At Charing Cross, she emerged from the Underground into a bright morning light that slanted over Trafalgar Square. She crossed to the National Gallery and sat on the steps taking in the scene: the early-bird tourists, the statues and Nelson’s Column; the hum of people, the rush of fountains, the flutter of pigeons. She felt soothed and filled with a sudden hopefulness. It was good to be here, away from the darkness of 24 Harrington Gardens. She sometimes thought the house was malign, determined to cast a shadow over anyone who lived there.

They were wild thoughts, though, and Connie shook them off as she climbed the wide steps into the grand entrance with its vaulted ceiling and bustle of visitors and echoing voices. Closing her eyes, she imagined her hand on Johnny’s arm, her excitement quickening as they walked across the wooden floors of the galleries.

She looked for The Virgin in Prayer, but had forgotten where it hung. One gallery led onto the next and she passed row after row of religious paintings, all depicting suffering in a way that was repellent and fascinating in equal measure. At last, though, she walked into a room and spotted the painting. She stared at it for ages: the rich red and deep blue, the Virgin’s face in shadow, her straight nose and thin lips, her pink cheeks and blunt nails. Connie had hated having to sit for Johnny. What had it been like for this model? She must have stood for hours at a time.

Maybe that was the problem, she thought now in a kind of revelation. She didn’t want to stay still. She wanted to move through life, causing a ripple, making a difference. Yet so often people left no trace unless they created a masterpiece, like a sculpture or a painting. Or could it be something intangible? A memory held in a heart? Or a child. A child that then had a child themselves. Generation following generation. She thought of her mother, and the child in her belly.

Suddenly, Connie wanted to be home. Gathering herself, she left the gallery and retraced her earlier footsteps. At Tooting Bec, she missed a bus, so walked slowly home. Her feet were sore, her shoes too narrow for her swollen feet. They rubbed and chafed and she would have slipped them off if the pavement had been cleaner. What would it be like in Paris? She imagined the city glittering like a mirror. But she had based her ideas on photos and paintings and knew it must have its fair share of dusty corners like any other place.

Her head ached and the pain in her pelvis had come back. She would take an aspirin and lie in a darkened room once she got to the flat.