Her job – away from the café, which she brushed off as nothing – sounded ridiculously interesting: creative and expressive and intense. I realised that from the short bursts of time I’d spent with her, I’d probably describe her in the same way. She set a hand on the base of my back to steer me the right way along the corridor to her front door.

‘I hope you’re hungry. Stuff will be done in half an hour or so.’

The front door was a bright and bulbous red, but everything behind it was white. The hallway, the rooms I could see branching out from it, the open-plan sitting room right at the end of the walk; the walls were all a brilliant white. There were splashes of colour everywhere, though, lighting the space up like a paint chart: the colour blocks of blue on the wall; the teal lampshade; the scarlet sofa that came into view as we walked towards the living area. It was a grown-up space.

Fred must have read something into my silence. ‘What did you expect?’

‘I have no idea.’ I looked around like a child stepping into a National History Museum: And here we have a replica of the lesbian, at home in her natural nesting space. ‘Is white your favourite colour?’

‘Good question.’ I heard something clunk and when I turned to find the source I spotted the kitchen, tucked out of sight on the other end of the large living space. Everything was so open. ‘Are you in the mood for red wine or white wine?’

I panicked. ‘What goes with the food?’

She laughed. ‘Beer?’ She pulled out a bottle and reached next to her to pull two wine glasses from a shelf well-stocked with them. ‘We’ll start with white and see how we feel.’

‘Is that how you decided on decorating the place?’

‘Sort of.’ She brought the glasses over and landed heavy on the sofa, so I matched her. ‘I like having things that I can add to. White is clean, neat, it makes me feel like the whole flat is a gallery. Plus, it makes it easy to swap and change things around here.’

Opposite us, there was what looked to be a single line drawing framed and positioned pride of place on the jut-out of an old chimney breast. The portrait was impossible to miss. It showed a woman’s body, I realised, after looking for longer than I maybe should have. The hips were wide and the thighs were thick and there was something—

‘She’s caught your eye?’

I smiled. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I love it when people stare at my work.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Well, and my body.’

Heat gripped my cheeks and I was painfully aware of turning a colour that matched the sofa. ‘It’s your … I mean, it’s your work, a self-portrait?’ She murmured a yes. ‘It’s really beautiful, Fred.’