Christine said crossly that she hoped Grace knew what she was doing, you couldn’t just pick up painting on a whim from one day to the next. – How is it that you don’t know, Lydia, that this is not a thing normal people would do, to come to this place to find me and try to talk to me?

She shook her head. — I don’t know why I don’t know.

The bell hadn’t rung for the second half of the concert, but people were beginning to take up their seats again. — Alex saved my life, Lydia said. — He saved me.

Christine looked around her with false brightness, said she was looking forward to Handel in the second half. When the light faded and the conductor arrived on stage again both women were relieved, withdrawing into the shelter of the music, recovering from the abrasions of their exchange – only feeling the pain of them belatedly, in the aftermath. Lydia sat forward in her seat, staring as if she were transported by what she heard, and Christine in the dimness saw an actual glassy tear roll down her cheek, luminous against her skin for a moment, reflecting the lights trained on the orchestra, like one of those tricks which show off a painter’s virtuosity. Lydia hadn’t even cried at the funeral, nor all those years ago at school when their teacher shook her unjustly and cruelly, and Christine had so admired her and taken her part, and had seemed to see in her set pale face something perfected, so brittle and unsentimental.