It was a wound, and Christine, sick with the humiliation, crawled to bed all alone in the middle of the day while Alex was out at college and Isobel was at school, curled up around her own disgust at the pain of it, the shame. — We could always hang some of your things in the cafe, Hannah had said, and that had been the worst moment. But then Christine went to Zachary and confessed that she didn’t think she’d have enough work ready for the show, and was quite sure that she didn’t want to be in the cafe either. He was so disappointed, but he asked her what she thought of Hari Rostami instead of a mixed exhibition, and she said that sounded just perfect, although in her heart she believed that Rostami’s installations were just empty, clever things: empty and ugly. By the time of the opening night she was all right. She never told anyone what had gone on between her and Hannah, the two of them never spoke about it, and she did hate Hannah for a while afterwards, until eventually she forgot to. And later, as the years passed, Christine was part of several mixed exhibitions in the gallery space, and had two solo shows there.

Naturally she knew people, at least some, at the opening night party. Once it was actually happening she felt light-hearted, relieved that it wasn’t her work exposed on the walls – costing her peace of mind, crushing her with its importance. She could go on clasping its secrets to herself, her treasure which did not have to be weighed yet or found wanting. Hannah had been right, this wouldn’t have been a suitable occasion for showing off anyone’s subtle art. So she didn’t have to be an artist at the party, and Zachary had given her the money to buy something nice to wear. The folded notes when she took them had been warm from his trouser pocket, and the gift had made her feel as if everything that had ever been between them – including even Hannah’s secret visit, which perhaps he really didn’t know about, or only half-knew – was understood without needing explanation. Christine had bought a full-length vintage blue silk-crêpe dress whose bodice was sewn with silver beads, and had pinned up her hair and made up her face carefully; she was aware of snagging a few appraising glances. The heavy silk swung satisfyingly as she circulated; she was thin, she’d lost weight since she had Isobel. And the dress was very naked around her throat and arms, plunging bare to her waist at the back. She had her grandmother’s silver chain around her neck and nothing on underneath except her knickers.