleaming and refreshed.

"And I felt so daunted a few weeks ago at the thought of filling half that gallery in Flood Street, but at this rate, and with this amount of inspiration — look at that color, Flora, there, on that darling pink boat — I'll be ringing and asking for the whole gallery!"

"Right." I nodded, watching her paint on, attending to biting my thumbnail down to the quick. She wasn't a sensitive artist for nothing, though, and after a bit she paused and looked me in the eye.

"Listen, Flora, this was always going to be hard. No one, except you, said it wouldn't be. Me, your Mum, Peter even, once he'd got over his initial delight. But now we're here, it's actually fine. Better than fine. And Belinda will come round, you'll see. She's allowed to throw a hissy fit if she thinks she's been overruled in her own house, I would, too. Probably a bigger one than that. But she'll get over it. I suspect she's got far bigger fish to fry than which room you paint her husband in."

“Meaning?"

She shrugged. "I feel she's quite you know, manipulative. Controlling. Like there's stuff going on here under the surface, you know? A subtext. Absolutely nothing to do with us. Maybe family stuff, I don't know. I haven't quite sized them all up yet. But I'll let you know." She grinned. “There." She lowered her brush suddenly. Stood back and gazed piercingly at her canvas. "I'm done for the day."

Celia was full of abrupt certainties like this, each one more irrevocably positive and truer than the last, be it time for tea, her stance on Brexit, or taking a violent dislike to the color of someone's eyes. I was used to such pronouncements and often thought it was where I went wrong in life, being so uncertain. So full of wavering, shambolic dithering.

She was packing her bag efficiently with tubes of paint and rags. "Here. You take this," she commanded, handing me the backpack. "And I'll manage the easel. I'll keep the canvas screwed in for the moment, it's good and tight. Oh, you might take my palette, too."

"I can't imagine how you got down here alone in the first place," I said, gathering her stuff, but she was peering distractedly over the cliff now, moving along the ridge to get a better view. "I'm surprised you made it."