I smelled fruity soap, or shower gel. I scanned the room for a basin, but couldn’t see one. Where was Aidan’s bathroom? I wondered. On the other side of the workshop? I was about to ask when I noticed the walls, and as soon as I did, I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to spot the only truly bizarre thing about this room. Three of the four walls were covered with what I imagined was Aidan’s handiwork: extravagant frames—one had a carved wooden crown attached to its top edge—as well as lots of ordinary ones, pale or dark wood, flat or slightly curved.

One thing was not ordinary: none of the frames had anything in them.

Aidan was squatting in front of his miniature fridge. ‘Cheese sandwich do you?’ he said. ‘Think it’ll have to. I’ve got a carton of orange juice.’ He sounded surprised.

When he stood up, he saw me staring. ‘I told you I was the best,’ he said. He crossed the room and started to point out individual frames. ‘This one’s a palladian,’ he said. ‘With the sticky-out corners. It’s based on the pattern of a Greek temple. This one’s called egg-and-dart, for obvious reasons. Can you see the pattern?’

‘Why’s there nothing in them?’ I blurted out. ‘Why have you framed . . . nothing?’

His expression hardened. ‘These are highly collectable,’ he said. ‘It’s not nothing, it’s black card. It’s a statement. The artist wants to make you think.’ His mouth twitched. Then he started to laugh. ‘I’m having you on,’ he said. ‘It’s just backing card.’

I don’t like being tricked. The joke over, he didn’t explain. I didn’t find out why he’d put frames on his walls with no pictures inside them. I didn’t particularly care. All I wanted was the orange juice and the cheese sandwich he’d offered me. I was so hungry that I was finding it hard to keep thoughts in my head. I was also worried my breath stank. Had I even brushed my teeth?

Standing in Aidan’s one-room home, the stark fact of how low I’d sunk in two months hit me like a boulder in the chest. What was wrong with me, that I’d let it happen? I could have reacted differently. Better.

‘What are you thinking?’ Aidan asked, cutting cheese with a paint-spotted Stanley knife.

‘Nothing,’ I said quickly.

‘Yeah, you were.’

He hadn’t answered my question about the frames, so I didn’t have to answer his. I knew he was as aware of this as I was.

He gave me my sandwich and a glass of orange juice. I sat cross-legged on the floor to eat it. It tasted divine. ‘Want another one?’ Aidan said, watching me devour the sandwich as if I’d never seen food before.

I nodded.

‘Want to tell me the story of why you left Hansard’s place?’

‘There’s nothing to tell. An artist brought in one of her paintings to be framed; I asked her if I could buy it; she said no, it wasn’t for sale.’ I recited woodenly. ‘I asked her if I could buy any of her other pictures, and she said none of her work was for sale.’