Jan put her hand to her throat, which had turned pink. ‘It was the most exciting moment of my career, that’s for sure,’ she said. ‘I had to beat the collectors off with a stick. And that’s collectors plural—not just one man buying the whole lot to publicise himself as much as anything else.’ Jan let out a heavy sigh. ‘I hate to think about it now.’

‘What went wrong?’ Charlie asked.

‘I rang the artist to tell him all the work was sold and the buyers were begging for more. He was thrilled, as you can imagine. Completely beyond his wildest dreams. Then I waited. And waited. I heard nothing from him. I called him—he didn’t return my calls. It took me a while to realise he was avoiding me. In a paranoid moment, I even wondered if he’d decided to dump me, buoyed up as he was by his success. Why should he pay commission to a gallery when he could keep all the money for himself? But it wasn’t that at all. When I finally tracked him down, he told me he’d stopped painting.’

‘What?’ Charlie hadn’t been expecting that.

‘He said he couldn’t do it any more. Every time he picked up a paintbrush, he froze. I tried to persuade him to get help, but he didn’t want to. All he wanted was to leave it behind. I couldn’t force him.’

‘Stupid idiot,’ Charlie said, before she could stop herself.

‘With approval come expectation and pressure.’ Jan looked sad. ‘Perhaps Mary’s approach is the sensible one. It’s still a tragedy, though—all those amazing paintings and no one’s seeing them, no one but her. She does the most wonderful portraits. Did you see any of those?’

‘A few,’ said Charlie. ‘Her neighbours.’

‘Hardly.’ Jan laughed. ‘Mary’s not interested in anyone who’s had it easy. She said to me once, “I only want to paint people who have really suffered.” She painted disadvantaged, deprived people. There was a particular estate, I can’t remember its name . . .’

‘The Winstanley estate?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Her neighbours,’ Charlie said again. ‘Mary lives on the Winstanley estate, on a semi-derelict cul-de-sac that you wouldn’t want to walk down on your own at night or even during the day. She lives side by side with . . .’ Charlie had been about to say, ‘the dregs of the dregs,’ but she stopped herself. She had a hunch Jan’s view of the underclass was somewhat rosier than her own.

‘But Mary’s . . .’ Jan looked flustered. ‘She’s . . . I always assumed she’d live somewhere . . . you know. I mean, what’s a Villiers girl doing living on a run-down estate?’

‘Villiers?’ Charlie had vaguely heard of it.