‘Sorry if my fingers are cold, I’ll try not to touch you.’ Very carefully, Callum unclasped the clothes pegs and turned the top of the towel down by half an inch. He leaned back to check the effect. Sophie was looking at him with her serious grey eyes. You could see the shape her face was going to take as she grew older: quite a strong jawline and sharpish cheekbones, with a clear, high forehead. For now, though, the clarity of that structure was still softened by baby fat. Callum thought of the dark room he occasionally used in Brixton, that thrilling wait as the image slowly swam its way into sight. Her mouth in particular was childish, with a full bottom lip tucked under the top, almost as if she were biting it.

A rich, deep excitement was stirring inside him. Callum acknowledged it calmly, without surprise. He had thought all that was over weeks ago. Now it seemed as if it had never gone away. And this time, it didn’t feel dirty. He was aroused but he was also obscurely moved. He realised he wanted to do a proper portrait of Sophie – not just what she looked like but who she was, right now, in this sweetly fleeting in-between state.

He undid the clothes pegs for a second time and rolled the towel down another half inch, one eye on Mrs Witrand to see whether she was still fine with this. Callum knew he was pushing a boundary now, but he had to include a hint of her little breasts – just the first soft swell at the very top of her chest, not quite a cleavage yet, more like the blueprint for one.

‘Is that okay?’ he asked Sophie.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Of course it’s okay, you look lovely,’ said her mother.

‘You do,’ Callum agreed. He returned to the camera, feeling something that he recognised, to his shame, as triumph.

Afterwards, over tea and flapjacks, they looked at the pictures on Callum’s laptop. Sophie was quietly rather pleased. She had hated it when Mr Dempster was adjusting her towel; she knew he must be noticing all the horrid podginess on her chest and near her armpits. But Mr Dempster had taken the photos in black and white, which made everything look much nicer. Her shoulders were the real surprise. She had never even noticed them before, because whenever she looked in the mirror she was too busy worrying about her breasts or her chin. There was no other way to put it: they were beautiful.

‘Gosh,’ said Mrs Witrand. She sounded less sure than she had done in the sitting room. ‘They’re certainly very … sophisticated.’

‘If you’re not happy with them I can come back tomorrow,’ Callum offered.