‘Elisabeth?’ asks the woman. Elisabeth nods, still unable to place her. She doesn’t think they’ve met before, but the woman reminds her of someone. She is tall, though not as tall as Elisabeth, and has thick chestnut-brown hair streaked through with lighter strands piled on top of her head in a deliberately messy bun. Her skin is a beautiful, smooth, sun-kissed brown, and she has wide-set hazel eyes with flecks of green. Elisabeth realizes that it is Kristina the woman reminds her of – it’s in the way she carries herself, and in the style of clothing – quietly expensive and classic; Hogan shoes and Gucci belt, Mulberry Del Rey bag, the uniform most of her friends seemed to adopt in high school. Elisabeth herself likes to dress less conformist – like a crazy bohemian artist witch, Kristina sometimes jokes. But that’s what I am, Elisabeth would respond.

‘Yeah?’

‘My name is Ella Victor. We met briefly the other day. At the vernissage.’

She remembers, then. Of course. The journalist; they’d spoken for a while and she feels stupid now for not remembering, but all the years of drug use have taken their toll on her brain.

‘Ah. Yes. I do remember.’

‘I wanted to stop by and speak with you again, if that’s okay. I really loved your work. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. Such emotive pieces.’

‘Thank you.’

Ella sits down on the bench next to Elisabeth and for a long moment they sit in a comfortable silence.

‘What were you drawing earlier?’

‘A bird.’

‘Could I see it?’ Elisabeth looks over at Ella and there is something about the warmth in her eyes and her kind smile that makes her trust her. She nods and flips the notebook over to reveal the unfinished sketch of the bird.

She glances down at it and sees it as if for the first time; it’s really good. ‘Wow,’ says Ella. ‘I was wondering how I could support you.’

‘Well, you could buy a picture from the vernissage, I guess. If you wanted. They are for sale. You’d have to ask at reception.’

‘Sure. I’d love that. Seems like a good cause to support; I love what they are doing here.’

‘So… who are you?’

‘I’m sorry, Elisabeth. I should have explained. I work freelance at the moment, and I’m thinking about writing a non-fiction book. About art therapy and trauma.’

‘Oh.’

‘When I saw your work, I wondered if you might be interested in contributing to the project.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m thinking of choosing ten or so promising artists who have experience with trauma and who incorporate it into their art as part of their healing process.’

‘Oh.’ Elisabeth feels her cheeks redden, she always feels numb and speechless when asked about her past or her artistic process. ‘I don’t know… I don’t think…’

‘You could be anonymous if you wanted.’

‘Umm.’