A sold-out show, attended by all my friends. For the next hour I stayed and I tried to enjoy myself, to accept my ascension to the top of the art world. But the truth was, I was not comfortable being the centre of attention, and as soon as I could, I made excuses and slipped away.

I didn’t mean to be rude and leave my friends, but I had things to do and someone I needed to see. And so I walked around the loops of the pathway from the Serpentine and into the wooded walkways of Hyde Park itself. There, under a tree, I dug through my bag and I pulled out the book that I always kept with me.

Is it wrong that I never told Nicole Bonifait that I had her great-great-great-grandmother’s diary? Yes, I suppose it is. But in all this time, I had found it harder and harder to part with it, to let go of Rose. We were such kindred spirits she and I. So many times I had turned to her pages to try and figure out my own life. It’s funny too, to read back over her entries now, knowing what I do, how Grignons de Camargue would make her world famous. And yet, even though she had unflinching faith in her talent, she really had no idea what was to come. I opened the diary and I read her final entry …

August 12, 1853

Aunt Mimi’s art critic came today. I knew they were here when I heard the wheels of the carriage outside on the gravel, the horses snorting and the leathers of their harnesses creaking. By the time I had risen from bed, got into my chair and dressed, I could already hear the voices in the drawing room. Familiar voices. I came in to find my aunt laughing and smiling, and on the sofa beside her was none other than Papa and Dorian!

Dorian came running for me and he grasped the handles of my wheelchair and began spinning me around in circles, and I was laughing and dizzy and loving it and begging him to stop at the same time. My brother is such a fool – I do love him.

My greeting to my father was considerably cooler. I still remembered how he had told my aunt that Christmas at Fontainebleau that he couldn’t stand the sight of me, that he wanted me gone from Paris. But for his part, he seemed delighted to see me and bent down and kissed my forehead, and when Mimi suggested they must be tired by the journey and perhaps required something to eat and drink, my papa shook his head and said, “First of all, let’s do what is important. I want to see what Rose has been working on. Where is this exciting new painting that you wrote to tell me about?”