All the artists are asked to stand next to their work, like schoolchildren awkwardly showing their finger-painting skills at parents’ evening. Elisabeth guesses it is mainly so that the press and members of the local community can more easily tell the druggies from the staff. Elisabeth wishes Kristina were here tonight. It feels almost impossible that she isn’t – all these years later, Kristina remains her main source of support and comfort, more so than her elderly mother. But Kristina is in Hamburg at a conference about rapid eye movement therapy. Elisabeth asked her if there was any way she could move it around or even not go so that she could be there tonight, but Kristina had to go. Elisabeth understands, of course she does, but glancing toward the wide double doors at the throng of people waiting to be let in, she has to swallow hard at the thought of Kristina not being among them.

The members of the local community hover at the entrance, like vultures circling high above carrion; nothing like ogling the inner thoughts of a bunch of junkies. It was only a few years ago, under the old management, that the residents were nicknamed the Vintanutters, a term that still endures many years later.

Elisabeth goes through the motion of explaining her pictures and answering the usual questions from well-meaning people who have no ability to understand what she’s been through.

‘What made you take heroin?’

‘It looks like real blood; well done. How did you manage that?’

‘Why don’t you paint happy themes?’

‘Do you think you’ll return to drugs?’

‘Do they lock the doors at night here?’

‘You don’t look like a drug addict.’

‘I suppose prostitution must have been part of that whole life, eh?’

She turns away from the man asking the question mid-sentence and walks out of the room. In the next room, where the larger sculptures of some of the residents are displayed, she catches the eye of a young woman, a tall, attractive woman in white jeans and a blue-and-white striped blouse. The woman smiles at her, and she smiles back in passing; she’s on her way to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face and get a moment’s peace.

‘Hey. Hey, wait,’ says the woman and Elisabeth turns back around to face her. When she does she is struck by a sudden familiarity, and then it occurs to her that the stranger in front of her bears a slight resemblance to Kristina. It’s something to do with the smooth bronzed skin, the understated style, the gold stud earrings and the chocolate-brown, expensively highlighted high ponytail. ‘Are you Elisabeth Eliassen?’

‘Uh, yes?’