When I turn, as he gently lifts the drape of fabric away from one of the canvases, my jaw drops. I thought the partially finished street scene that he said was his home town was amazing, but this is something very different. Elegant, painted with love in every single brushstroke. But only a third of the canvas is covered. The background has already been brought to life, but there is only the outline of a face and the form of a woman, without any real detail. It stares back at us hauntingly, the emptiness as distracting as a gaping hole in the canvas.

‘It’s the lake here, isn’t it? But that isn’t the lady your father painted, I mean it’s not your mother and yet it’s in his style.’

He shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not her. Although she was the one who inspired the setting for this piece. She often disappeared when my father’s moods became unbearable and I’d always find her sitting down amongst the long grass, looking out across the water. She said it was her little slice of heaven.’

‘It’s beautiful, Nico. But why are you having problems finishing it? It couldn’t be more perfect.’

He stares at the canvas for a few moments in total silence.

‘This woman often comes to me in my dreams; the angles of her body as she sits, legs curled up, are in here,’ he taps the side of his head, ‘but when my brush touches the canvas, it simply doesn’t happen. I need a model. Ceana sat for me once, but we both knew it wasn’t going to be quite right. I sketched her in several poses but came away without inspiration. This is one painting where I have to take my time because it’s my homage to the breathtaking beauty of a woman, both inside and out. So, it sits, patiently waiting for my muse to appear.’

I’m holding my breath, such is the intensity of the emotion attached to his words. And, somehow, I understand. Doesn’t every artist have a muse?

‘You and Ceana are very close. Have you known each other a long time?’

He busies himself for a moment, turning away to straighten one of the canvases.