It’s important that I arrive home feeling confident in my abilities and determined to somehow incorporate this into my daily routine. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for Nico. But he’s in no mood to be thanked tonight.

With no one around me at home who will understand that I need to express my artistic side, I fear I’ll become disillusioned. Or, worse, pine for my place here.

There have been moments when I’d wondered how honest Nico’s appraisal of my work had been. One’s mentor is bound to nod enthusiastically and gaze appreciatively at the brushstrokes you lay so lovingly upon the canvas. But I wondered, even doubted him, in the beginning. And that’s unfair of me. He’s never given me any reason to disbelieve his intentions. Our feelings, well, that’s another thing entirely. You can control what you choose to do, but not what your heart dictates.

My heart tells me I will always care for Nico. Always. And there is nothing I can do about that. But what if it’s something more than that? What if when I arrive home, I yearn to come back because this is now where I belong? I can’t even contemplate that, because my heart would shatter if this wasn’t simply about the passion for expression.

Tonight, the mood in the studio is tense. We’ve kept well away from each other, almost as if we’re in the middle of a row – which is ridiculous. Eventually, I realise I’m just faffing around, not really achieving anything much, but I can’t just begin my clean-up and walk out. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Nico when, eventually, I head out the door, such is the unspoken tension between us. Throwing down my rag, I put the cover on my palette and turn, thinking it’s probably best to say nothing at all.

‘Don’t go.’ His voice breaks the awful silence.

Reluctantly, I spin back around.

Nico eases himself up from his stool and walks over to partially dim the overhead lights. I gaze at his every move.

‘Sit for me, Fern. Please.’

Fear grips me. But fear of what? I wonder. I watch as he walks past me to the cupboard, opens the door and pulls out a rolled-up rug. When he unfurls it in the centre of the studio, I want to turn and run, but my feet feel as if they are attached to the floor. He disappears into the workroom and returns with a folded, silky black robe which he places in the middle of the rug. Then he turns, heading back into the workroom, softly closing the door behind him.