She shot me a glare and flipped her hand towards the bed, presenting it. At the foot was a three-tiered trolley with a hot plate and kettle on top, and a hodgepodge assortment of mismatched crockery and cutlery and tea bags and biscuits on the shelves below – the entirety of her kitchen. She disappeared into what I guessed was the bathroom before she returned with a glass of water and put it in my hand.

She crossed her arms. ‘What?’

‘I haven’t said anything.’

‘I know it’s a dump. I want a proper artist’s studio but this is what I can afford.’

‘I think it’s wonderful. I think you’re wonderful.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Holly.’

‘I’m not. You know I never would. This is me, Milly. I wish you’d let me come before.’

‘It’s not as if Lord Voldemort would have let you out of the dungeon.’

‘Probably true.’

One of the tables was covered in her finished work. Tiny humanoid creatures with strange bulges and psychedelic protrusions were dribbled with neon violet. There was a primitively beautiful model of entwined lovers, hewn from a block of black stone. I put the glass on the floor by the bed and started to heave myself up to look more closely. Milly extended an arm to pull me, and I took it.

Interspersed with her sculptures were numerous abandoned mugs of weak black tea, most of them half-finished. She carried them away so my view of her creations was unimpeded.

‘When do you do all this?’

‘Nights. Weekends. Whenever I can between shifts.’

I pointed to a sculpture whose head was topped with the greased lavender tail she’d cut from a My Little Pony and tied with a pink ribbon. It had a cotton ball she’d dyed fuchsia for a bottom. The shoulders and chest were absurdly large compared to the rest. ‘Gaston?’

‘Glad to know that much is clear.’

It had been stabbed in the stomach with a miniature dart, which was surrounded by a red target to highlight the bullseye. ‘Is it a voodoo doll?’

‘I hate his fucking guts. I hope he dies. And that it’s painful.’

‘Me too.’

‘Even more than I used to. And his fucking ugly new girlfriend too.’

‘Me too.’

‘I don’t want a penis near me ever again,’ she said.

‘Me too.’ I touched a tiny vase, so perfect in scale it would hold only a pinch of the most delicate wild flowers. It was in waves of grey and blue, shades of the sea, sandy and rough outside and smooth inside. ‘I prefer your non-Gaston period.’

It was her turn to say, ‘Me too.’ She waved at the vase. ‘Would you like it?’

‘I love it so much. But I can’t take it. You can sell it – you need the money.’