Margita turned up unexpectedly to commiserate with Christine. She staggered out of the back of a taxi in her kitten heels, bottle of vodka stowed discreetly in a plastic carrier; the taxi lurched off abruptly the moment she shut the door – she always refused to tip. She was breathless by the time she’d climbed upstairs, and sat balancing rigidly upright on the edge of the sofa, with her hand over her heart, gasping. The mask of Margita’s make-up and her stiff hair made her look startled, like an old doll thrown carelessly too often into the toy basket – but actually nothing surprised her. Unclasping her handbag and fishing for cigarettes, Margita found her voice again. — These women are not like us, Chris. We have our own minds. We have education, books, ideas! Some women only think about men all the time, making schemes how to get them.

Christine had never seen Margita reading anything apart from the Evening Standard. — Lydia had a perfectly good education, she demurred in fairness.

Margita screwed her finger, swollen around its rings, expressively against her forehead. — Not interested in the theme of reality versus appearances, too busy wondering if she looks nice.

— I worry, though, that I ought to work harder on my appearance.

— But Chris, why? If you’ve got a brain!

— We have to remember that she’s bereaved. Perhaps she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Printing her cigarette thickly with her orange lipstick, Margita flicked at the lighter, then mouthed with certainty around her smoke. — Oh, she knows.

Hannah came to give in her notice and Lydia begged her to stay, apologised for having procrastinated over the gallery’s future, offered her a three-year contract and a free hand as Artistic Director. Of course the gallery must be kept open, if it possibly could! — Oh, it’s viable, if you can get the right continuity, we really think so, Hannah guardedly said. It must be kept open, Lydia assured her. For Zachary’s sake. She would like to be kept informed and involved eventually in a role in management, that was all – and she would be staying on at least for the moment in her home next door. Hannah, who probably knew something about what was going on with Alex, said that she’d think about it for twenty-four hours and then phoned back in two: she wasn’t close to Christine anyway, had always liked Alex better. If Lydia really meant it about the free hand she’d be delighted. — So that’s settled, Lydia said.