Maybe getting older isn’t so bad, she thinks. Maybe Helga’s right. Maybe not giving a damn about what anyone else thinks is the way forward.

She’s stiff, though, by the time the session has ended and she gets up and stretches and puts the robe back on, although surprisingly, she’s got used to being naked. She doesn’t feel shy as she turns to face everyone. The guy with the ponytail shows her the sketch he’s done and she gasps. It’s really beautiful. She looks like a woman in one of the famous Botticelli sketches and, oddly, like her mother. But in a good way. He’s caught her profile – her chin and the slant of her nose. Even her hair, which makes her feel self-conscious, is drawn artfully.

‘Maybe this is where I’ve been going wrong,’ Claire tells him. ‘Maybe, instead of photographs, which always seem to highlight my faults, maybe I should get people to sketch me.’

‘You can keep it if you like,’ he says.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Your husband would like it, I bet,’ the woman with the matching ponytail says.

Claire smiles, accepting the gift, wondering what on earth Pim would say if she were to present him with this. And what would the boys think? They’d die if they saw a picture of their naked mother, wouldn’t they? That she has done something so shocking feels rather marvellous.

‘Do you want to stay for a drink?’ Helga asks.

‘I should get back. To my family.’

‘You have children?’ the ponytail guy asks. He sounds surprised and she wants to make a joke that he must have guessed from her stretch marks.

‘I have two boys,’ she says. ‘They’re very messy.’

‘See, that’s why I never had children. I can’t stand other people’s stuff in my space,’ Helga says, taking a sip of wine. ‘Children. Brrr.’

‘You’ll miss them when they’re gone,’ the older lady says to Claire. ‘That’s what made us take up life drawing. When we had an empty nest. Make the most of them.’

Claire feels exhilarated after her modelling session. It’s not just the confidence it’s given her, but the unexpected pleasure of meeting new people, as well as having a chance to see Helga in her home. It’s made her feel like their friendship is even stronger. But the second she gets through her front door, the feeling evaporates. The whole place is a bombsite. She spent the morning cleaning, but now Ash and Felix have disgorged the contents of their school bags on the floor. There’s mud on the stairs and, as she walks into the kitchen, there’s evidence from a sandwich-making session. Their game blares from the TV in the living room, the sound of explosions is deafening.

‘Where have you been?’ Pim says, from his laptop at the table. It’s strewn with papers and books. ‘We’re starving.’

‘I was doing something for Helga,’ she says evasively. Pim’s so disinterested, he doesn’t enquire further. Claire yanks open the freezer and pulls out a packet of fishfingers and a bag of frozen chips. ‘There,’ she says, dumping them forcefully in front of him. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to work out.’