‘Give it to me, now, and we’ll say no more about it.’

‘But I need . . .’ What? A doctor, painkillers, more towels to staunch the blood?

She stepped into the flat. He grabbed the suitcase and followed her, as she backed away further, hoping he wouldn’t see Sarah.

‘Please,’ she said, to an empty space.

He was on his knees, surprisingly agile, opening her suitcase, muttering and cursing when he found no money. Had he registered the baby clothes?

She looked at him, but her sense was dulling. His words were simply noise. His body just an outline.

Blood ran down her legs. Like heavy drops of rain on the rug. Sound amplified. The blood. Kenneth’s breathing. Her own heart pounding.

‘I need a doctor,’ she managed, her words slurring as she fell.

Somewhere, her baby made a sound. She moved her arm, reaching for the whimper, but the pain sharpened and her eyes filled with tears.

She would never be able to get up from where she lay and walk across the room to pick up her daughter, who must be so cold even though she was wrapped in the shawl.

It was blue. More than blue. Better than blue. Like the colour of the paintings in the gallery.

What was it called? That colour? That blue?

He had told her. He had told her everything as they had wandered through the different rooms, her heels clattering on the wooden floor. He had talked about artists: Sassoferrato – the name had fallen from his lips and whispered through the gallery. Botticelli. Whistler. Van Gogh. He knew so much. She had listened in awe.

All the paintings in the gallery had been beautiful, but the one of the lady in blue had been the best: The Virgin in Prayer. They had lingered there and he had told her how the blue paint had once been more precious than gold, and that one day his own art would be recognised and then he would give her as much gold as she desired. But she hadn’t cared about gold. She had only wanted him, and a shawl – the colour of the lady’s in the painting. That blue. What was its name?

Music drifted through the house and she closed her eyes. It was Chopin. She had heard it many times as she had lain in bed late at night or leaned against the doorway of the flat listening. But she couldn’t reach for the name of the nocturne any more than she could remember the blue.