‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘Let me arrange them.’ I wanted him to see the first picture first, as a stand-alone, because this Grace was a happy image. Captured at around five years old, she was full of light and life and motion, her open-mouthed laugh infectious, her eyes bright and her brown hair flying in the wind. You could see she had no cares in the world; it was a rendering of joyous energy, of possibility, the warm light of the sun full on her face, which she tilted upwards like a sunflower.

I wanted Rohan to see this and to drink it in so he got maximum impact from the other portraits. It made me realize that, in terms of the exhibition, this first picture should be in some sort of ante-room or alcove before people saw the rest of the series. I pulled little Grace to the fore, and then tried to look at the other portraits with the eyes of a stranger; I tried to feel what Rohan’s first impression might be but I knew the soul of these pictures – I knew every layer of colour, every touch that brush and fingertip had made to the canvases, and it was difficult to get enough distance.

‘Cough, cough,’ said Rohan from outside the door. ‘Can I come in yet?’

So I stepped back and threw a couple of old, paint-stained sheets over the other five.

‘Yes.’ My heart cantered against my ribs.

Rohan went straight to the first canvas and his face lit up. ‘Oh my God, it’s amazing,’ he said. ‘I love how you’ve created this feeling just from the way you’ve used the light. Who is she?’ He paused then gave me a boyish smile. ‘Our daughter-to-be?’

I lurched as if he’d hit me. ‘Oh God. No. No! You’ll see why in a minute. But no. She’s no one. Just a face. Right. Are you ready for the others?’

Rohan nodded so I pulled back the sheet and watched as his mouth fell open and then his hand went to his mouth as he absorbed the pictures, moving slowly along the sequence as Grace aged, to the last one, number six.

‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ He turned to me.

‘Do you like them?’ My voice was a whisper.

‘Fucking hell, Abs.’ He shivered. ‘Is this where you’ve been the last couple of months? Is this why you’ve been acting so weird? It’s just…’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody hell. Who are you?’

‘Are they good enough?’

‘Good enough? For who? Tate Modern?’

‘Oh, just… I know they’re not… pretty. I know they’re disturbing. But…’