She stared at the painting thoughtfully.

‘He liked the snow but not the Winter,’ she said in a quiet voice, ‘valued the climb greater than the view from the summit. He didn’t smile much, but when he did, the world smiled with him, and we bundled as though it were the first time, and would be the last.’

‘I’ve never known someone like that,’ I said. ‘All my friends are just, well, ordinary.’

‘Don’t underestimate mediocrity,’ she said. ‘Lasting happiness, I’ve found, only really favours the unadventurous. Take a seat.’

She directed me towards a high-back chair and picked up a Polaroid camera. She pulled it open, put a new flashbulb in the holder, cocked the shutter and pointed it at me, then focused.

‘Look down,’ she said, half hidden behind the camera, ‘just your eyes.’

I did as she asked.

‘Have you ever bundled?’

‘Yes.’

‘On your own doesn’t count.’

‘Then no.’

‘Imagine it now,’ she said, ‘with that special one. Not the one in your mind, but the one in your heart. The one to whom your physical thoughts turn when you can feel the heat rising in your body, the yearning for intimacy. And when those thoughts have filled your mind, look up.’

I thought about pretty much everyone I’d ever fancied over the years but rejected them all, then found myself thinking about the painter, there in front of me with her dark hair, dark manner and dark strangeness. I thought of her and me closely entwined in a tight knot of passion, and looked up.

The flash went off, then there was a crinkly noise as the spent flashbulb cooled. She flicked the release, pulled out the paper tab, tore it off and discarded it, then looked at her watch.

‘I’ll be gone from the Sector in a couple of days,’ I said, handing her my card. ‘You can reach me here.’

She took the card, waited another ten seconds then opened the door on the back of the Polaroid and peeled the print from the negative. She looked at it, nodded approval then set the picture upon her work desk to dry.

‘Have you rights to Morphenox?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But you won’t need it, what with staying up?’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘I’ve been neglecting my bulking up this season,’ she confessed, ‘and need something to see me through the Hib. Give me your dose and I’ll knock two hundred euros off the painting.’

Now I came to think of it, she was looking a little light. Transferring my Morphenox to her was illegal, of course, but I did have a dosage on me and, wanting to do what I could to maximise her chances of survival, I agreed.

‘Only on condition you don’t pay me. No money off the painting – nothing. I’ll be in enough trouble as it is if I’m rumbled.’