She creeps downstairs and walks past the pushed back sofas to the conservatory, where Helga is hosting the life-drawing class. There’s an electric bar heater next to a wooden stool and there’s a dressing mirror along with a large spotlight on a stand. It’s like a stage and Claire feels jittery with nerves.

‘There you are,’ Helga says. ‘This is Claire, everyone.’

She introduces an elderly couple, a man and woman both with matching grey ponytails, but Claire doesn’t catch their names. There’s an earnest-looking young man with a waxed moustache and a girl with ginger hair. They’re all behind easels.

Helga leads Claire over to the stool.

‘Sit with your back to us,’ she says and Claire sits down on the stool, wiggling her bottom on it to try and get comfortable. Helga adjusts the spotlight on the stand and the earnest guy asks her to move it backwards. He has an odd accent. Russian maybe.

‘When you’re ready.’ Helga touches Claire’s shoulder reassuringly.

‘You want me to take the whole thing off?’

‘Ideally, but just be comfortable.’

Comfortable? That’s the last thing she is. This is way, way out of her comfort zone, but Helga doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal. Claire realises that she has to be a grown-up and brazen this out. She presses her thighs together, aware of her nudity, of the parts of her body she hides away as she lets the robe fall, closing her eyes, waiting for what? Gasps of shock?

But there’s nothing, just a scratching on paper as the group start to draw.

‘Can you turn a little to the side?’ Helga asks from behind her easel. If she’s noticed how Claire is feeling, she’s not going to mention it.

Claire turns a little and she can see her reflection in the mirror and the artists behind her. The chap with the long ponytail has already started stroking the paper on his easel with a charcoal. He stands back, contemplating the paper and then looking at Claire’s back.

‘What shall I do with my hands?’ Claire asks.

‘Just stay still. Just as you are. It’s perfect,’ the girl with the ginger hair says. She sounds excited.

Some lovely classical music starts playing in the studio and Helga comes back from a CD stack.

‘I like this music,’ Claire says.

‘Debussy. “Clair de Lune”. Seems appropriate.’ Claire smiles. ‘Just relax, Claire. You look wonderful.’

It’s hard to sit still though and she tries not to tense her muscles. She’s aware of her belly and her breasts and how they hang and the stool pressing into her thigh, accentuating her cellulite, but then she glances at the artists in the mirror, and she sees the ponytail woman’s eyes glistening as she glances at Claire and then at her paper.

And it’s this scrutiny that makes her imagine that she’s one of the artists herself. She observes her smooth skin and the proportions of her body and suddenly, rather than hating herself, she remembers that this body, which five people are also appraising, is a wonderful thing. It’s a body that has borne children and that has got her to this point in life. A body that is worthy of art.