And then there was picture ten. This was the one that had consumed me day and night for the past ten days. Drained by the way Grace’s canvas life had played out to her universal destruction, I’d rewound back to the moments after her birth, when she’d emerged from the womb, crinkled and pink; her eyes, on their first opening, dark pools that knew the truth of life itself; her forehead creased with questions to which we’d never know the answers; wisps of dark hair smeared damp on her scalp; her fingers long and crumpled, her cheeks ready to plump up with milk from her mother’s breast. I couldn’t look at it without weeping.

Francesca was due at ten. I buzzed about nervously, fiddling with the canvases, tweaking here and there until I could bear it no longer. Downstairs, I slid boxed Chardonnay into a tumbler, and drank deeply, not getting the bouquet; not caring that the liquid was warm.

‘What if she doesn’t like the paintings?’ I’d said on the phone Rohan the night before.

‘She likes them. She’s seen the photos,’ he’d said. ‘She just wants to look more closely. Get an idea of size and proportion. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

The doorbell rang bang on time.

‘Hi, Francesca,’ I greeted her. A tall and elegant woman, she looked as striking as ever in her signature black. Our house was a long way from her usual stomping ground of Chelsea. She’d never married nor had children herself: the gallery was her main love; the artists whose talents she nurtured, her children.

‘Hello, Abigail,’ she said, clasping me in her arms putting her cheek to mine so her huge turquoise earrings jostled against my skin. She smelled expensive. ‘Isn’t this a lovely area? I see why you like it here.’ She unwound her scarf and undid her coat. ‘And this gorgeous old house.’ She looked around the hall and I saw it through her eyes – it was impressive, the high ceiling with its intricate roses; the stained-glass flowers in the front door; the black-and-white geometric floor tiles; the carved woodwork of the bannister showing a little wear and tear from a century of use, but beautiful even under the dust. I watched her face. Did she feel the energy, too?

‘Thanks. I managed to persuade Rohan to buy it.’

‘He needed persuading?’ Francesca laughed.

‘He doesn’t like old houses.’ An awkward silence fell. Was I supposed just to lead her straight upstairs?

‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked. ‘Coffee? Water?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Wine? There’s one open.’