‘I’m thrilled for you, Nico. No one could have done more to make this a success, and everyone is excited about the new direction you’re taking it in.’

‘The people here are my family, Fern, and I know you appreciate how important that is and the sense of responsibility that comes with it. But the changes will be huge, and I hope everyone will be happy about that and regard it as a positive move forward.’

The look that passes between us, before we begin to peel off our coats, is one of acceptance and understanding. As Nico changes his shirt, I discreetly turn away to take the lid off my palette, then I head into the workroom to get some water.

‘There’s only one cloud on the horizon now,’ he admits. ‘The paintings my father sold in the year before his death, Fern, were mine. As is the one on the wall in your room.’

I’ve just stepped back across the threshold and I stop dead in my tracks. I don’t understand. The one in my room clearly says José. I stand here, staring rather awkwardly at him and frowning.

As our eyes meet, what I see reflected back at me is a sense of anger, quickly followed by embarrassment. He runs a hand roughly across his forehead, kneading it with the tips of his fingers as if to relieve a stabbing pain.

‘I was very prolific when I first began painting. For me it was merely practice; I never signed anything because I was just learning my craft. I notice you, too, have yet to take that step and it’s a big one, isn’t it? A meaningful moment when a line is crossed.’

I nod, scrabbling around for something to say to break the heavy silence between us. ‘Yes, it is. I still don’t feel comfortable referring to myself in general conversation as an artist. But to put one’s signature on someone else’s work, Nico – that must have been an act of sheer desperation for him.’

Nico’s head bows as he stares at the floor in front of him for a moment, fleeting memories no doubt jostling around inside his head as he relives the shocking moment of discovery.

‘At last my father was actually finishing canvases again and not destroying them in a drunken rage. My mother said a prayer to thank God for saving us all. Then he sold another and a couple of months later, another. When I eventually discovered some of my canvases were missing, I tackled him about it and he swore me to secrecy.