Meanwhile, the photoshoot began. The photographer and his assistant, with at least two cameras each, were snapping, looking at their screens, focusing, rewinding, camera lenses pointing this way and that, before they were even halfway across the lawn. Mariam’s dance was just reaching its apex when she was somewhat abruptly ushered over to the mahonia near the house, which was in bloom, it being winter, and being a mahonia its flowers were yellow, and my God, that bright yellow trouser-dress you are wearing looks so good against the glossy, spiky green, and Minister, if you stand a little to her left, and yes, yes, perfect – it wasn’t anybody’s fault that perhaps fifty photographs were taken before any of the women had a chance to object.

LUCIJA: Fifty photos? More like five hundred. This is the thing I am angry with myself for, and Eva. She should’ve said to those men, You’ve got to leave Mariam alone. She should’ve said to me, They will arrive at this time, they will need to photograph this, and that, and go here, and there, and since I am busy as always and will not get back in time, and also, I hate this kind of thing, I will not be there to defend you – but anyway, you are free, there is nothing they can make you do. But of course she didn’t; and of course they could. Before we knew it, snap snap snap, Eva’s son and Mariam, in a shot by those nice yellow flowers, ever so perfect, just one more, keep going, one more smile?

CAMILLE: To be fair to Sebastian, I don’t think he knew she’d been in hospital. The photographer was there. Seb was making the most of a fine opportunity. That was all his training. To make the most. Maybe a little bit, or a lot, yes, he was also playing up for the cameras. He was probably thinking how very photogenic this all looked, here in this rural place. He had perfected his concerned face; knew it would come out looking good. The photographer didn’t ask. He just snapped.