After waving off the last batch of visitors, I welcome the start of the weekend with a sense of lethargy. Nico is treading carefully around me, concerned that I’m not my usual self. He thinks I’m homesick, but it’s more than that. I’ve been so worried about how I’ve been feeling that I even mentioned it to Pierce yesterday.

‘We talked briefly about when you lost your sister and I don’t want to labour this, Fern, but I really do think some of your anxieties stem from that. Your level of worry over the people you love is, at times, a little excessive. Do you feel you are in control, or is it getting out of hand?’ he’d asked, and I’d shrugged my shoulders, unsure of how to answer him. That’s all I needed, something new to add to the burden of worries.

‘If this continues, then we ought to sit down and talk it through properly. I can’t believe you didn’t have counselling at the time. I suspect there’s a link between a sense of loss you’ve never recovered from and your reaction to being apart from your family. Not getting a proper night’s sleep is a red flag and that in itself can lead to a depressed state, as well as fatigue and moodiness. I’m here, Fern, and it’s what I do. But you need to be ready to open up and accept that there could be deep-seated issues at play.’

His concern was real, and maybe he was right. Losing Rachel like that, without warning – without being able to say goodbye – left me feeling empty and powerless. I was angry that someone so vibrant could be snatched away from us because of an accident. It was supposed to have been a dream holiday with her two best friends. Why is fate so cruel at times?

Naturally, I cling on to the people I love now, because I don’t ever want to lose them. Obsessive, maybe, but perfectly understandable surely. I’m not ready, yet, to unlock that box, even if I’m fooling myself that I can handle it without seeking help.

However, I feel guilty that it is Nico who has to suffer as my mood plummets late in the day when I’m tired. Listless, irritable and this damn temperature of mine is up and down all the time, making my skin itch. He tries hard to distract me.

As we paint, sometimes we talk, and he tells me stories about his life; mainly happy little memories from his early childhood living in a Spanish village. Other times, we work in silence. Like tonight.

The wild splashes of crimson, as I repeatedly swipe my brush on the canvas in front of me, invoke an anger that has materialised, seemingly from nowhere.

Suddenly, Nico is at my shoulder.

‘What is it, Fern? What is really troubling you?’