She tells me that I don’t seem particularly interested in the article. And that it’s okay, it’s only to do with the upcoming group show and that it doesn’t matter to her at all that her name is in the paper. Imagine her name underneath all the other artists? All I can think of is sweet Jesus Christ. I tell her that I have been listening but that it’s not easy to listen and to make lunch at the same time.

Hang on, your name is last? I ask her.

She says, so what, it doesn’t mean anything. I assure her that being listed last is probably as good as being first in its own peculiar way. I ask her about the other artists in the show. She grabs the paper again and finds the article. I can hear the pleasure in her voice and it wavers when it gets to her name. I have only heard of one of the other artists before. I’m not sure what to make of this ambiguity.

She tells me that she is meeting with Simon later this evening to talk about the show and to make arrangements for when they can move her work from our house to the gallery. I really don’t see the need to turn what is essentially a business meeting into something social. I mention this to Jenny and the fact that I’m not happy about it. She paints quickly, her eyes have an intensity about them.

I call the kids in from the green. Nobody wants the fusilli because there is a smell in the kitchen essentially of burnt sauce. I tell them about real hunger. They’ve heard it all before. The kids have no option now but to eat the pasta. Jenny yells from her desk that she isn’t hungry. I have a good mind to tell her that she ought to lead by example. The pasta is blandness coated with the acridity of disaster. I begin to shout at the kids now, telling them that they’re ungrateful fucking brats. It’s not their fault, I know that, anyone can see it. I look to Jenny and it’s almost as if she cannot see the trouble that I’m in. I swear under my breath to Jesus and I feel faintly remorseful that I am resorting to this kind of carry-on but I want her to help me out here. The kids stab the twirled lumps of pasta with their forks and shove them into their mouths with resignation, then they head back out on to the green. I cannot look at them as they pass by me, and I am at a loss as to how to clean the burnt sauce from the bottom of the pot.