In the second picure, the girl was older, around twelve, I’d say, on the cusp of puberty. And she was still happy: her skin was clear, her eyes still bright, but there was an edge of seriousness about her now, her clothing more subdued, her smile more self-possessed; a hint of what might be to come. She looked steadily out of the canvas at us, almost quizzically, as if we’d disturbed her from studying, or reading or thinking. The background, too, was muted – it wasn’t as obvious as a colour change, more a lack of light – an omission rather than an addition – but the sense that came from the canvas was one of oppression; of a cloud, of a shadow hanging – of a threat. I wondered if Grace would pick up on that, but, no, as she took in the paintings, her hand was over her mouth and she was laughing. I looked at her, confused.

‘I knew it!’ she snorted. ‘Of all the things in the world you could paint, I just knew you’d pick me!’

Twenty-Four

Later that night, I sat in bed pretending to read until I heard Grace close her bedroom door, then I shut my own door. The evening hadn’t gone as I’d hoped. I was angry with myself about the chicken, and Grace’s reaction to my paintings hadn’t been what I was expecting. I’d thought she would be flattered that I was painting her – ‘grateful’ might be a stretch too far – but it never occurred to me that she would assume she’d be the subject. I’d forgotten how hurtful she could be. How she would stamp all over my feelings as if she owned me; as if she had no idea how badly her words could wound.

The evening had been just how it used to be.