Lying on my back, I took in the room from this new perspective. Had the wallpaper danced in front of the other girl’s eyes, too, the pattern appearing to move as it joined and separated from itself in an eternal, swaying dance? Had she lain awake at night, staring at it as she pictured her future and planned what she’d do with her life?

I blinked and rubbed my forehead to rid myself of the pattern imprinted on my retinas, then opened them again with a smile: the crazy pattern was just the kind of thing Grace-the-extrovert would like.

Despite the saggy mattress, the bed was comfortable and, the longer I lay there, the more I felt it pulling me in, sucking me deeper. I closed my eyes once more, and, slowly, something started to form in my mind’s eye – an image of some sort. It was hazy, a will-o’-the-wisp that faded if I tried to focus on it. So I let it come, batting down the buzz of excitement lest it interfere: this was a feeling I knew; a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time. I concentrated only on breathing in and out while I let my subconscious take form in my mind’s eye, like a bubble from deep down making its way to the surface. And then, was it my imagination, or was there the lightest of touches on my arm – a hand, cold? I jumped and my eyes snapped open as a gust of wind tugged at the curtains and blew the room door open, slamming it against its hinges so it bounced.

I scrambled up and ran, without thinking, to the attic, where I picked out a canvas and placed it carefully on my easel. Without letting my thoughts interrupt what I was doing, I picked up my palette and squeezed out a few colours. I mixed a few – skin tones, I noticed – which I dabbled onto some rough paper and played with, using different brushes as well as my fingers, and experimenting with the way the colour might vary in different lights. Then, still not knowing what it was that was forming in my subconscious, I mixed a palette of complementary colours – a blue, some browns, a pale purple – and I dabbled them together on the paper, smudging them into one another. When Rohan’s head appeared at the top of the stairs I barely processed his presence.

‘Phew, hot day,’ he said, loosening his tie, then he crossed the floor, kissed the back of my neck and took in what I was doing with his face level with mine.

‘Ahh,’ he said, standing back up, and I could hear both hope and admiration glittering in his voice as he recognized this almost dissociative state I was in. ‘Does the artist work again?’ He put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a little massage. ‘Nice colours. What’s it going to be?’