‘When I saw your car, I thought I was imagining it and I had to check. Everything is all right, isn’t it?’ He leans forward, pushing open the heavy oak door to usher me inside.

I do a grand impression of a rag doll as I stand there arms straight, pointing down towards the floor with my body rigid. The water runs off my coat, puddling around me as I slip out of my squelching trainers.

‘Yes, well – I’m not sure. Sorry about the mess.’ I look back at him and see he’s even wetter than I am, as he wasn’t wearing a coat. Just a navy shirt that is now stuck to him as if it’s been glued onto his body. He looks even fitter than the last time I saw him. I was expecting… what, after hearing he’s not with Isabel? A broken man? Even more broken than he was when I first came here, maybe. Well, that’s definitely not the case and if I didn’t believe what Ceana was telling me, I do now.

‘Come on through to the studio. I’ll grab some towels.’

This is surreal, to say the least. As we walk along the corridor, a whole host of memories come flooding back in a surge. I gaze at the place where a drunken Nico slipped out of my arms and almost collapsed to the floor. I remember the excitement I felt each time my feet trod these old, oak floorboards late at night, my stomach tied in knots over whether my brush strokes would be good enough. Or was it as much about the excitement of working alongside Nico? I push that thought aside. I’m here for one thing only and I’m not going to be put off by a bunch of random thoughts, even if they invoke some strong emotions within me.

The moment I walk in through the door to the studio, the surge of memories turns into a full-on tidal wave. The familiar smell is heavenly and short, sharp images shoot across my mind in quick succession. Things I don’t care to remember with such intensity and I’m glad Nico has left me alone. I expected to feel a little nostalgia, but not this.

A sense of panic begins to rise up through my core and settles in my chest. I can feel my heart beating way too fast.

As Nico hands me the navy-blue hand towel, I give him a nod of thanks, momentarily unable to speak.

‘It’s so good to see you, Fern,’ he mumbles. He makes no attempt to dry his hair, he simply stands there watching me as I wipe my face and try to soak up some of the water that has seeped inside the neckline of my jumper. ‘Are you well?’ he enquires, anxiously.

‘I’m good, Nico, thank you. You’d better change your shirt.’