He looks down at his body as if he wasn’t aware he was soaked to the skin and he smiles.

‘Of course.’

As I watch him walk down to the other end of the studio to grab one of his T-shirts off the rack, it’s like turning the clock back one whole year. Surreptitiously watching him out of the side of my eye as he slips the shirt off, he exposes a body that reflects how hard he’s still driving himself. Muscles he pushes to the limit each morning before he begins his working day. He told me once it was important to his mental health. I didn’t understand until he explained it to me.

‘I’m not my father,’ he’d said. ‘He was a man of excesses that destroyed his body and eventually his mind. Sure, I inherited his fierce passion and a sense of compulsion, but I’ll use it in a positive way. My body reflects my determination, but it’s easier to control the body than it is what’s going on inside my head.’

I remember thinking how sad that was and yet it was another thing that endeared Nico to me. We both understood what it was like to have a compulsion. No one chooses to become a worrier and having that acute sensitivity is a burden. How can you not worry when you look at someone and see what many don’t?

‘There. I’m dry. You’re not cold, are you?’ Nico’s face is full of concern.

I hand him the soggy towel, shaking my head. ‘My hair’s a bit damp now, that’s all. Nico, I’m here because of your letter. When I sat for you, I thought I was… I thought it was in order for you to finish the portrait of the unknown woman by the lake. In your letter you referred to the portrait of me. That wasn’t our understanding, Nico, and you know that.’

He looks away. Suddenly he begins to wring his hands, nervously.

‘I’m sorry, Fern. I shouldn’t have sent that letter. There were things buried deep inside of me that needed to come out and that was the only way I was ever going to let you go. As for the portrait… I no longer dream about the woman at the lake and that canvas has been reused.’