I didn’t know what she was talking about. The idea of my feeling superior to anybody was so laughable that I couldn’t think of anything to say in response.

‘Saul Hansard as good as threw me out on the street after our spat at the gallery. It must be nice to have a gallant hero to protect you.’

Strange equations filled my mind: sarcasm equals aggression equals attack. I clenched my hands into fists, turned, ran. ‘Wait, don’t go,’ Mary called after me. I collided with a wall, too frightened to think about which way I was going, and felt something sharp spike my skin through my shirt. I looked down. There was a small red dot on the cotton.

‘I’ll get you a plaster to put on it,’ said Mary. ‘There are some in the bathroom cabinet, if they haven’t crumbled to dust by now. They’ve been there since I moved in. So’s that killer weed.’ She beckoned me towards her.

I couldn’t believe she was inviting me inside. To mask my confusion, I muttered, ‘It’s not a weed.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Nothing.’

Mary walked over to where I was standing and stroked the plant that had pricked me. ‘You know what this is?’

I nodded, not looking at her. I’d seen hundreds. Never one sharp enough to pierce skin, though, until now. I was trembling, unable to keep still.

‘Tell me.’

It seemed easier than talking about what I was doing at her house. ‘It’s called a sempervivum. It’s been planted there, to grow out of the wall.’ I felt idiotic, after injuring myself so clumsily, and expected her to burst out laughing.

‘In that case, I’d better not yank it out,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Come on, if you’re coming.’ She took it for granted that I would follow her. I did, round the back of the house and into her kitchen, which was horrible and falling apart. ‘You’re shocked by the state of the place,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘I’ve done nothing to it since I moved in.’ She said something then about the charm of a found object, but I wasn’t fully listening. How was I going to get Abberton? Why hadn’t I foreseen how impossible it would be? I considered telling the truth, then rejected the idea. My boyfriend thinks he killed you years ago—would you mind giving me the picture you refused to sell me last June, so that I can prove to him that you’re alive?

Mary told me to wait in the kitchen while she went to fetch a plaster. I didn’t need one—my wound was a pinprick, almost non-existent—but I didn’t want to risk antagonising her. As soon as she was out of sight, I felt trapped in the room, even though the door was open. Frantically, I itemised objects I could see to calm myself: kettle, microwave, a tea towel with ‘Villiers’ printed on it beside a picture of what looked like a big stone castle, four boxes of Twinings Peppermint tea, stacked one on top of the other . . .