She was flirting with him, Callum realised. He was popular with a certain type of just-past-it mother – of which Elsa Witrand, with her bobbly sweater and her oversized earrings, was a prime example. At twenty-five, he imagined, she must have been a real handful: big-hipped and pink-faced and forthright. Now she just looked heavy, as if every movement, even that flick of her plait, was an effort. Trying to be as tactful as possible without getting drawn into the flirtation, Callum suggested taking photographs of a range of different groupings, so that the Witrands could choose which one they liked best. But Mrs Witrand was adamant: the picture was to be of Sophie alone.

‘I think it’ll be such a lovely reminder for her, of her time at Denham Hall. She really has flourished this year, you know.’

Callum pulled out his diary so that they could pick a day for him to come round and photograph Sophie. In the end, that evening turned out to be a good time for both of them. The Witrands lived just outside the village; it was barely a five-minute detour from Callum’s usual route home.

* * *

The Witrands’ house was a large nineteenth-century cottage with a recently re-thatched roof. The whole of the front of the cottage was covered in an ancient wisteria vine, with hard grey stems that looked soldered together wherever they crossed. Callum parked his bike against a huge staddle stone and rang the doorbell.

Mrs Witrand (‘Elsa, please’) was wearing a red apron embroidered with the words ‘No. 1 Mum’. ‘Thank you so much for doing this. Sophie’s feeling a little shy, but I’m sure you’re used to that from your, ah, subjects. Do come on in.’

‘I’d like to take the pictures right away, if that’s all right,’ said Callum. ‘While there’s still a bit of natural light left.’

He was shown through to a cosy wood-beamed sitting room, where Sophie was slumped in a floral armchair.

‘No one told me about this,’ she said by way of greeting.

‘Sophie!’ her mother snapped. ‘Don’t be so rude.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Sophie said, looking dolefully at Callum. ‘But I didn’t even know this was happening until like five minutes ago.’

Callum squatted down next to Sophie’s armchair. ‘So you’re not keen, then?’

‘I look rubbish in photos.’

‘All the best-looking people are un-photogenic,’ said Callum.

‘Well, I photograph terribly, so I’ll take that as a compliment!’ tittered Mrs Witrand. Sophie glared at her mother.

‘We’ll do loads of pictures,’ Callum told Sophie. ‘We won’t stop until we get one we’re all happy with, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Sophie said grudgingly.

‘Is there anything in particular you’d like Sophie to be wearing, anything you want to do with her hair, perhaps…?’