Again I was drifting, vaguely aware of Simon’s voice in the room on a grey day in London. I could see fractured images. I’m in my bedroom with Marcia, doing a makeover. I see a bicycle in the hall. Matthew’s. It was always in the way. So clear: red, black and silver. I hadn’t thought of it for years. In a paddling pool at home. Dad leaving for work. Mum cooking. I could smell burnt toast. Lying in a cot. Nice. I am a mosaic baby, a piece of a whole mosaic picture that is constantly changing yet stays the same. ‘Loss,’ I hear Simon say. He’s saying something about loss. I don’t want to think about that and then I feel it, ripping through me; more than that, it hurts. I want to move away from the feeling. I become aware of another mosaic, to the left and separate from the one I was looking at. It’s darker, greyer, and I am in one of the pieces of it. It’s not such a big mosaic but I see a woman: is it me? I’m not sure. On a bed, giving birth. Can’t be me. I have no children. I see her again in another part of the mosaic in a garden, a baby with dark hair toddling towards her. It’s not me but I feel her as me.

‘Where are you, Bea?’ asked Simon.

‘Not sure. Looking at mosaics.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Two, no …’ I looked around and saw that I was in a spacious, light hall.

‘Can you describe them?’ Simon asked.

‘There are many mosaics. It’s an art gallery. I am in one room in an art gallery. I get the feeling that it is my room, though, because I can see through openings that there are other people in adjacent galleries looking at their mosaics. ‘Many. Maybe fifteen maybe twenty.’

‘What do they show?’

‘I can’t see the others clearly. Mine shows my life. People. Places. Colour.’

‘You said two mosaics … what does the second one show?’

I looked at the darker mosaic again but felt myself getting anxious. I could see the woman: she had light brown, soft, wavy hair to her shoulders; she was in a garden, by a tree, bent over, she was weeping. I know that garden. Where have I seen it before? I felt my chest tighten; it was hard to breathe.

‘Bea, Bea, relax, breathe, look back at the first mosaic. What do you see?’